A Most Improper Rumor (10 page)

“Killed them?” Harriet was visibly taken aback.

“I’m just asking.”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

Alicia tilted her head and studied her sister. “That is a surprising answer. You don’t know if you think she is capable of murder?”

“It was at least five years ago, Allie. I saw her briefly after her first mourning was over, before she married Lord DeBrooke, but that’s all. I’m afraid I don’t really know her well enough any longer to argue the point. I admit at the time the whispers first started I was completely shocked, if that means anything.”

It was difficult not to recall the almost-desperate poise of the woman who had entered that drawing room alone the night before. Slowly, thinking out loud, Alicia mused, “I think, my estimations of her character aside, she would never do this to herself. She’s far too intelligent to commit two murders in exactly the same fashion. It pointed the finger right at her, which I suspect is exactly how it was intended.”

“The magistrate seemed convinced enough of her innocence to exonerate her.”

“I believe she was lucky.” Alicia took an absent sip of tea. “She happened to get a fair hearing, which is not always a certainty in the English courts. I don’t think he exonerated her either, Hattie. I think he ruled there was no direct evidence that would hang her.”

“Not quite the same,” her sister admitted thoughtfully.

“No, it certainly isn’t.”

“In any case, isn’t it all in the past?”

No, it wasn’t. She’d seen quite clearly the way Christopher Durham had looked at Lady DeBrooke when she introduced them. It was certainly not the first time they had met.

The handsome architect and the reputed murderess. It sounded like a melodramatic novel.

She hoped it would have a happy ending.

Chapter 11

“T
he pale green, I should think.”

The modiste dutifully nodded and instructed one of her assistants to put the bolt of muslin aside. Angelina looked at Eve with raised brows. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely. It emphasizes the darkness of your hair.”

As she doubted she would have chosen it, perhaps it was fortuitous that Eve had offered to accompany her to the dressmaker. Barefoot, clad only in her chemise, Angelina stood obediently still as the tapes were brought out to measure her waist and hips, wondering if the trouble and expense of ordering new gowns were even worth it. Christopher was no longer as adamant about her moving about in society, but strangely enough, that one foray back into the polite world had given her back some measure of confidence. While she intended on being very selective, perhaps she would now and again accept some invitations.

Otherwise, staying in London would be tedious, but if she went back to Sussex, Christopher was here, and . . .

She would miss him terribly. Whatever measure of contentment she’d found in her life was gone. Banished. Forgotten. Her world was different, her
life
was different, and though she looked at happiness cautiously, like a flickering flame that could be extinguished at any time, she still had hope.

“I’m quite proud of you, you know.”

The soft statement brought her out of her reverie. Angelina lifted her arms so the young girl could measure her bosom. Eve, sitting in a chair across the room and watching, had an odd expression on her face. “How so?”

Her friend hesitated, ostensibly watching the assistant at her task, and then said, “You’ve built such a shell around you, rather like those sea creatures on the beach. Hiding away, not taking the
Times
, reading, and passing your days with long walks and other pursuits that are all too solitary.”

It was probably true. After Thomas died, she’d purchased a modest house with a lovely little garden outside the village proper. Not being privy to London gossip, most of the people of the parish were friendly enough and if they knew about her tainted reputation, they didn’t show it. It had been a quiet existence, and she had grown used to it, but life had a way of changing unexpectedly and if she was ever going to marry Christopher, she needed to acclimate herself to her new circumstances.

If ever
.

She didn’t want to think . . . never.

“I’ve motivation,” she said with a small smile, “to at least attempt to rejoin the beau monde.”

“For
his
sake.”

“Yes.”

Today Eve had tamed her unruly hair into a demure chignon and she wore a becoming gown in a certain shade of blue that made her skin seem not quite so pale and freckled. She was buxom and built with good bones, a little on the tall side, but nonetheless attractive with her open smile and sparkling eyes.

“You said you’ve been in love,” Angelina remarked when the assistant left the room. “I’m sure then you understand. I’d change my life for him. At least I intend to do so.”

“It appears that is true. I’ve been trying for the past several years to get you interested in a new wardrobe.”

“Before him, what was the point?” Angelina reached for her gown, now draped over a nearby chair. “I was content enough in my exile.”

“Were you?” Eve rose and came over to help her struggle into her simple day gown, efficiently buttoning up the back. “I think you convinced yourself you were content. Inside, I believe you were restless and uninterested in rotting away in that little cottage. You have a great deal more to give the world, Angelina. Your beauty alone is a gift to others, like a painting one can hang on the wall and admire, but even better, for it is alive and vibrant. I don’t think your lover deserves the credit for setting you free. You simply matured and realized it.”

Quite the contrary, Christopher deserved everything. All of her. Love. Faithfulness. Loyalty. Respect . . . and whatever else she could give him.

“How I look means nothing.” Angelina wished she hadn’t allowed that bitter tone to creep into her voice. She added lightly, “Besides, what are we, really? Flesh and bone. Blood and sinew and muscle, all so much fodder for the grave once we are gone.”

Eve met her eyes in the glass, standing behind her, several inches taller, so when she smiled, the ironic curve of her mouth was visible. “People care about the oddest things, Angel. They do care if you have the perfect complexion, that ripple of ebony hair nature gifted to you, eyes the color of moonlight on the water. Don’t dismiss the power given you over us lesser beings.”

“Lesser beings?” She half laughed, her response incredulous. “I’m shunned by almost everyone I know, Eve. Even if I weren’t, I still maintain no one is less or more than anyone else.”

“But you tend to be idealistic, darling.” Eve lightly dropped her hands on her shoulders. “Even now, after everything. You’ve fallen in love. I find it hard to believe.”

In
love
. That was undeniable.

“I have.” She adjusted her neckline, taking in a deep breath. “If nothing else ever happens to me, I will not regret discovering love. Whether I am cleared, or remain in the shadows, he believes in my innocence.” Angelina stared at her reflection. “He must, or else he is simply a fool, risking his neck.”

“He might count it worth it.” Eve smiled then to break the moment, lifting her hands and moving away. “Men think with their cocks, after all, and his is happily busy between your legs. Women are more sensible.”

Angelina hesitated, shocked at the crude reference, tempted to ask again about the man who had broken her best friend’s heart, but thought better of it. If Eve wished to hold it dear, who was she to pry? Maybe one day she would hear about him—be he scoundrel or saint—but for now, Eve seemed disinclined to give confidences, more interested in wresting some from her apparently.

“Twice married,” she said wryly, “I agree, but some men are more sensitive than others.”

“‘Rutting beast’ is grossly overused in the complaints fine ladies have over their husbands,” Eve commented, her effusive laughter surfacing, but with a biting edge. “But it always brings to mind the most comical picture.”

Christopher, with his talented mouth and hands, certainly did not qualify. He saw to her pleasure with passionate skill and tenderness, but he was also wonderful in other ways; witty, kind, undeniably brilliant. Angelina lifted her brows. “I don’t think an unmarried young lady is supposed to be imagining any such thing.”

“Oh, come now; we both know all of us, innocent or not, when we are attracted to someone imagine what it would be like to taste his kiss, or to touch and be touched.” Eve idly picked up one of the fashion sketches still on the table and examined the image of the gown featured there. “It is part of life, after all. Yes, I am unmarried, but it is only because I refused to settle for less than what I wanted.” She dropped the plate back on the table, her lips thinning, as if the memory were still painful. “When the engagement was announced, I wept. It is difficult to realize that what you wish for most in the world is simply lost to you.”

“The engagement?”

“Of my love to another.”

“Why did you never confide in me?” Angelina went over and slipped her arms around her friend. “At the very least I could have provided a shoulder for you to cry on.”

Eve hugged her back. “My dearest Angel, you were in the midst of planning your wedding to William. I don’t think you had time to comfort me.”

“That was six long years ago then.” Angelina drew away with a frown. “Has no one captured your attention since? Surely—”

“No one,” Eve interrupted brusquely, and then gave a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry. Perhaps you’ll find this difficult to believe, but I find the burden of unrequited love difficult to shake off, even after all this time.”

If she were to lose Christopher, she thought it might be the same.
Six years?
Maybe a lifetime.

Softly, she said with sympathy, “I don’t find it hard to believe at all.”

* * *

The slope of the slanting sun outlined the skeleton of the structure in golden color, the apex of the roof raised that day, the buttresses in place, the walls beginning to take form.

The inception was enlightening, the birth of the idea of form and function a marriage of sorts, both spiritual, and if he was able to give it a fanciful application compared to the practicality; pragmatic.

A royal duke needed a new home and it was Christopher’s pleasure to design and oversee the building of it. Usually, he did not do private residences any longer, but occasionally he did make an exception, and in this case, the reward was not just monetary, but also artistically satisfying, for he’d been given carte blanche. This particular aristocrat had deep pockets, so without the restriction of an unreasonable budget, he’d taken on the project.

“You seem pleased,” his foreman commented, standing next to him, legs slightly spread and hands on hips. Kendall grinned. “I know the look. One thousand miles away, or maybe more. If I believed in the theory that people could come back and be reborn, I’d say that is exactly how the engineer who supervised the building of the Egyptian pyramids might have stood once the grand vision started to look like what he saw in his head.”

“I am pleased. The endeavor is going well and I think His Grace will agree with my choice of neoclassic style, or at least I hope so. Part of my job is to understand the taste of the person who has engaged my services.”

True enough. He and the duke had gone over illustrations of castles, Spanish palaces, Italian villas, and even some colonial plantations, and he’d mentally made a catalogue of the comments, both positive and negative, to form the embryo of the basic plan of the house. There was always more to it; the gardens, the stables, the grounds . . . but it was the main structure that set the theme, and personality had a very profound say in what a person liked or did not appreciate.

“You, who don’t even need the coin?” Kendall was Welsh, broad shouldered and pragmatic, and one of the best supervisors of the workmen that Christopher had ever employed. He shoved back a lock of curly dark hair from his brow, leaving a streak of dirt. “Tell me, my lord, what makes you expend the effort when you could be sitting in your own garden with your feet up, sipping the best brandy all day long?”

It was easy to be honest. He’d been asked before. “I think everyone in life should have a passion. Mine is buildings. I can see how they will look in my mind, create them on paper, and then when the work begins, it is as if I give life to that vision. It doesn’t necessarily make me feel powerful, but it does give me a sense of what I can accomplish. Yes, I could sit in the garden and let life float by, but that isn’t my purpose on this earth. When I die, England will remember me.”

“You do it for the glory, then?”

“No, for the pleasure.” He smiled in an easygoing way, or so he hoped. Other aristocrats certainly indulged in business practices that generated income. His apparently just drew comment because everyone could directly see the results of his labor. “I am not so altruistic as to say I’d do it for nothing, but probably I would if no one cared to pay me. Luckily, they do, so do not spread that particular rumor, if you please.”

Kendall chuckled. “You have my word, my lord. I’d not put in jeopardy a job I value like this one.”

A cart rolled by, full of bricks for the stonemasons, and they both watched it. The day had been warm, but it was going to be a cool night by the clearness of the sky and slight hint of chill in the breeze. The setting for the house was on a gentle hill with the curve of the river along the edge of the property, and a natural pond in the back.

Pleasure
. The word alone conjured the image of Angelina, and he glanced at the spectacular sunset and nodded at his companion. “I’m back to London tonight, but I’ll return in two days to see how it is all progressing. You know what you are doing, so keep at it.”

“I will.” His assistant’s gaze was assessing. “These trips to London . . . If you don’t mind my asking, do they serve a purpose and can I guess she has a name?”

It was not a surprise, he supposed, that he was transparent enough, others had been able to see through his feigned nonchalance. Christopher sighed and ran a hand through his hair, which he had been doing all day so no doubt it was already standing on end. “She?”

“The woman who has you running back and forth.”

“What makes you think . . .” He trailed off when he saw the gleam of knowing amusement in the other man’s eyes. Then he shrugged. “Oh hell, yes, it is a she.”

“You have that look about you.”

“There’s a look?” He asked the question with resigned humor.

“There certainly is. Something between satisfied and scared half out of your wits. Not to mention the smile that surfaces now and again for no reason. Will you be marrying soon then?”

He supposed the question was natural and explained the inquisitiveness in general when Kendall was a man to mind his own business. “I hope to. The lady is not ready for us to announce the betrothal publicly. But don’t worry; I will still continue my work.”

The Welshman nodded. “Glad to hear that. I’ll tell the lads. It makes a fellow nervous, I’m afraid, working for a toff who doesn’t need the money. A woman can change everything in the blink of an eye, she can. Before this, you’ve never been anything but interested in the project, if you don’t mind my saying so. You still are, but once the day is done, you transfer that attention elsewhere.”

On
her
.

It was difficult not to. He was made that way, he’d surmised with introspection on those nights he couldn’t see her. In his work, once he had a vision of how things should be, he moved earth and stone each day to make it happen.

Shouldn’t his life get just as much effort? There was no question that he wanted Angelina beside him night and day, awake or asleep, and if he had to change his life to get his heart’s desire, he was willing to do so. However, once she was his wife, she could join him wherever his latest project might take him, for not all locations were as convenient to London as this one, not to mention that often enough he had offers on the Continent.