Andrew: Lord of Despair (16 page)

Greymoor
was the scary one, showing up at the exact moment of Astrid’s peril, but Fairly was deserving of a healthy respect, too. “I believe Fairly would observe the rules of engagement punctiliously. He would give warning of his intent to strike, never fire at a man’s back, and never fire on the unarmed. The most dangerous one is Astrid herself.”

Henry paused, his drink—his third, and before supper?—two inches from his mouth. “You could toss her over your shoulder one-handed,” he sputtered. “She’s a woman, I grant you, and the whole gender is suspect on general principles, but
Astrid
?”

Henry would take convincing, but the effort was necessary. Methodically, Douglas laid out the reasoning that could lead a prudent man to conclude Astrid resented the child she carried and would take extreme measures to end its life. By the time Douglas finished speaking, Henry was reaching for the decanter yet again.

“And to think,” Henry said dazedly, “my brother’s helpless child is going to be born to such a one as her, and we can do nothing about it. One wonders about the unfortunate turn of events her health took last year.”

My
brother, again, though Henry’s point supported Douglas’s theory of events far better than it did Fairly’s—and without Douglas having to bring up such an indelicate situation.

“We’ll fight for guardianship of Henry’s son, certainly,” Douglas said, “and I’ll do everything I can to investigate Greymoor’s character. Meanwhile, there’s something you can do.”

Besides drink the last of the good liquor.

Henry stood straighter. “You have only to ask.”

“You will be our spy in the enemy camp,” Douglas said. “Whereas I am suspected of attempting to harm the mother and child, you are not. Whereas I will bring suit for guardianship, you will be the bewildered younger brother, saddened by this terrible misunderstanding, and offering Astrid a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. She is fond of you, and perhaps, if the courts are persuaded by Greymoor’s money rather than my arguments, you will have secured access to the child that I could never have.”

Henry finished his drink—there being no more left in the decanter—and left the parlor, apparently happily intent on his mission. Douglas, however, sat for an hour, watching the fire consume half a bucket of coal, and trying to decide for himself just what the purpose of Fairly’s call earlier in the day had been. Unable to come to a satisfactory conclusion to that puzzle, he then found himself wondering how much—how much
more
—he was willing to sacrifice in the name of duty to family.

Heathgate scowled from his perch on the Willowdale estate desk, an unhappy raptor among the letters, reports, and ledgers of the marquessate, while Andrew wandered the room.

“Gentlemen,” Heathgate began, “the morning’s post has brought an interesting epistle from Douglas Allen. He proposes to call upon me as a courtesy, given that my brother has married his former sister-in-law. I know not what to make of this, but I can hardly refuse him entry.”

Fairly seemed amused, or bemused. “Douglas is a proper old thing, isn’t he? Either that, or he has ballocks the like of which I haven’t seen before.”

“He’s up to something,” Andrew said, picking up a pipe carved of ivory that his father had favored. He brought it to his nose, and still, after thirteen years, caught a hint of vanilla from the bowl. “I don’t want Douglas anywhere around Astrid, but I expect he’ll call at Enfield in due course. I am considering installing Astrid at Oak Hall instead to prevent him from seeing her.”

Also to preserve Astrid from the constant warfare between Lady Heathgate and Cousin Gwen.

Fairly shoved away from his habitual post at the French doors. “I simply do not read the man as a murderer.”

“That’s the difficulty,” Heathgate said. “It’s hard to read him as anything at all, he’s so damned cold.”

Andrew thought of Moscow in winter, and decided Douglas was colder. “You two should know some things about the Allen family. Astrid casually mentioned that the old viscount had also died in a shooting accident. His sons were on the same shoot. My vote for the member of the party with the worst aim goes to Douglas.”

Heathgate closed his eyes. “I am going to be sick.”

Fairly, whose face bore no expression whatsoever, continued to stare out at the bleak, chilly day. “Why don’t we just beat each other bloody, Heathgate? I was the one who approved of the match, as Astrid’s older brother. Simply retching into the bushes won’t answer, when Douglas is the most likely party to end up as guardian of Astrid’s child.”

As Andrew set the pipe back where he’d found it, the firelight winked off the decanters across the room, the gryphon seeming to laugh.

Heathgate shoved off the desk and took a seat in the big leather chair behind it, the result being a sense of enthronement, regardless that two stacks of his correspondence were weighted down with silver rattles.

He picked up one of the rattles and tossed it from hand to hand. “We come across more and more reasons to arrange an unfortunate accident for Douglas Allen. One can’t help but wonder if the world would not be an altogether better place for it.”

Fairly turned, so his back was to the French doors. “We have plenty of reason to avoid the man’s company, though nothing with which to convict him, or even lay charges.”

Andrew had been married one week. Already he and Astrid had fallen into a pattern of assisting each other to dress and undress. She watched him when he washed off the day’s dirt, and he watched her, too. He suspected she liked that he did, and more to the point, he liked watching her—somewhat more than he liked to breathe.

“I’ll take Astrid to the damned Continent if I have to. I know plenty of places to bring up a child comfortably enough outside of England.”

“It’s an idea,” Heathgate allowed, setting the rattle aside. “Felicity won’t like it one bit.” And anything that upset the spectacularly gravid marchioness would not find favor with her husband.

Andrew did not like it either—because Astrid would see leaving the country as cowardly, and thus rebel against the notion, and because any trip to the Continent required crossing water yet again.

And the idea of taking ship accompanied by a pregnant wife was a horror that, for Andrew, beggared description. Rather than admit that to anyone, he waited for Fairly to render an opinion.

Fairly obliged. “Even if you could convince Astrid to go, do you really think Douglas would wave you merrily on your way, the Amery heir in tow? He’d find you sooner or later.”

“Maybe that is the best option, then,” Andrew said. “Let him find me, posthaste, and we’ll settle this once and for all.”

“It may come to that,” Heathgate replied, picking up a silver letter opener and testing the edge against his thumb. “But we aren’t at that point, because Astrid might well bear a girl child. Take your wife to Enfield, and we’ll see what Douglas brings up when he calls upon me next week.”

Heathgate set aside the letter opener, swiped up both rattles, rose, and headed for the door. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I believe it’s time I reminded my marchioness of her duty to take a damned nap.”

Andrew regarded the closed door rather than heed the siren call of the decanters. “We still do not know if Herbert was murdered.”

Fairly shoved away from the door and crossed to the sideboard, where he did not pour a drink, but instead began organizing the bottles: griffins with griffins, dragons with dragons, and so forth.

“I have the sense this whole business would be much clearer if we understood Douglas’s motives. One hears things when one owns a brothel, and there were whispers at the time of Herbert’s death that one of the Allen brothers has—or had—unusual tastes. When I delivered to Douglas the news of your recent nuptials, I all but accused Douglas of murder, and could detect no emotional response at all.”

A lone chimera sat across the room on an end table. Andrew would have left him there, but Fairly collected the prodigal and placed him with his fellows.

“We are back to Douglas’s motives,” Andrew said, “which remain known only to Douglas. Heathgate had the only sensible proposal at this point: watch and wait. Watch very carefully.”

And the rest of Andrew’s plan didn’t bear repeating: spend every possible moment in his wife’s company, because once he was sure she and her child were safe, Andrew would have no choice but to leave her again, even if it meant he must once again face a sea crossing.

***

Married life was a lonely business—yet again, a lonely business—even with Andrew for a spouse. He took Astrid to Enfield, and while she loved the property, she found little to do there.

Astrid reached an uneasy truce with Gwen when it became clear Astrid had no intention of usurping Gwen’s role, particularly as it related to managing the property. Not so, the formidable Lady Heathgate.

Lady Heathgate had managed Astrid’s two social seasons, her wedding, and Gwen’s come out. She managed her own house in town, a “cottage” on two thousand acres in the country, and numerous investments. Astrid had not yet found the nerve to ask Andrew if he’d gone on his travels in part to avoid his mother’s managing tendencies—particularly her matchmaking managing tendencies—but she had her suspicions.

That Lady Heathgate’s sons had inherited both her height and her blue eyes was never in doubt—also her determination and her commercial expertise.

What was in doubt, from day to day and hour to hour, was to whom the role of lady of the house would go. Gwen and her aunt bickered constantly. They sniped, they glowered, they made veiled threats and polite insults. Their verbal battle, waged in sniffy asides and muttered ironies, might have been amusing had Astrid not felt both women were being inconsiderate of her, and worse, of Andrew.

He, smart fellow, absented himself from the manor for most of each day when weather permitted. If it was truly too miserable to be out on the property, Andrew closeted himself in the study, poring over account books, reports, and treatises.

Astrid found him there one night after yet another tense family meal, several weeks after their remove to Enfield.

He stood and held out a hand in welcome. “Hello, Wife. Are you hiding as well?”

Astrid tucked herself against him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Why did a grown man hide from the mother whose life he’d saved? Why did he hide from the wife whose life he’d vowed to protect?

“May we send your mother back to Town now that you are married and your wife is in residence here?” She’d intended to tiptoe up to that question, but pregnancy rather ruined a woman’s ability to tiptoe.

Andrew sighed and rested his chin on the top of her head. Astrid was coming to understand his sighs, and that one was… dismal.

“God knows Mother is wearing out her welcome.”

“But?”

“But it would hurt her feelings. The Little Season is of little interest, to hear her tell it. Then too, she is another pair of eyes and ears here at the house should you need them. Finally, I have wondered if Mother’s abrasive carping might not effect a change in Gwen’s position.”

Strategy. Astrid’s husband had an interesting penchant for strategy—one she lacked. “You think your mother will wear Gwen down on the matter of holy matrimony?”

One did not refer to Lady Heathgate as
Mama
—at least, one hadn’t been invited to do so.

Andrew patted her bottom, another aspect of his husbandly vocabulary. His bottom pats were seldom flirtatious, and he was careful not to do it when company was present. “I don’t know if Gwen
can
be worn down, but I cannot deed her an entailed property, and marriage would give her options other than becoming my dependent spinster cousin. It might come down to building her a second dower house, or resigning ourselves to her company when we reside here.”

Gwen had a sense of humor, and her daughter, little Rose, was a positive delight.

“I could live with that,” Astrid said. “Provided we don’t spend a great deal of time here. I could be happy at Oak Hall, or at Linden, for that matter, if you could content yourself at either location.”

Andrew drew back, resting his hips on his desk and looping his arms around Astrid as she stood between his legs. “I am thinking of selling Linden.”

This was not strategy. This was… Andrew being hard to understand and not confiding in his wife.

“That was your home, Andrew. You chose that property for yourself, and you’ve held it, what, almost ten years? I thought you loved it there.”

Andrew regarded his wife, as if he were weighing how much of some inconvenient truth to share with her.

“I enjoyed that property, Astrid, at an age when I spent little time with my mother and brother, when I needed… independent quarters. I did not conduct myself at all times like a model squire. Some in the Linden vicinity would as soon see the land change hands again.”

How many angry papas and disappointed damsels did Sussex boast as a result of Andrew’s tenure there? “You were a rascal.”

Andrew’s laugh was dismal too. “Douglas called on Gareth a few weeks ago to inform him, should I attempt to gain guardianship of your child, he was prepared to ferret out every misdeed I ever was rumored to commit. I committed more than a few of them at Linden. Besides, I have both Oak Hall and Enfield to fret over, and those are entailed properties. I cannot get rid of either, and both are closer to Town, and to Willowdale.”

Cuddling up to Andrew was delightful, despite the topic. Being near him soothed her, and Astrid felt drowsiness stealing into her limbs as she stood in his embrace.

“You must do as you see fit, Andrew. I certainly will not complain if we reside only five miles from my sister and her children, though if I had my pick, I would choose Oak Hall rather than Enfield.”

“Why?”

Astrid nuzzled at his shoulder. How did he manage to always smell scrumptious? “Oak Hall is the property better suited to raising horses.”

“And this is relevant because?”

“Of all the projects Gwen has put before you, you are most enthusiastic about raising horses suited to becoming ladies’ mounts. You don’t sit up late at night, drawing plans for further irrigation; you don’t look out over the land, wondering where you might erect another hothouse; you don’t wander down to the home farm to check on the lambing. You do, however, consider at length re-fencing certain horse pastures; you ponder where you might lay out a practice oval for flat racing; and you fret nightly over your broodmares. The crops, produce, home farm, and cottage industry are all well and good, but for you, the passion is the horses.”

His hand went still, midpat on her derriere. “You are right.” A silence ensued, and he did not resume stroking her fundament. “I enjoy the country, but I love the horses.”

He said this as if something obvious to all who knew him was a revelation to himself. And then another pat, brisk and businesslike.

“I know one little broodmare who needs to find her bed,” he said, straightening and grabbing a branch of candles from his desk. “It’s late, and you should be asleep.”

“I should,” Astrid said, stifling a yawn. “I was coming to tell you I’m retiring. Will you join me?”

“I’ll light you up to your room,” he replied, offering his arm. “I have yet more reading to do.”

Astrid made no protest, but with increasing frequency, Andrew had reasons not to find their bed until she was fast asleep. He woke at first light, and only came in to join the ladies for dinner. Thereafter, he repaired to his study or returned to the barns and stables. Slowly, inexorably, he was creating distance between himself and his wife, and he was too astute a man for this to be simple happenstance.

Astrid waited until they gained the doorway to their bedroom, though she should have waited until Andrew had escorted her inside. “Could you not do your reading some other time?”

He kissed her forehead, something in the gesture besides marital affection, something troubled. “I’ll be up soon enough.” He entered the room only long enough to light candles for her, then left and closed the door behind him.

Astrid got her clothes off, and brushed out and rebraided her hair before climbing into the bed. She wished she had Felicity to talk to, but that would mean ten miles of travel, round trip, and burdening her sister with her petty troubles. Felicity wrote frequently, and Gareth had been over twice since Astrid had come to Enfield, but he spent his time with Andrew, and that meant Astrid had seen little of him.

She had, however, had two visits from Henry Allen. Andrew had left her strict orders not to receive Douglas Allen unless Andrew was with her, but he was less concerned about Henry.

To her surprise, she had enjoyed the time spent in Henry’s company. He seemed to be a genuinely nice man, as Herbert had also seemed to her on first acquaintance. Henry, however, did not take himself nearly so seriously as either of his elder brothers, and he was more than ready to poke fun at them on occasion.