Alexandra (40 page)

“Come sit by me,” she said after a tense moment of silence. She patted the mattress beside her.

He crossed the room and sat, but not too close.

He felt too guilty to touch her.

“You would never do anything to hurt me, Tris,” she said quietly. “If I believe that, why can’t you?”

Because his nights were voids in his memory. Because too many coincidences were impossible to ignore. Because someone else had died on a night when he knew he’d wandered.

He sighed. “This has to stop.”

“I can’t stop. That would mean dooming my sisters to dreary spinsterhood and ourselves to a troubled marriage.”

“You
must
stop. Hastings came to me after you left, along with Mrs. Oliver and Vincent. They said they speak for the entire staff and are concerned that someone may be after you.”

“They’re just being overcautious,” she insisted stubbornly.

“What if they’re right, Alexandra? Our own servants are worried for your safety. Have you any idea how panicked that made me while I waited for your return?” He was surprised he had any hair left, he’d run his hands through it so many times. “And then you rode up, all battered and bloody—”

He cut himself off and lurched to his feet, moving away from her. He needed to calm down. She was injured, and her heart was in the right place. He didn’t want to yell at her, he just wanted to make her understand.

Leaning on the mantel, he took several deep breaths before continuing as calmly as he knew how. “Someone could be after you in order to stop this investigation, or it could be me during my stressful, sleepwalking nights. Either way, you must cease.”

“I won’t,” she said stubbornly.

It seemed she said everything stubbornly. He’d never met anyone quite as stubborn as Alexandra. That made it very hard to maintain his hard-won calm.

“They’re looking at Vincent,” he said, turning around to watch her reaction. “He’s the only one who was new at the time, and his skin is darker than theirs, and they’re
looking
at him.”

“I’m sorry for that.” She truly did look sorry. “Is he overwrought?”

He shook his head. “
I’m
overwrought.”

“I’m sorry for that, too. But can’t you see, Tris? If these three incidents were accidents, there’s no reason for me to discontinue my efforts. And if they weren’t accidents, that’s even
more
reason for me to persevere. Because if someone is after me, that would mean your uncle was, in fact, murdered—and if there’s a killer, that means we can find him and clear your name.”

Tristan stared at her, mute, unable to believe his own ears. He was stunned by her convoluted logic.

Was he supposed to be grateful she was putting her life on the line in order to prove his innocence?

Well,
he wasn’t
.

He finally found his voice. “Am I to understand you actually think it’s good news that someone might be trying to kill you?”

“Precisely.”

He hadn’t really been expecting a different answer, but he flinched just the same. He wasn’t sure which would be worse: to have Alexandra’s investigation prove he’d committed the murder himself, or to have some other murderer cut short her search by cutting short her life. Either possibility was too appalling to contemplate.

And that wasn’t even taking Vincent into account. If this continued, people would be looking for a scapegoat. The man could be prosecuted and convicted regardless of the truth—a Jamaican ex-slave was unlikely to find justice in this world.

But she was hurt, he reminded himself. And so he said very calmly, but firmly, ”You must stop.” And then it occurred to him: ”Why are we even arguing about this? Wasn’t Lizzy your final witness? You interviewed Lizzy, and now you’re finished.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she really did look sorry again. “But Lizzy gave me another name. I’m not going to stop until I’ve talked to Maude.”

“Maude.” A vivid picture of a sweet old lady flooded his mind. How odd. He hadn’t thought of the woman in years. Not at all. It was as though she’d evaporated from his memory.

“You knew her?” Alexandra asked.

“Uncle Harold’s old nurse. His nanny, actually, when he was a child. She was kind.” Talking about her was making him uneasy, though he couldn’t think why. He’d liked Maude. “She was his children’s nanny after that. And when he lost heart and fell ill, she nursed him all over again.”

She shifted on the bed to face him. “Why didn’t you tell me about her?”

“I didn’t remember her.” Strangely enough, it was true. Not that he’d have volunteered the information if he
had
remembered. All he wanted was for her to stop.

Maybe if he told her several hundred more times, she might start listening.

Probably not.

“Evidently nobody else remembered Maude, either,” she said. “I find it very odd that she wasn’t on Peggy’s list.”

“She was a little bird of a woman, quite elderly. I wonder if she’s even still alive.”

“Lizzy wondered that as well, but I’m hoping she is. As she was closest to your uncle, she’s my best hope for information. Ernest and I were on our way to see her when I took my little tumble.”

”Little tumble?” he scoffed. Leave it to Alexandra to trivialize such a thing. “For pity’s sake, you could have broken your neck!” Remembering something, he dug a small bottle out of his pocket. “I fetched this for you.”

“What is it?“

“Laudanum.” He handed it over. “I thought it might help you. Dull the pain and help you to sleep.”

“How old is this?” She popped the cork and sniffed.

He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“There’s hardly any in here.”

“You’ll want to take only a little, anyway. You can overdose on laudanum.”

“I don’t hold with taking medicine. Not unless I have to, and I’ve told you, I’m fine.” She replaced the cork and handed back the bottle.

“Lie down at least,” he said with a sigh. “Your head will feel better if you rest.”

For once, she listened, which made him suspect she felt worse than she’d admit. “It’s dented,” she said mournfully when she was once again settled on the pillow.

“Your head?”

“My beautiful basket.” She gestured to where someone had set it on a table. “It took the tumble with me.”

He rose and went to examine it in the light from the window. “It’s not too bad. I don’t expect anyone would ever notice, although I’m certain we can have it fixed.”

“No.” She gave him a shaky smile. “I believe I shall think of it as a battle scar.”

“I only hope your own battle scars end up being so minimal.” He set down the basket. “Maybe Peggy was right. Maybe you
should
go home until everything here settles down.”

“This
is
my home,” she said quietly.

The simple statement moved him. Despite all his worry, all his dread, all the anger beneath the surface of his calm, he felt a rush of warmth and gratitude. It lifted him.

“I’m not sleepy,” she said. “I’m sore, but I’m not tired.”

That was why he’d brought the laudanum, but he wouldn’t force it on her. He should have guessed she’d be too stubborn to take it.

Her family’s cookbook and the blank book he’d given her were stacked together on the bedside table. “Here,” he said, handing them to her. “You can copy the recipes you wanted.” He shifted on his feet, and then, unable to help himself, added, “And think about whether continuing this investigation is really wise.”

Her eyes flashed, as he’d known they would. “If Maude knows nothing, there will be nothing left to investigate. But I’d be a fool not to question her.”

He’d known she would say that, too. “It isn’t foolish to protect yourself, nor to abide by your husband’s wishes.”

She kept quiet for a moment, but something in her expression hardened.

“This is beautiful,” she finally said conversationally, turning the blue leather book over in her hands. After another moment, she looked up at him. “But I hope you haven’t been trying to buy my cooperation with these gifts, because my convictions aren’t for sale.”

He
hadn’t
known she would think him so calculating. The warmth inside him went cold as he left her in peace.

LEMON PUFFS

Beat the whites of four eggs till they rise to a high froth. Then add as much sugar as will make it thick; then rub it round for half an hour, put in a spoon of lemon peel gratings and two spoons of the juice. Take a sheet of paper and lay it on as broad as a sixpence and as high as you can. Put them into a moderately heated oven half a quarter of an hour, and they will look as white as snow.

Give these sweet-and-sour biscuits to a sour person you wish to turn sweet. My husband has never proved immune.
—Elizabeth, Countess of Greystone, 1747

ALL THAT LONG
afternoon and evening, Alexandra had a lot of time to think.

After a short nap, her head felt better. The rest of her was achy, but not intolerably so. She copied some of her favorite recipes as Tris had suggested, then called for Peggy to help her dress for dinner. The maid was still in a snit, so for once she didn’t babble, which suited Alexandra just fine. When she was ready, she waited for Tris to come escort her to the dining room.

A tray arrived for her instead.

She ate little, the food sticking in her throat. She knew she had hurt Tris terribly.
I hope you haven’t been trying to buy my cooperation
…even as she’d said it, part of her had been shocked to hear the words come out of her mouth. She wondered what had happened to traditional, ladylike Alexandra. This crusade for truth and justice had turned her into a girl she scarcely recognized, and turned her fairytale romance into an ugly cycle of hurt, anger, and guilt.

She’d managed to destroy her marriage inside of a week. It had to be some sort of record.

At ten o’clock she changed from the dinner dress into one of her new nightgowns, a blush-colored confection that she hoped would help soften Tris’s resentment. She belted a wrapper over it and waited. The clock struck midnight before she heard footsteps in the corridor.

She hurried to open the door, to welcome him, to do what whatever it took to mend things between them. But he wasn’t coming toward her. At the far end of the corridor, he was opening the door to the Queen’s Bedchamber.

Wearing only tight trousers and a white shirt, with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, he looked worn out and wonderful all at the same time.

“Tris,” she called softly.

He turned. “Good night.”

“You’re not going to sleep in there again, are you?” She started down the corridor, forcing her lips to curve in a smile. “If you’re going to go out a window anyway,” she said lightly, “there hardly seems a point.”

“I had bars put on the windows. I won’t be going anywhere tonight.”

“Bars?” Having reached the room, she looked past him and inside. It was dark outdoors, but she could just make out faint stripes that must be iron rods outside the glass. “That seems a little extreme, doesn’t it?”

“Nothing is too extreme to protect you,” he said, unblinking.

Indifferent. Uncaring.

She swallowed hard, any pretense of normalcy gone. “I’m sorry for what I said. Please don’t pull away from me, Tris. I love you.”

“Good night,” he said again and turned to enter the room.

Although she certainly hadn’t expected to hear those three words echoed back at her, neither had she expected them to be ignored entirely. “Wait,” she said, grabbing his wrist.

She’d been fighting it all along, but she knew what she had to do. She’d thought of little else for the past few hours.

He glanced dispassionately down to her hand. “Yes?”

His skin felt warm, but his arm felt tense. She grasped him tighter. “I’m not going to do the last interview. I’m not going to talk to Maude.”

He blinked at her. “Why?”

“It’s the only way I can prove I my love. Prove that I’ll stay with you even if we remain in disgrace for the rest of our lives. I don’t care about society, Tris—I don’t need their parties or their approval. I never have. I’ve been doing this for you and for my sisters. But my sisters will cope. You’re my husband, and you’re more important. My loyalty to you comes first.”

She couldn’t think of anything else to say. So she waited. He looked down again to where her fingers gripped his arm, and she released him and waited some more.

“All right,” he said at last. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll sleep quite soundly tonight.” Then he stepped into the room and closed the door—without even so much as a kiss.

While she stood there, stunned, Vincent walked up, as if on cue, and slid a key into the lock. “Are you all right, my lady?”

“I’m fine,” she said woodenly. “I believe I shall go make some sweets.”

“Now?” Vincent asked in surprise. His gaze went to her bare feet.

“Now,” she said, belting her wrapper more tightly.

She refused to spend another night on the floor outside her husband’s room.

“Well.” He seemed at a loss. “The ovens will be cold. Let me accompany you downstairs and light them for you.”

She fetched her new recipe book before following him down the gaslit staircase, flipping pages as they crossed the great hall to the back passage.