Alexandra (38 page)

She could scarcely believe Tris had left her. Not tonight. Her gaze went to the lovely lavender nightgown, to the silver basket and the beautiful book beside it. Presents, she knew, from his heart.

Perhaps he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, but only love could drive him to spend a whole afternoon choosing such perfect gifts. Gifts that demonstrated careful thought. Gifts that showed he understood her. Gifts that fit
her
, specifically, not any other girl.

Well, with the possible exception of the wicked nightgowns. But she didn’t want to think about other girls those might fit.

Of course, he’d left for Windsor before learning she’d gone off to interview three former servants. Perhaps he wouldn’t have bought beautiful things for her if he’d known what she was up to. Had he really left her alone in bed as a protective measure? Or was he drawing away because he was angry? She didn’t truly believe it was the latter, but how could she know for sure?

Oh, hang it. If he could jump to foolhardy conclusions, so could she.

And she wanted answers now.
And
she wasn’t the type of person to sit and wait for those answers to come to her. Or lie in bed and wait for them, either. She was the type of person who went out and found answers for herself.

One would think her husband might have figured that out by now.

If he thought she’d just accept his decision and meekly go to sleep, he’d best think again.

She rose and washed up, then wiggled back into the lavender nightgown, in case she had to resort to seducing him to get him to talk. A few more kisses wouldn’t be unwelcome, either, come to think of it. But business would have to come first.

After covering the nightgown with a very modest wrapper, she brushed her tangled hair and pinned the front off her face, then made her way from the room.

No sooner had she opened the door than Rex came trotting up and followed her down the corridor to the Queen’s Bedchamber.

She knocked briskly on the queen’s fancy gilded door. “Tris?”

Rex barked.

“I’m sleeping,” Tris said.

Alexandra rolled her eyes. She knew he was lying—because if he were sleeping, he wouldn’t have answered her, would he? Besides, he obviously wasn’t in bed. She could hear him quite clearly, as though he were right on the other side of the door.

“I want to talk to you,” she said.

“We’ll talk in the morning.”

She wondered whether he was sitting or standing. Whether he was upright or leaning against the door. “I want to talk now.”

Rex barked again, adding his own demand.

But Tris was having none of it. His heavy sigh emanated from the room. “The door is locked, and only Vincent has the key.”

“I’ll get it from him, then. I want to talk. And I want you to come back to bed.” She imagined him lying beneath the turquoise and gold canopy with the absurd ostrich-feather poufs at its four corners. “You hate this room.”

“I’d hate hurting you even more. Vincent has gone to sleep—you’re not to bother him. Go to bed, Alexandra.”

“No,” she said. She needed the door opened in order to entice him with the wicked nightgown. But she wouldn’t bother Vincent. For one thing, she hadn’t the slightest idea where the man slept. She needed to schedule another appointment with Mrs. Oliver to beg a tour of the servants’ quarters.

In the meantime, she pulled a pin from her hair and stuck it into the lock, poking it around.

“What are you doing?” Tris asked after a moment.

“Picking the lock.” She’d seen Griffin do this more than once, and she’d read of many a protagonist doing it in books. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult. But despite the fact that she heard many clicks, nothing seemed to actually move.

Rex barked his encouragement, slapping the wall with his tail for good measure.

“Are you giving up yet?” Tris asked, sounding amused.

“No.” She dropped to her knees in order to get a better angle.

“Now?”

“No.” Clenching her teeth, she rooted around harder.

“Now?”

“Drat,” she gritted out. This wasn’t going to work. She plopped to sit on the floor and leaned sideways against the door. “This is ridiculous, Tris. You belong in our bed.”

“It’s only one night. A few hours. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night, sweet wife.”

“Good night,
dear
husband,” she returned, but she didn’t move. After a moment, she added, “And how many more nights will you abandon me in the name of ‘protection?’”

Tris remained silent.

Rex gave her a pitying look and padded away, his huge paws thudding on the wood floor.

“The dog gave up,” Tris said. “It’s time you did, too.”

She never gave up. Perhaps that was a character flaw rather than a trait to be admired, but regardless, there it was. If she couldn’t tempt him back into their bed—or at least into more kisses—perhaps she could get some answers.

“Are you doing this because you’re angry with me?” she asked.

”I’m doing it to protect you.”

“Are you certain? Because I know you’re unhappy that I won’t give up the investigation.”

“That’s nothing to do with this,” he insisted—rather patiently, she had to admit. “Except in a peripheral way. If you’d stop your investigation, perhaps I’d stop sleepwalking, in which case I might not fear doing you harm in the night. But it isn’t anger driving me to do this. It’s concern and sheer terror. Can’t you understand that?”

She could, although she wouldn’t admit it. That might encourage him.

She knew she shouldn’t have allowed her hurt to get the better of her, but couldn’t
he
understand the difficulty of
her
position? He’d convinced himself he was dangerous, and unless she proved otherwise, he would stay convinced. But he didn’t
want
her to prove otherwise.

What an impossible mess.

But she did understand him. And she also understood that, in his own twisted way, he was doing this because he loved her, whether he knew it or not.

“I love you,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

She shifted to sit with her back against the door and drew her knees up toward her chest. She wrapped her arms around them. “You’re acting like your father,” she said.

That elicited a response. “What on earth do you mean by that?” A rather hostile response. “A single glass of port hardly makes me a drunk, and I rarely gamble.”

“You said he was so convinced love would never happen for him again that he never bothered trying to find it.”

“I also said I don’t believe each one of us has a perfect person.”

“You didn’t mean that.”

“I most certainly did. We’re not all of us destined for bliss, Alexandra. The sooner you accept that, the happier you’ll be.”

“Like
you’re
happy?” she countered softly.

He was silent so long, she wondered if he’d fallen asleep. But then he shifted against the door, and she knew he hadn’t.

She’d have to give him more time. Three girls he’d loved had left him. No, make that five—his mother and his sister had left him, too.

The women he’d loved had been leaving him since he was seven years old.

She laid her head on her bent knees, hugging herself. “I’m not going leave you, Tris. No matter what I do or don’t learn tomorrow, I’m not going to leave you. Ever. Not next week or next month or next year. You married me, and you’re stuck with me. If you open the door, I’ll be right here. Always.”

As it turned out, that wasn’t true in the strictest sense. As the tall-case clock in the round gallery struck four in the morning, she woke, stiff and sore, and took herself back to bed.

“GOOD MORNING,
my lady.” Peggy bustled into the bedroom and threw open the drapes. “It’s nine o’clock, and I brought your breakfast.” She placed a tray on the bed. “Shall I have the carriage brought round for your visit today?”

Nine o’clock? Alexandra blinked in the harsh light, wondering where the night had gone while at the same time happy those long, uncomfortable, restless hours were over. Sitting up against the pillows, she took a slow, bracing sip of hot tea. “I wish to ride again today. The sooner I complete this final interview, the happier my husband will be.”

“I’ve been thinking, my lady. Perhaps, since you enjoy riding, it may be time for me to learn.”

“That’s a fine idea.” Alexandra spread jam on her toast, checking first to make certain it was cherry. “We shall arrange for a groom to give you lessons.”

“I meant today. I believe I should start riding with you today.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Picturing middle-aged Peggy mounting a horse for the first time, Alexandra hid a smile behind her teacup. “I shall be in quite a hurry today, and you’ll need a few lessons before you go galloping off. I believe I shall just take Ernest with me and get this done.”

She’d quite enjoyed riding with Ernest yesterday. Unlike Peggy, who talked her ear off, Ernest was quiet. He never asked to come in during her interviews, nor did he ask what happened afterward. He allowed her time to think.

Peggy scowled, clearly unhappy that she would be left behind again. As she helped her mistress into a riding habit, Alexandra did her best to disregard the maid’s bad mood. Peggy had been so pleasant and accommodating for the most part—even going to the trouble of making the list—and it
was
good of her to want to learn to ride.

When Alexandra was dressed and coiffed, she handed Peggy her gorgeous new silver basket, waiting for a reaction.

There was none. “Yes, my lady?”

“Please ask Mrs. Pawley to fill this with the rest of my sugar cakes. I shall meet you in the main parlor.”

“As you wish,” Peggy said coldly and took herself off.

Alexandra heaved a sigh as she started downstairs. If the woman was going to sulk whenever things failed to go her way, perhaps she’d be happier with a different lady’s maid, after all.

When she entered the main parlor—or rather, tried to—her mouth dropped open. “What’s this?”

Two muscular strangers were blocking the door as they maneuvered a large object through it.

An excessively large object.

“A pianoforte,” one of them said in answer to her question.

“I can see that.” She hurried around to the front and read the name above the keyboard. “Erard,” she breathed in wonder, running her hand over the shining, dark mahogany. Sebastien Erard was known to build the very best pianofortes—why, it was said that Beethoven himself owned one. “And it’s
six
octaves.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but we need you to move.”

“Right. Of course.” She looked toward three footmen who were inside the room rearranging the furniture. “Might any of you know where Lord Hawkridge is at the moment?”

“The vineyard, I believe.” One of the Johns hefted a small table onto his shoulder. “Or so I heard him tell his valet before he left this morning.”

“Thank you,” she said and turned away—then turned back. “Um…where is the vineyard?” Hopefully it wasn’t as far from the house as Griffin’s. “Will I need a horse?”

“Not at all.” The man set down the table. “Just walk across the west courtyard, past the icehouse and through the hornbeam arch. You cannot miss it.”

It was a pleasant walk. The icehouse was brick with a domed roof, and she found the long hornbeam arch to be delightfully shady. At the far end of the leafy tunnel, she exited to find sloping land covered with rows and rows of staked vines, the spaces between them only wide enough to walk single file. Spotting Tris in the middle, speaking with a man, she hurried toward him, her skirts brushing the vines on either side.

“Excuse me,” she heard him say as she came up. “I’d like a moment with my wife.” The man tipped his cap and walked a decent distance away, bending to tend to a vine.

“A pianoforte?” Alexandra said the moment he was out of earshot. “An
Erard
pianoforte?”

Tris’s eyes looked silver in the sunshine. She thought perhaps she saw an apology in them, mixed with excitement at surprising her. “I did say another parcel would arrive today.”

“That’s quite a parcel,” she said, determined to forget last night. Or the last part of last night, in any case. “Thank you. Thank you ever so much.”

She threw her arms around him, relieved when he wrapped his arms around her, too.

“I hope you’ll enjoy it,” he said into her hair.

“Oh, I will. I was so keen to try it, the parcel delivery men were forced to eject me from the parlor.”

The world seemed brighter this morning, as though the Queen’s Bedchamber last night had been no more than a bad dream. She breathed deep of the fragrant air, reaching to touch a bunch of grapes. “How fat they look!”

“In a month, they’ll be ready for harvest.”

She began walking along the row, touching a plant here and there. “The vines seem so sturdy. Their trunks are so wide.”

“Compared to Griffin’s vines, you mean?” Sounding amused, he followed behind. “A hundred years from now, their trunks will be wide as well.”

“If he can make his vineyard pay well enough to keep it.”

“He can make it pay. With the duties raised during wartime to nearly twenty shillings a gallon, French wine is no longer affordable on a moderate income. People will be happy enough to stock their cellars with what Griffin produces.”