Axel (33 page)

Axel looked tired, Abby agitated, and both of them for the duration of the meal had been looking anywhere but at each other.

“I tried it at university, purely in the interests of science, of course,” Axel said. “Very pleasant effect, if one doesn’t mind the whole business of drawing ash into the lungs.”

“What does pleasant mean?” Abby asked.

The servants would not clear the table until summoned, and the dining room was kept warm by blazing fires in both hearths. Matthew had taken many a fine meal here, but without children underfoot, the room seemed too large… too quiet.

Too serious and sad.

“Pleasant,” Axel said, as if stating the title of a lecture. “When smoking hashish and for a time afterward, one feels a peaceful lassitude, a general euphoria, a lessening of anxiety and ill will. The appetite can be stimulated at the same time agitation of the mind ebbs. Hard on the respiration, though casual use hasn’t been noted to cause lasting damage.”

Matthew reached for a pear, and Axel passed him a silver fruit knife. “If a man was having trouble with his temper,” Matthew remarked, “with controlling impulses, with violent displays, such a soporific might be medicinal.”

Abigail left off tracing a fingertip around the rim of her wine glass. “Shreve said Gregory was growing more difficult. In hindsight, I concur, but this… hashish. Is it foreign? Indian?”

Matthew would have had to consult his library, where he’d probably find nothing germane. The next step would be correspondence with his brother, but failing that, nothing short of a trip to consult the gardeners at Kew would have answered Abigail’s question.

“The plant itself is usually grown in warmer climates,” Axel said, “for rope making. My reading suggests the Tibetan mountains are home to the best medical specimens, but varieties are common now all over India. The Chinese are familiar with it, though opium has a much stronger effect and is a more lucrative business. Both are considered habit-forming, and hashish lacks opium’s pain-relieving qualities. Opium has more dramatic flowers too.”

Which Axel could doubtless have sketched for his lady.

“Will you interview the tobacconist?” Abigail asked.

“After I call upon the solicitors and explain to them that defrauding a young woman of her inheritance is a felony offense, as is conspiracy to commit fraud.”

“I’d missed that,” Matthew said, setting the plate of sliced pears beside a pot of violets in the center of the table. “The statute of limitations on the crime of conspiracy will not have tolled.”

Abigail set a section of pear on her plate; Axel took none. He was doubtless feasting on his lady’s mere appearance, though he’d given a good account of himself at supper.

As had Abigail, to Matthew’s relief.

“I did almost nothing today,” Abigail said, considering her pear. “And yet, I am fatigued. Gentlemen, I’ll leave you to your port and take myself upstairs to cavort with Colonel Brandon. Perhaps we can discuss the solicitor’s situation further at breakfast.”

“Sweet dreams,” Matthew said, getting to his feet.

Axel said nothing, but visually followed Abigail’s progress to the door, then cocked his head as the door closed and her footsteps retreated.

“As I recall,” Matthew said, resuming his seat, “Colonel Brandon wasn’t the cavorting sort.”

Axel sat and popped Abigail’s uneaten slice of pear into his mouth. “Don’t underestimate a fellow simply because he’s quiet and gentlemanly. What did you learn at the Weasel?”

“Not much. Ambers is a competent horse-master though something of a dandy who dropped the occasional French curse when he first came to the shire. According to Miss Nairn, he fancies himself too good to marry a local woman, though he’s not above importuning a pretty domestic. He doesn’t speak ill of his employer except after a few too many brandies—brandy, not ale, mind you—and then mostly the usual mutterings.”

Another slice of pear disappeared. “Mostly? The trip to the tobacconists was undertaken even in the foulest weather, according to Ambers. Even if the colonel was traveling, if Ambers remained behind at Stoneleigh Manor, he was to fetch the package from that shop upon pain of discharge.”

The facts, in other words, were not adding up to a solution—again. “What sort of huntsman leaves his head groom at home in the middle of the foxhunting season?” Matthew mused. “Then too, a shopping excursion to a tobacconist seems an odd errand to discharge one’s stable master for.”

“Doesn’t it? And I’ve yet to hear from Sir Dewey about the exact dates and destinations of all the colonel’s travel. One wonders if those journeys were as imperative as this simple errand.”

Another loose end Matthew hadn’t thought to pursue. “What will you do with the lawyers? They colluded with a felon to bilk Abigail of her family’s fortune, and probably profited handsomely.”

Axel had a well-developed sense of justice. An older brother’s heart was pleased to see that where Abigail Stoneleigh was concerned, Axel’s protective instincts had also become razor sharp.

And as far as Matthew was concerned, Oxford fellowships should be tossed down the jakes.

“When it comes to the lawyers,” Axel said, “with Abigail’s approval, I will threaten and drip innuendo. She doesn’t need a money settlement from them, but a substantial bank draft might give her satisfaction. A draft large enough to put the damned pestilential ciphers out of business. She wanted to establish a pension for any mistress who’d spared her Stoneleigh’s attentions.”

Which notion, the present magistrate seemed to heartily endorse.

“At the risk of finding myself face-down in some horse trough when I least expect it—or stoutly kicked halfway across the garden without warning—I will again venture the opinion that you and Mrs. Stoneleigh would suit.”

Had Matthew not been watching his brother, he would have missed the expression that flickered through Axel’s blue eyes.

“Nicholas, whose instincts regarding females are not to be dismissed, was correct, Matthew. Abigail has ghosts to exorcise at Stoneleigh Manor, and for me to proffer marriage now, when she’s again grieving, at sixes and sevens, upset, reeling, and not even in the best of health, would be to take advantage as the colonel did.”

Oh, right.
Love made sensible people too noble for their own good. “The colonel sought to exploit your Abigail, and then end her existence. You seek to cherish her and give her the rest of your life.”

That fleeting, hopeless, besotted, resolute expression came and went again. Martyrs wore such expressions. Matthew felt a long, frustrated letter to his wife coming on.

“I seek Abigail’s well-being and her happiness,” Axel said. “You will excuse me for abandoning you. I want to read up on hashish, on whether long-term use can lead to violent tendencies, or derange an otherwise sound mind.”

“Love deranges an otherwise sound mind.” Matthew braced for a brotherly blow to the back of the head.

Axel sliced another pear and added it to the silver plate in the center of the table. “And yet, love puts all to rights with the heart. How much longer can you stay?”

Matthew wanted to stay as long as Axel needed him, but the vagaries of winter travel prevented that, as did a new wife in a delicate condition.

“I should likely leave at the first of the week, weather permitting. Theresa reports all is well at Belmont House, but…”

Axel rose and patted Matthew’s shoulder. “You miss your wife, and she torments you with cheery recountings of all going well and her spirits being sanguine. She’s staying busy, in other words, and dreaming of you. Investigate the upper shelves behind the desk in the library if it helps, but it won’t cure with what ails you. I predict a joyous reunion and, despite the state of the king’s highways, a very swift journey home.”

Axel kissed the top of Matthew’s head, snatched up the plate of pears—and the violets—and sauntered off, likely to charm his lady through a long winter night.

A tug on the bell-pull would bring the servants to clear the table—something the master of the household had forgotten to tend to. Matthew picked up his wine glass and the half-full wine bottle, and headed off to the cozy solitude of the library.

Where he would write that letter to his wife, and that would help only a little.

Axel balanced the violets and pears in one hand and tapped at Abby’s door, feeling… all manner of things. Hopeful, desperate, determined, worried. She had defended his botany in a stirring lecture to Nicholas, but she’d also defended her own intention to remain unattached—all for the best, surely.

And then she’d invited Axel to come to her bedroom once again.

The door opened, Axel stepped into Abby’s room, and that was that. No discussion, no scowling glance into the corridor, no firming of her lips that might mean impatience, rejection, ire, anticipation… Before he could put down either the flowers or the fruit, Abby kissed his cheek.

“You gave me your key,” she said. “I forgot to thank you for that.”

“The key to the glass house?”

She took his offerings and set them on the bedside table. “To the glass house with all your experiments, the one with the cozy hearth, your most treasured records.”

Axel’s most treasured recent memories too. He’d had a day to consider the significance of giving Abigail his key, a gesture apparently not lost on her.

“I could think of no more pleasant, soothing, or solitudinous place for you to while away a morning.” Amid his hopes and dreams, his best work, his greatest acts of patience and faith.

His treasured failures, many of which had been more illuminating and inspiring than his successes. As Axel slipped his arms around Abigail, he pushed aside the notion that she would be one of his failures, or he one of hers.

She gave him her weight, fatigue evident in her surrender. “Make love with me, please?”

“If you’d rather rest tonight, you should rest,” Axel said, nuzzling the curls at her temple. “You need not make any hasty plans, just because that knee-patting disgrace from the manse has decided to turn up puritanical, meddling, and bothersome. Your safety must come before all else, Abigail, and I will cheerfully remind the good pastor that ‘thou shalt not kill’ trumps the rest of the list handily. Putting a parishioner in the path of harm, merely because some committee of clucking, matchmaking biddies has—”

Abigail sighed, which meant she pressed closer, and that purely deprived a man of spontaneous lectures regarding moral taxonomies.

And imbued him with a pressing need to get his clothes off.

“Help me with my cuffs,” Axel said, stepping back and holding out both wrists, as a prisoner obliges one putting on shackles. “Did you enjoy your morning?”

Abby undid his cuff-links and passed them to him for stashing in his watch pocket.

“Your glass house is magic, Axel. I was fretful and upset when I sat down with Grandpapa’s journal, but I dozed off before I’d finished my first cup of chocolate. The roses form a sort of guard, with their greenery and their scent. I’m even comforted by the thought of their thorns.”

“Interesting theory, that we value them for those thorns.” Axel’s waistcoat came next, then his cravat, and half-unbuttoned shirt.

“Every image I’ve seen of a princess in a fairy tale has her tower guarded by thorny roses. Give me your clothes, sir.”

Wives spoke thus.
Do this. Stop that
.
Here, now. You mustn’t.
Husbands complied, usually. Axel passed over his shirt, which Abby folded up on the chest at the foot of the bed. He might, in six attempts, have managed the same tidy result she achieved on a casual first go, such was the mystery of feminine domestic expertise.

“Shall I take down your hair, Abigail?” She hadn’t had time to tend to that, apparently more focused on getting into her nightclothes.

Those brisk, competent hands paused with Axel’s cravat stretched between them. “I’d like that.”

Axel tugged off his boots and stockings, set them near the door, and took up a post by the vanity.

“You did this for your Caroline?”

“Occasionally, when she was weary. Like many couples, we had neither lady’s maid nor valet. Finances early in the marriage were occasionally constrained.” And always, Caroline’s first suggestion had been to spend less on the roses, though they’d quickly become a reliable source of income.

Abigail took a seat on the vanity stool. “I am weary, but not as tired as I was when you kidnapped me from Stoneleigh Manor. The longer I’m here, the more I can see how unwell I’d become.”

Axel extracted the first pin from the back of Abby’s coiffure. In his passing liaisons, this tending to a lover hadn’t come into it. Of course, he’d laced up the occasional corset, lent a lady his comb, and otherwise observed bedroom civilities. God help him now, he was positively wallowing in the pleasure of strutting about Abigail’s bedroom without his shirt.

For she was
admiring
him in the mirror, tired though she was.

“Sorry.” He had tugged a pin loose, and inadvertently tugged at a dark curl too.

Abby leaned forward, resting her head on her folded arms. “To be tended like this… you can’t know, Axel Belmont. You have no earthly, heavenly, inkling of an idea how lovely your generosity is.”

He had a wealth of ideas where Abigail was concerned, an herbal full of them. “I’ll send Hennessey with you to Stoneleigh Manor. She fancies herself a lady’s maid now, and Candlewick simply hasn’t need of same.”

Drat the dratted damned dratting luck.

Axel worked in comfortable silence, piling pins in a ceramic dish with cabbage roses painted into the bowl. When he’d finished taking down Abby’s hair, she sat up.

“Does madam prefer a hundred strokes?” Axel asked.

She studied his bare torso in the mirror, a frank and female perusal. “Fifty, please.”

He made it to seven-and-thirty, possibly. “That ought to suffice. One braid or two?”

“I’ll braid it. You can use the wash water.”

And no need for anybody to warm up the sheets, for Axel’s breeding organs were already anticipating what would happen in that bed. He strolled behind the privacy screen when everything in him clamored for a mad dash.