Alexandra (34 page)

At least, no one who had said so to her face.

Her heart ached for her sisters. This was the treatment they would receive, too. And, unlike her, they had no husbands to love, no one to hold at night to make facing the disgrace a little easier.

It seemed forever before Peggy finally came out. “Beth knows nothing,” she reported even before she entered the carriage.

“You asked her all the questions?”

“Everything you asked everyone else, my lady.” She sat across from Alexandra. “Beth believes Lord Hawkridge died in his sleep.”

“Thank you for trying,” Alexandra said, her heart sinking even more. It seemed Tris’s uncle
had
died in his sleep. And that was going to make it very hard—if not impossible—to prove Tris’s innocence.

Very hard—if not impossible—to make life better for Juliana and Corinna.

In her dejected state, the ride home seemed twice as long as the ride out. Peggy, at least, was quite solicitous. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, my lady.”

“It’s not your fault.” Alexandra tried for a grateful smile. “I truly appreciate the way you managed to worm your way in there.”

Peggy shrugged. “Miss Armstrong is a witch.”

Although Alexandra agreed, she didn’t think it would be seemly to say so aloud. But though she knew it was wicked of her, she couldn’t help feeling pleased that Miss Armstrong was still
Miss
Armstrong…still unmarried since she’d abandoned Tris.

“I don’t like to see your heart in your boots,” Peggy said. “Is there anything I can do?”

She really was a dear. “I don’t think so. Unless you can remember anyone else who might have worked at Hawkridge and since left.”

Peggy frowned for a moment, then shook her head. “I cannot recollect anyone else.”

“I think I will talk to everyone again, though, and see if anyone remembers any departed staff members. The possibility hadn’t occurred to me before, so I never asked.”

The maid was silent a moment. “If you don’t mind my saying so, my lady…”

“Yes?” Alexandra knew Peggy had her best interests at heart. “Please, speak freely.”

“Well, it’s just that I overheard you and his lordship discussing this last night. Not that I was listening, you understand.”

“We did raise our voices,” Alexandra admitted, chagrined.

“Yes. Well, and don’t you expect he might be upset if you talk to everyone again?”

“I’m sure he will be.” She sighed. “But I must do this. There’s too much at stake.” She ran her fingers along the chain that held her cameo. “I shall have to face his wrath and try to make the best of things.”

Peggy folded her competent hands in her lap. “I could do it for you.”

“Pardon?”

“I could ask all the others and make a list of any departed servants and their current whereabouts, if known. That way you’ll have the information without angering his lordship by asking more questions.”

“Oh, Peggy, would you?” It was a perfect solution. “I’d be forever grateful.”

“Consider it done.” Peggy smiled. “It might take me a day or two, mind you, since I’ll have to work around my other duties.”

“I understand,” Alexandra assured her. “I shall be very undemanding until you are finished!”

Once again, Peggy passed the time with a constant stream of chatter. Although she’d regained a shred of hope, Alexandra felt exhausted by the time they returned home. Perhaps breathing the gas had affected her more than she’d thought, though she was inclined to think it was all the emotional ups and downs of the past few days. In either case, though she never slept in the daytime, she went straight upstairs, changed into Juliana’s nightgown, and took a nap.

TRISTAN ARRIVED
home that evening eager to see Alexandra. It wasn’t raining. The problem at the gasworks was finally solved. And he was starving.

After poking his head into the most likely ground-floor rooms and failing to find his wife, he took the stairs two at a time, anxious to see how she was faring after this morning’s mishap.

If it
had
been a mishap.

But right this moment he didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to kiss Alexandra and hear about her day and share the success of his. Preferably over a large and satisfying dinner.

Vincent appeared, as he often did, to meet him outside his bedroom door. “Your lady is sleeping,” he said quietly.

Concern—and guilt—slammed into him. “Is she not doing well?”

“Peggy says she’s well, my lord, only weary. Shall I arrange for a tray in your room? She may not wish to dress for dinner.”

As usual, Vincent knew instinctively what was right.

“An excellent idea.” Tristan paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Do you know if she went visiting today?”

“She did. She took the carriage.”

That was a relief. If she’d been well enough to carry out her plans to meet the villagers, she couldn’t be feeling too poorly. But he wondered how her visits had gone. While the villagers were dependent on him and therefore didn’t snub him outright, his relationship with them was rather strained. They didn’t like having their lord steeped in scandal.

Then again, Alexandra had his servants eating out of her hand—literally—already. Perhaps she could bring the villagers around, too.

“Did Peggy go along with her?” he asked.

“And Ernest as well, my lord. And John Coachman, of course. I mean Charlie,” Vincent corrected himself. They shared a smile. “Your lady is making a lot of changes around here, isn’t she?”

“Positive ones, I believe.” Tristan was gratified to hear Alexandra had followed his directions. He didn’t know if he could handle any more excitement today. Now that her blasted investigation was over, he just wanted to see if they could settle into something resembling a marriage.

He turned and reached for the doorknob.

“She’s not questioning anyone, either,” Vincent added. “I know you were concerned about that, so you’ll be pleased to hear that Peggy is doing it instead.”

Tristan turned back. “Doing what?”

“Questioning the staff. Peggy came to me earlier, asking if I recalled anyone who might have worked here two years ago but has since left. She’s compiling a list for your lady.”

“Is she?”

“Yes. Isn’t it clever of your wife to widen the search?”

“Quite.” No one had ever accused Alexandra of being dull-witted. To the contrary, it seemed she was too bright for her own good. “She’s not going to find anything, though. My uncle died in his sleep. Of a broken heart.”

“Of course he did. But it’s endearing that your lady wishes so much to prove otherwise.”

Endearing
, Tristan thought as he cracked open the door and slipped inside. That wasn’t the word he would have chosen.
Exasperating
was more like it.

Why couldn’t she stop poking around where she didn’t belong?

She slumbered, huddled on her side beneath the covers, a small lump in his big bed. It occurred to him that now was his chance to dump her onto the floor. But he couldn’t do it. Upset as he was to learn she was still pursuing her folly, after nearly losing her this morning he couldn’t summon the anger he’d felt last night.

But dread of what she might find…
that
he could summon quite handily.

The room was dim but not yet dark. He walked over and stood by the bed. Her even features were outlined against the white sheets like the profile portrait she’d made of him so long ago.

“Alexandra,” he called softly, half expecting her to sleep on like she had earlier. A hint of that panic came back, the terror he’d felt when he couldn’t awaken her.

This time, though, she opened her eyes and yawned. “Tris?” she murmured sleepily.

She would never know how endearing he found it when she called him that. Yes,
endearing.
Stubborn fiend though she was.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Not really.” She struggled to sit up against the pillows. “How did everything go at the gasworks?”

“Very well. The construction is back on track.” He sat beside her on the mattress, his weight on the featherbed making her tilt toward him. “How was your day, then?”

“Disappointing.” She sighed. “Mrs. Pawley recollected a scullery maid who’d left for Armstrong House to take a better position. I went—”

“You went to Armstrong House?” He blinked. “I thought you were going to the village.”

“I
was
going to the village—I even made sugar cakes to take with me—until I learned about Beth.” He thought he saw guilt darken her features, but it was immediately replaced by other emotions he couldn’t read. “Then, when I got to Armstrong House, Miss Armstrong wouldn’t let me in the door. Peggy had to talk to Beth instead.” She swallowed hard. “I must confess, I didn’t like your Miss Armstrong much.”

“I don’t care for her much, either,” he said dryly, taking note of her furrowed brow and clouded eyes. She was more upset by the rejection than she was letting on. It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest that Leticia was merely acting out on old resentment, or say she had an exceptionally cruel nature—to assure his sweet, innocent, new Lady Hawkridge that she wouldn’t have to face this sort of contempt every time she walked out her front door. He wanted to lie.

But she’d discover the truth before long.

She would get used to this treatment—and much worse—eventually. He knew she had strength and confidence and faith enough to survive it. He was less sure
he
could survive seeing her hurt over and over, and knowing all the time that he was the cause of her pain.

He could only hope—though it felt more like dread—that he wouldn’t have to watch her suffering long. Whatever love she believed she felt for him would no doubt fade quickly under the strain. And when she returned to her senses, she’d return to her family.

It was only a matter of time.

“You shouldn’t have gone there,” he said with more regret than anger.

Guilt flashed again, this time followed by determination. “I had to find out if Beth had any information, Tris, don’t you see?”

He didn’t see. Or rather, he saw all too well that she wouldn’t stop digging up his past, threatening his hard-won equilibrium, no matter what he did. He scooped a hand through his hair. ”I thought you said it was over.”

“You cannot expect me to ignore new information. I’ve asked Peggy to find out if there are any more servants who have left as well. If there’s any chance—”

“I want you to stop.”

“I cannot.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s too important. This is our
life
and the lives of my sisters. We’re married for better or worse, but I cannot help trying to make it better.”

He sat silent for a moment, trying to accept that. It wasn’t easy. If she continued asking questions, neither of them were going to be happy with the answers. But at least she was being honest. He hadn’t known she’d been to Armstrong House, and she’d volunteered the information. She wasn’t trying to hide anything, wasn’t sneaking around behind his back.

Of course she wasn’t. She was Alexandra.

“I don’t want to fight,” he said finally, determined to shake off his dejection. When he rode up to the house, he’d been so eager to see her. There was no sense ruining the entire evening. If their time together was limited—by her inevitable leaving—he wanted to enjoy her company while he could. “I’m very disappointed that you’re not willing to let go of this. But I don’t want another fight.”

Her eyes grew misty, which cut him to the core, because he’d never seen Alexandra cry. “I don’t want to fight, either.”

A knock came at the door, and Vincent entered with their dinner tray. Or rather, two trays. And then he brought in a third. Mrs. Pawley had sent up a veritable feast. Alexandra composed herself and Tristan lit the gas lamps while Vincent put everything in the sitting room. The valet ducked back into the corridor to fetch a fourth tray holding a bottle of Hawkridge’s wine, two glasses, plates, and cutlery. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“Thank you, Vincent.” Tristan saw him back to the door. “This will do.”

“This will do?” Alexandra asked when they were alone again. “There’s enough food here to feed the entire household!”

“Well, come fix yourself a plate.”

Shaking her head, she slid out of bed and made for the sitting room.

Following her, he stared, incredulous. “
What
are you wearing?”

“The nightgown I borrowed from Juliana.” She stopped and twirled in the monstrosity, making yards and yards of white fabric and lace bell out and swirl about her. “Do you like it?” she asked, sounding a bit hesitant. “I know it’s too short on me, but my own nightgowns are so plain, I thought you would prefer this.”

His gaze traveled from the frilly ruffle beneath her chin to the four rows of tiered lace skimming her ankles. The wide sleeves were gathered at the wrist with a six-inch spill of froth that completely concealed her hands. But the worst of it was the body of the gown—there was so much material, he feared he could get smothered in it.

Speechless, he decided to offer her a plate instead of a response. Experience had taught him never to criticize a girl’s clothes.