Alexandra (35 page)

There was fish, roast duck, lamb cutlets, artichoke bottoms, mushrooms, green peas, boiled cauliflower, plum pudding, apricot fritters, and bread. Alexandra took an artichoke bottom, three mushrooms, a small piece of bread, and some butter.

“That’s all?” Tristan asked.

“I told you I’m not hungry.”

Setting his plate aside, he laid a hand on her forehead. “Are you ill?”

“No. Just tired.”

“Get in bed.”

“With my food?”

“People eat breakfast in bed, don’t they? Why not dinner?”

After she was settled against the pillows, he poured two glasses of wine and handed her one. She took a cautious sip.

“I’m going to stay home tomorrow,” he said, divesting himself of his coat and cravat.

“Hmm,” she said pleasantly, sipping again.

He unbuttoned his waistcoat and shrugged out of it. “I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on. And journal entries to record.” He made short work of removing his braces, then loosened his cuffs and undid the buttons at the top of his shirt. “I’m weeks behind on that sort of business.”

She licked her lips. “I suppose that’s Griffin’s fault.”

“You said so, not me.” He noticed her watching his activities with interest. Smiling to himself, he sat beside her on the bed to remove his boots. “It’s just something I need to take care of.”

“It will be nice to have you here,” she said.

He felt her gaze still lingering on him as he peeled off his stockings. Looking up at her, he grinned. She gulped the rest of her wine and let him take the glass from her hand and set it on the bedside table.

“Eat,” he said, pointing to the untouched plate on her lap. She nodded and reached blindly for her fork.

He walked through the sitting room to the dressing room, thinking—rather smugly—that a fellow appreciated a girl who could appreciate him. He could tell his wife was anticipating the evening ahead. But first things first. His stomach rumbled, while Mrs. Pawley’s lovely dinner was going cold. Throwing on a dressing gown, he returned to the sitting room and filled a plate for himself. A generous helping of everything—after all, he would need his strength.

He took his plate back to the bedroom, planning to tell Alexandra as much and enjoy her shock.

She was sound asleep, her head lolling on the pillows.

“Alexandra?” He took the tray off her lap and set it aside. “Alexandra?” She slumbered on. He inhaled deeply to detect the telltale smell of a gas leak.

Not even a whiff.

He ate his dinner and tried again to wake her, shaking her shoulder this time. “Alexandra?” Still no luck.

He turned off all the gaslights. Then went back and double-checked them all. And triple-checked. “Alexandra?”

She was out cold.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to sleep this early. But he climbed into bed beside her, pulled her against him…and held her all night.

“WHAT IN
heaven’s name is that noise?” Alexandra asked the next morning at breakfast.

“Rex. I left him asleep in the study.” Her husband gestured toward the connecting door. “I told you he snores.”

“He’s louder than your ram pumps,” she marveled as a footman poured her tea. “I’m surprised he hasn’t wakened us in the night.”

“Nothing could have wakened
you
last night.” She’d never seen Tris roll his eyes before. “I won’t be giving you any more wine at bedtime,” he declared.

“I cannot blame you for that.” She didn’t remember falling asleep, and she’d awakened to find herself alone. But the sheets had still held his scent, and she’d been aware all night of his arm encircling her, his body curled against her back. “I was sorry to see you gone when I woke.”

“I woke to find myself in the kitchen,” he admitted, disgruntled.

“On the floor?”

“No. Just standing there, eating one of your sugar cakes.”

“Stealing sweets in the night again?” she teased over the continuing rumble of the mastiff’s snores. “See, you sleepwalked, and nothing bad happened.”

Tris gave her a look over his coffee. “We were talking about you dozing off on me,” he retorted.

She felt her cheeks warm. “I can only drink half a glass of wine. Any more and I—”

“Fall asleep?” he provided with a raised brow.

“Or get very, very silly.”

He speared a bite of ham, looking thoughtful as he chewed and swallowed. “I cannot imagine you silly; that would truly be a sight. However, I’m not sure I’m willing to risk you falling asleep in order to see it.”

Two thunderous snorts came from the adjoining room, followed by blessed silence. Rex must have rolled over. Smiling, Alexandra reached for the jam pot. “Did you make a dent in your work this morning?”

“A rather large dent, as a matter of fact. I may even find time to get out and take care of some business later in Windsor.” He sprinkled salt on his eggs, watching her spread jam on her toast. “It won’t take long. I promise to be back in time for dinner.”

“I’m not passing judgment on you. I know you have much to do, thanks in part to my brother.”

She also knew she wasn’t offering him much incentive to remain home, given the way she insisted on defying his wishes. She feared he might have begun pulling away, distancing himself from her emotionally.

She set down her knife. “I have much to do as well,” she said, watching him frown at the jam pot. She wished he would look at her. She was trying her best to be cooperative. “I’m meeting this morning with Mrs. Oliver to go over—”

“No!” His hand darted out and snatched the toast from hers.

She blinked. “Tris?”

“It’s strawberry.” He swiped a finger across her toast and licked, turning ashen as he confirmed it. “Strawberry preserves, not cherry.”

“Dear heavens.” Her heart pumping wildly, she realized the skin on the side of her index finger felt prickly. Spotting a telltale streak of red preserves there, she quickly wiped it off. “I should have looked,” she said, searching her hands for other traces of jam. Finding none, she released a tense breath.

When she glanced up, Tris had gone even whiter beneath his tan. “I must have switched the preserves in the jam pot.” He scraped rigid fingers through his hair. “I’ve done it again—I’m trying to hurt you in my sleep.”

“You are
not
.” She didn’t know which she found more disturbing: discovering strawberries on her toast, or his assumption that he was at fault. “It’s a long way from eating a sugar cake to switching the contents of a jam pot. I’m certain this was an honest mistake. A kitchen maid who didn’t know better must have refilled the pot.”

“No. Mrs. Pawley assured me she would tell everyone you cannot eat strawberries. It was no mistake. I—”

“Do you even know where the jam pot is kept?” she interrupted. “Or the preserves?”

He paused a moment. “I must have hunted around.”

“In your sleep? I think not. Mrs. Pawley must have neglected to inform someone—not deliberately, of course, but in error.” Who knew how often the woman nipped from the sherry bottle? “Let’s call in the kitchen staff and get to the bottom of this.”

A few minutes later, the dining room was crowded with kitchen maids, scullery maids, and the small boys who did odd jobs belowstairs. Mrs. Pawley looked perfectly sober—and extremely concerned. Hastings stood solemnly in the back, watching the proceedings. Mrs. Oliver did the questioning.

“Did you know Lady Hawkridge cannot eat strawberries?”

“Yes, Mrs. Oliver.”

“I did, Mrs. Oliver.”

“Mrs. Pawley made that clear, Mrs. Oliver.”

“And did you refill the jam pot or see anyone else do so?”

“No, Mrs. Oliver.”

“I didn’t, Mrs. Oliver.”

“Absolutely not.”

It went on and on, so long that Alexandra began to suffer from the headache, especially because all the denials were only strengthening Tris’s delusional assumptions. At long last, everyone shuffled out.

“It was me,” Tris said in a dull, resigned tone.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she returned crossly, rubbing her temples. “One of them refilled the pot. I’m not surprised no one would own up to it and risk being dismissed.”

Someone else
had
to have done it. She knew, deep in her bones, that an honorable, compassionate man like Tris couldn’t do anything to harm her—or anyone else. Not even in his sleep.

She reached across the table to lay her hand over his. “You’re only sleepwalking because you’re anxious. You said that’s when it happens, didn’t you? It’s a pattern. And as I’ve said before, I think there’s another pattern at work here as well. You do things when you sleepwalk that you wish you could do while awake. Like kiss me or steal more sweets than you’re entitled to.”

It was a pretty theory, but Tristan wasn’t convinced, let alone at all mollified. “You can argue that I went to the kitchen in the night for sweets. But your pattern theory doesn’t explain why I would leave a gas line open.”

“You didn’t. Or at least, not on purpose. You got up—and perhaps dealt with the gaslight in some way since it had been left on—and took yourself downstairs to sleep in your study. I had angered you by questioning your staff against your wishes, so you were separating yourself from me in the night.”

Had he really wanted to get away from her that night? He hadn’t thought so. But even if her assessment was valid, there was another plausible explanation—another pattern in his sleep. One of mayhem. Violence.

Murder.

“It’s the pressure,” she said, squeezing his hand. “As soon as we clear your name, you’ll be fine. I’d wager you’ll never sleepwalk again.”

He looked at her for a long moment, searching her eyes while a strained silence stretched between them. His gaze dropped to the cameo she wore on a chain around her neck.

His cameo. She’d take it off someday. Maybe someday soon.

“I’d feel a lot less pressure if you’d call off this blasted investigation,” he said at last, pushing away from the table. “I’m going back to work.”

THERE WERE
times in a woman’s married life when she wished she could confer with her sisters. Even though she already knew exactly what they would say.

Juliana, the peacemaker, would tell her to abide by her husband’s wishes. “Your marriage ought to come first,” she would say, and advise Alexandra to be the dutiful wife and put Tris’s happiness and their relationship before her own desire to right past wrongs.

Corinna, on the other hand—the rebel—would cheer on her efforts. “You’re entitled to your convictions,” she would say, and advise Alexandra to stand to her guns and let no one, not even her husband, sway her from doing what she thought best.

And Alexandra would be right back where she’d started. But at least she’d have some hugs and sympathy to bolster her. Here in this strange house, with Tris occupied most of the time, and no neighbors willing to welcome her—a point Leticia had driven home yesterday—she was beginning to feel lonely.

Still, the first part of her morning had proven quite productive. She and Mrs. Oliver had gone over the household budget, reviewed the cleaning and repair schedules, and discussed all the lower female servants. Everything seemed well in hand. She’d left their meeting assured that Mrs. Oliver was a fine housekeeper indeed.

Afterward, she practiced on the harpsichord in the north drawing room for a while. It wasn’t hard to play, but the double keyboard would take some getting used to. The sound was also different, thinner than a pianoforte’s, and there seemed to be no way to play louder or softer. Although she was by no means a concert-quality pianist, she did enjoy putting some emotion into her pieces. But there were no pedals, and no matter how she hit the keys—tentatively or with great force—the resulting notes sounded the same. She wearied of it rather quickly.

Next she considered visiting in the village, but she wanted to take Peggy along to introduce her to everyone, and she’d prefer to have Peggy here, talking to the rest of the staff and compiling the list. The villagers would be there to meet another day. Pursuing the investigation was more important, and even more urgent given this morning’s events. Quite apart from her sisters’ future woes, her husband was miserable
now,
and apparently dead set on tormenting himself unless and until he was given irrefutable proof of his innocence—preferably hand-delivered on a silver platter and tied up with ribbons, she grumbled privately.