Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3) (5 page)

She was easy with Bennet, as she had been with Laurel in the carriage. When she smiled at a part of his outlandish story, her cheek filled out and lent her face the same delicate softness which had charmed him at the masquerade. His eyes paused indecently long on her mouth, thrilling at the memory of her lips on his. Her hands on his face, her fingers in his hair…

It was a long moment before he grasped that the conversation had stopped, and that Alexandra was staring at him. He met her eyes, which were filled with mischief.

“You stare very frankly, Lord Reed,” she said, and Spencer nodded in recognition of his earlier words to her.

“I do.” His admission hardly changed her expression, but he didn’t miss a hint of pink which flushed her face.

“That is not staring,” interjected Bennet, oblivious. “Reed is an intellectual sort. He prefers the term ‘contemplative’.”

Alexandra clutched her belly and giggled, a beautiful sound which set his heart to pounding. When she tossed him a fetching look, warm and unreserved, he was undone completely.

He decided that Bennet had been right in ordering him to Broadmoore to see Alexandra, and absolutely capital for agreeing to tea.

*              *              *

Stiff-backed in her chair, Alix read the same page for a third time, bound up by a cord of silence strung between Chas and Paulina, whose eyes had been fixed on her for the better part of an hour. Now and then something stuck in the woman’s craw, something Alix said or did. There would be no end until Paulina had her say, but Alix would read the same page fifty times rather than make it easier.

A sigh.

Alix braced and turned the page.

Chas cleared his throat. “Alexandra.”

She glanced up, not at Chas but Paulina, who perched at the edge of her chair, pulling Chas’s strings with a nudge or a clearing of her throat.

Closing her book, Alix didn’t bother marking her place. She gripped it edge and spine and strangled the poor little tome in effigy.

“Our cousins travel with a certain set,” he pressed. “You need to be mindful of your conduct.”

Alix recalled the conversation she’d caught on the stairs between her brother and Paulina and realized she hadn’t won, only delayed punishment. “I should be uncivil? Make no conversation, engender no good will?”

“I am surprised at you,” cut Paulina, clearly not trusting her husband to get the job done. “For all your claims of loyalty to our family, our trade, your glib attitude does neither one credit.”

A simmering anger, always beneath the surface, began to boil. “Glib? Just the opposite. I am mindful each day of being beholden to Mr. and Mrs. Paton. To our benefactor and patriarch Silas Van der Verre!”

A flash of ivory muslin was scored by a chair toppling against the hearth. Alix raised her book in preparation, but a hair too late, and Paulina’s slap caught her jaw and shot sparks behind her eyes.

“Unthinkable, my father wasting his affection on a
hoer
.”

Cradling her stinging face, Alix looked past Paulina to Chas, who sat staring at his hands folded in his lap.

“The only thing your father is wasting,” she returned through gritted teeth, “is the effort he spends to get control of my shares.”

“A letter!” threatened Paulina, drawing up. It was her warning of punishment, spanning most of their forced existence together. A detailed account of her transgressions would be given to Silas for a future reckoning. “He will have a letter at once!”

“I may get my blows,” said Alix, smug firmness hiding her fear, “but not until we return to America.”

Paulina’s bony fingers gripped her bun and canted her head back. Lips next to her ear spat words in a low growl. “Father may be closer than you think.”

The information sent a chill along her spine. It was a terrifying thought, no matter its truth. He couldn’t have followed them, could he? In a flash her mind ran through a decade of Silas’s dominion, and she answered the question with a hard swallow.

The tearing in her scalp subsided. Paulina withdrew her talons and blew past, her exit announced by a door shuddering in its jamb.

Alix massaged her head and returned her attention to Chas, spearing him with a glare and willing him to look up. When his sudden bout of immobility persisted, she pressed him. “One day, Charles, it will be me shutting the door between us.”

He snorted at her idle threat, certain of its impossibility. Until a few months ago, he would have been correct. With Silas’s fists around her inheritance, no revenue from shares, not even a home to call her own, it was an unspoken punchline that she had no place to run and no means of getting there. Her abandoned tryst with Edward Mills had proved it, Silas already waiting when their ship put in at Charleston. The reach of his lacquered black walking stick had reinforced, blow after blow, that she would never be beyond his grip. She closed her eyes against the memory, still throbbing from long-healed bruises.

Recovered, she sat forward and tried a different tack, giving him a desperate stare and sure that her effort was fruitless, as always. “Father broke his back to build what we have. How can you bear losing the company?”

His arms flailed. “We’re not losing it! Where does this madness come from? Silas is rolling everything into Paton & Son. We’re more solvent than ever, nothing but growth.”

Paulina’s words, no doubt. There wasn’t enough belief in Chas’s tone for him to have concocted the lie himself.

Chas had never been the one with a head for business; that much had been apparent on countless occasions. It was apparent by his not wondering at Silas desperately farming new customers for an already successful venture. Even a child could puzzle out which company was absorbing the other.

It would be a defeating prospect except she’d found a way to fight back. She’d made excellent progress consolidating Paton’s shares and even some from Van der Verre, behind Silas’s back. Her father’s solicitor Mister Meacham wasn’t able to do much, but he deserved sainthood for what he’d managed already. At least
someone
was still loyal to their father. She snorted her disgust at Chas, slouched and pale in his seat.

“Why do you do it?” she asked.

A blink, a stare
.

“Is it truly a simpler thing, suffering? Watching me suffer, letting them own your pride rather than just saying no?”

Chas came half out of his chair, face etched with more emotion than she had witnessed in years. He beat a fist against his breast. “Pride?” he sobbed. “He owns my
soul
, Alexandra!”

“And your bollocks, too? You certainly haven’t enough to fight back!” She found her feet, mirroring his posture while tears stung her eyes. “And I am added compensation to your deal with the devil!”

He deflated back into the chair, eyes shuttered once more. “Don’t --”

“
Make trouble, Alexandra
. I know.” She did, by heart.

“And don’t cross Paulina. For both our sakes.”

She huffed. “Your wife is brainwashed enough to die for Silas’s approval. You’re a matched pair.” Alix moved behind her chair, putting it between them as insurance against Chas’s occasional instability. “But I am not like you.”

“Don’t make trouble,” he muttered again, scrubbing hands over his face. “You lack the ammunition to do battle with him. And I won’t help you.” His voice hitched, and for a moment she thought there was something there, something below the surface. “I
cannot
help you.”

Her fingers twitched for want of circling his throat. Her nail beds ached with a need to claw his face, to provoke something besides cowardice. Instead she drew a breath, the slow effort fading rage into a red tint edging her thoughts.

“I will remember that you said so. And when the time comes,” she backed up, a pace at a time until she reached the door, heart hammering in her chest, “
you
remember that you said so, too.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

              Spencer was determined not to let Paulina spoil his reconnaissance of Alexandra, but it wasn’t easy. Alix was not conversational by any stretch when under Paulina's gaze. There were pursed lips, sideways glances, and many a clearing of the throat. Paulina was a harridan whose reason for existence appeared to be ruining everyone else’s sport, with the bulk of her ire directed at Alexandra.

For Alexandra’s part, it wasn't intimidation he saw in her downturned expressions, but a quiet resignation. The attitudes were one and the same as far as he was concerned. He wanted a moment unchaperoned to flush out the woman in the garden rather than the woman who sat silently in his drawing room. Wanting and getting were desires keenly separated at the moment by the snooping nose of Paulina Paton.

              “Mrs. Rowan.” He stopped behind her, close as he dared, leaning on the mantle and watching her. They’d been listening in silence to Laurel's mastery of the pianoforte.

              “Lady Hastings plays beautifully.” Alexandra's words were an awkward bridge strung between them. They were stilted, obligated, and Spencer sensed he was a victim of politeness.

              “Lady Hastings boasts all manner of accomplishments.” He dared a half step closer, breathing her in. “She has taken Broadmoore in hand. Arranged a very fine garden with some exotic specimens. I wonder if you had an opportunity to see it during the ball last week.”

              Holding his breath, he pierced her, searching for any reaction – a flinch, a blink.

              Alexandra exhaled at a forlorn pace, nearly a sigh. “It was dark.”

              There was something cryptic hidden in her words, he would swear it, but it was not a hint for his benefit. She showed no sign of being his paramour from the masquerade. Once more, he was at a loss.

              A few notes trailed between their silence, and then she sighed in earnest. Turning, she curtsied in a half-hearted dip before moving away. He watched her, down the hall and to the stairs, a whisper of dove gray silk over marble filling the growing distance.

              Despite their exchange in the garden, and whatever her feelings, Alexandra was giving him nothing but sand to grab. He watched until she slipped from view above the staircase, resolving for now to let her go.

              “...Reed can take us all up to the promontory for a basket lunch.” Laurel had stopped playing, addressing the little gathering.

              “There is no grasping the English fascination with dining out of doors. Eating on the ground like savages.” Paulina shuddered.

              “The savages don't eat off of the ground,” said Chas.

              “Don't contradict.”

              Silence filled the room wall to wall, Laurel dusting at her music stand, John picking an imaginary thread at his sleeve. Spencer hardly noticed. He was too busy wondering what kept any man married to Paulina from taking his own life. Or hers.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “I have matters that require my attention. As Lady Hastings knows and loves her little spot, I shall promote her and place her in command of your party.” He raised a hand, cutting protests and tongue clucking. “A diversion Saturday night. You have my word.”

              “I am fatigued,” announced Paulina, as though he hadn't been speaking.

              “We do not walk to the promontory,” offered Laurel, “We ride. Your husband accounts you a fine horsewoman; you would appreciate the terrain.”

              A sniff. “My skill is rarely tested. I suppose we'll see if the course is all you claim.”

              Silently thanking the Lord, Spencer exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath. He flushed with the same near death sensation he’d had on the battlefield; the prospect of being alone in the house an entire day with Paulina Paton sounded like his definition of hell.

*              *              *

             
Damn Paulina, the hateful old battle ax.

              Alix planted her slipper against a claw foot, tottering a chair and pacing while she fought for a hold on her temper.

Her failed tryst in the garden had likely been the closest she would come to living out from under Paulina's prying gaze, at least until she could leave the harpy behind for good. Curse John and his good-natured obliviousness for spoiling it. Curse Lord Reed and his mention of the garden, so much salt grinding at her wound.

              He was being civil, graciously making conversation with no idea of the trouble he was causing. His attention had stirred up a hive of suspicion in Paulina, making it almost impossible to enjoy his company. She had more than once contemplated engaging him just to spite her sister-in-law, indulge a bit of defiance. Only twice had she dared to defy them. Not heeding Silas’s pompous edicts the first time, Alix recalled how painful it had been learning her lesson the second time, with Edward.

She should have kept going when the ship reached Carolina and never allowed Silas to bully her onto land. She should have been more careful, cleverer about leaving. Silas had used her absence to get control of her shares while Paulina had invented a bizarre tale to explain her absence. Married quickly, Paulina had hinted to their neighbors, and widowed just as quickly. The woman's story had painted Alix in just enough gray to make her an object of disapproval without shaming Paulina or her dear father. It had also guaranteed that Alexandra could entertain no suitors for a year during her imaginary mourning. Meanwhile, she’d been forced to march to the beat of Silas Van der Verre's drum, too fearful of what he might do to Chas or Paton & Son, what he might do to
her
, to step out of line.

              Not fearful enough to marry the bastard. He hadn't managed to compel her, not yet. Alexandra knew better than to think he'd given up. She shuddered against memories of his attempts at courtship, not having to wonder how far he would press her.

              Too agitated to sleep, Alix took her candle and slipped out into the darkened hall. The flame spilled light through the scrolled iron railing, casting shadowed vines onto the wall as she padded down the staircase. Gilt frames winked and flickered when she cupped a hand to shield the wick, and ancient brush-stroke eyes followed her progress to the main hall where a single lamp bathed the white marble tiles in amber. Roses overflowed their blue china bowl on a nearby table, a sweet perfume drifting past her. Their presence might have surprised her, out of place in the home of a bachelor, except that she’d noted similar touches throughout the house all day. Flowers, a fine cashmere throw, good chocolate set out in the parlor; it seemed Lord Reed was attentive to his female guests. Alix turned him over in her mind once again, wondering at what lay beneath his brusque exterior.

              She had miscounted the doors along the hall, and realized once inside that she’d missed the library. This was Lord Reed’s private study, she guessed. A desk commanded one corner of the room, its domain framed in by the rectangle of a thick Persian rug and set at an angle to a high fireplace.

              Good manners demanded she turn back. Private rooms were just that: private. Curiosity whispered for her to dare a step further, creep to the window and see the view as Lord Reed did each day. It urged her to study the bric-a-brac atop his desk and mantle, search for clues to puzzle the man out. Her candle’s light caught the glass front of a floor-to-ceiling case on the far wall, silhouetting its murky contents. With a glance off her shoulder, Alix invaded the study by inches.

When she reached the case, she raised her candle and tipped its light inside. She’d expected to find medals, mementos of Lord Reed’s military exploits. Instead she was greeted first by an acorn-shaped idol, teeth bared across his pitted stone face. A gold scarab glinted back, mounted on crimson velvet inside a dark wood frame, the pattern of his thumb-sized carapace carved with ancient craftsmanship. A silver case the size of a shoebox occupied the lower shelf, religious figures stamped in relief on each side. Its lid was propped half open to display the wealth contained inside: silver bands embracing milky emeralds, hand- minted gold coins, and a fairytale diadem set with almond-sized rubies. A scrap of brocade was framed beside the chest. Red, blue, and gold silk strands held a trace of their original luster, woven into a splendid garment, a royal gown or tunic, hundreds of years before.

              Alix held her breath, illuminating each treasure in turn. Cathedral stones, tattered flags, lacy tarnished keys; she wondered at the story of each, lost in the past.

              “Mrs. Rowan.”

              She’d been so lost that she’d forgotten her trespass, forgotten to be on guard for footsteps in the hall. Alix gasped and pivoted on one foot, eyes fixed to the floor. She couldn’t meet his eyes, had no excuse.

“I saw the light and thought someone had forgotten to extinguish a candle.” Rather than accusing, Spencer’s words were curious, and something else she couldn’t identify.

              It was ingrained in her to hide the truth, but where Spencer was concerned, it was impossible to lie. “Lord Reed, I apologize. My aim was the library, but when I saw the case…” She turned back and waved a hand across it, “I was drawn in. That’s no excuse for my intrusion.”

              He was behind her. Warmth filled the scant space between their bodies. She caught the spice of his cologne, a familiar scent she didn’t recall noticing before. He reached past her, a sturdy shoulder pressing her back, and ran a hand along one side of the display. “I would argue there is no better excuse.” His words brushed her ear. Eyes closing, she swallowed and fought an urge to lean into him.

              “You’ve curated an impressive collection,” she stammered, wishing she was more glib in moments like these.

              Spencer chuckled and moved beside her, setting distance between them. “This is all Bennet’s work, actually.”

              “Not to offend, but your brother doesn’t strike me as a collector.”

              “Bennet doesn’t collect.” Spencer said. “He …
acquires
.”

              She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

              Spencer tapped the glass. “That statuette? Recovered from a cave in Brazil. Natives chased him back to his ship at spear point and nearly skewered him.” She followed the path of his finger until it rested before the fabric she’d admired. “A scrap of canopy from the bed in which Elizabeth of York was conceived. Bennet and his crew discovered the chest in a crypt, taken from England during the civil unrest. It was tucked away by Spanish looters beneath an abandoned cathedral in Portugal.”

              She blew a breath between pursed lips. “You were serious when you called him an adventurer.”

              He was staring now, watching her. She caught a glint of his eyes in the candle’s glow while keeping her own fixed on the artifacts. A chill ran up her back, helped along by cool skin where his heat had left her moments before, and Alix realized she was frightened. Not of Spencer’s intentions, not of being alone with him. She was frightened of herself any time he was near. He stoked embers inside she’d banked long ago, flames she couldn’t risk kindling now, when she was so close to realizing a victory over Paulina and Silas. What frightened her most was how delicious it felt each time she gave in to temptation, teased him or returned a glance, igniting the same impulsive passion she’d enjoyed with her stranger.

              Her stranger. She shivered again at the memory of rough fingers grasping her naked thigh. He’d been a risk, and yet so much safer than Lord Reed. A few minutes of passion, a brief, anonymous respite from her rigid existence; she could dare that much. The way Spencer watched her now, in the flickering light...it was too dangerous.

              Spencer cleared his throat and broke their silent exchange. “I imagine you and Bennet would have a great deal to discuss.”

              Now she dared to meet his eyes. “Why is that?”

He rested a hip against the case and laced arms over his chest, threatening in his ease. “You are both adventurers, by my estimation.”

              “You’re teasing me.” She relaxed and smoothed a hand over the cabinet door, mind drifting to better days. “I suppose I was an adventurer, once.”

              Leaning in, he peered at her until she laughed and moved a step away.

“But no longer?” he prodded.

              “Not at the moment. A temporary state,” she promised.

              “Mm. Cryptic. But I think I take your meaning.” He claimed her candle from the side table and swept a hand toward the door. “In that case, I look forward to witnessing your renaissance.”

              At the heat of his palm ushering her, pressed against her back, she wished dearly that he could.