The Savage Miss Saxon (24 page)

She turned slowly at his individual greeting, sure she would dissolve completely once subjected to his sure-to-be-insolent eyeing of her person. Her eyes searched his handsome face with a look so fraught with uncertainty that Nicholas, in his turn, was hard-pressed not to gather her into his arms and croon to her that he would never do anything to harm a single hair on her head.

Time seemed to stand suspended as the two exchanged these silent looks, time during which the rest of the room and its occupants faded away, leaving them alone on their own private island. Slowly, as she realized Nicholas was not going to give her away, Alix’s brow cleared and she was able to give him a small smile of thanks. But when Mannering then nodded his acknowledgment, the spell was broken, and Alix found herself becoming quite angry with the man. How dare he condescend to
allow
herself his protection when it is
he
who should be hauled out of here and drawn and quartered for his horrid conduct!

Nicholas saw the different expressions fleeting across Alix’s face and knew all the way down to his toes (just now curling inside his shoes) that it was the devil to pay now for sure. Once Alix had him alone he would get the sharp side of her tongue—not that he didn’t deserve it.

Acknowledging to himself that it was only a matter of time before the ax would fall, but also cognizant that Alix would not deliver the blow until they had no risk of an interested audience, Nicholas accepted the drink Jeremy was holding out to him and took up a stance at the fireplace, eager to have this before dinner ritual of drinks and polite conversation over with as soon as possible.

Helene, noticing that it might be up to someone of a gentler disposition to inject a little politeness into the tense atmosphere, took up a position near Alix and began to ask her about Harold, for lack of any other subject coming swiftly to mind. “I understand from Jeremy that your Indian paints his face black as a show of mourning for your father. Isn’t that rather odd?”

Before Alix could comment, Mrs. Anselm—with more brass than brains—opened her mouth once more. “
Civilized
gentlemen limit themselves to black gloves, or perhaps a black armband, you know.”

“Yes, Mama, that’s right,” Helene agreed, adding, “and even the ladies wore black ribbons on their dresses when brave Admiral Nelson was killed.”

The insertion of Nelson’s name into the conversation kept Alix from swiftly pointing out that a truly “civilized” person did not go around talking about another behind that person’s back, and she only observed mildly, “I was amazed to read in my guide book of all the various monuments you people have put up for Nelson. Do you know, we Americans have not a single monument honoring our own great President, George Washington, in our own country, save one done by some Frenchman that stands in the Virginia state capital. I cannot decide if we honor our heroes too little or you honor yours too much.”

Alix had made a tactical error, for her grandfather was not about to sit back and listen to anyone, even his granddaughter, belittle his country. “By Jupiter, girl, how dare you mention our Nelson and that upstart Washington in the same breath?”

Now Mrs. Anselm pricked up her ears, eager to get some of her own back. “Now, Sir Alexander, don’t be too hard on the girl, I pray you,” she trilled with patently false concern. “After all, as the girl says, she is not truly English. What can an American know of such things as honor and reverence—they who turned their backs on us and dragged us through two dreadful wars?”

“Both of which those upstart Americans won,” Rupert put in quietly, once again proving that even such a mincing puppy dog as himself possessed some wit.

Mrs. Anselm, sighing the deep sigh of the truly afflicted parent, pushed herself against the back of the settee and waved her handkerchief about her face, filling the air with the cloying mint of patchouli. “Rupert,” she purred with underlying iron in her voice, “you will kindly refrain from such nastiness in my presence. Really, I do believe a sojourn in Germany with your Uncle Maximillian might be in order for you.”

At this open threat to banish him to his uncle’s ancient
schloss
, Rupert knew himself bested and retired from the conflict. Alix decided there and then that, while Rupert might applaud from the sidelines whenever his mama was bested, he would refrain from ever openly standing against her. No, Rupert could not be counted upon to help his sister, that was as plain as the beauty patch on his face.

Nicholas watched this give-and-take with a heavy heart. He had been slowly chipping away at Mrs. Anselm’s resolve to have Helene become his bride, and last night he had at last come to believe the woman had realized she was building mare’s nests with her hopes after her latest, most daring scheme of all had fallen through.

He had gone to his darkened chamber after a late night spent hovering over the estate-books and had been in the process of stripping down to the buff—which was his normal routine, as he slept in the nude—when a slight whimpering from the direction of his bed caught his attention.

Hastily jumping back into his clothes, he lit his bedside lamp and discovered the frightened eyes of Helene Anselm peeping out at him from under the bedcovers. In an instant he knew that Mrs. Anselm (and a servant or two she had collared to witness the compromised pair in bed) was hovering about just outside his chamber door until she was sure he was abed. But Helene, bless her, did not possess either the starch or the inclination for such intrigue and had alerted him with her noisy sobs. Putting a finger to his lips, Mannering had held out his hand to the trembling girl, drawing her to her feet before sneaking her out to the side hallway through his dressing room. Once he had shooed her back to her own room, he took a quick trip down the backstairs before returning to his chamber, stripping, and climbing into bed. “Oho!” he then had cried loudly, “What are you about,
lying in my bed?
” When Mrs. Anselm, followed by one reluctant-looking underfootman, had burst into the room, the Earl was standing in the middle of his room, naked as the day he was born, holding up one gray and black striped kitten he had purloined from the kitchen. Even now Nicholas could not suppress a smile as he remembered the look on Mrs. Anselm’s face as she turned and ran from his chamber like all the hounds of hell were after her. He had truly believed that the lady had now shot her bolt—there were no other ploys for her to try—and she would pack up and be on her way. But now, now that Alix had so carelessly let herself be drawn into showing herself in a bad light, Mrs. Anselm was smiling with a burst of new hope. She’ll dig in now for the duration, he told himself grimly, finishing his drink in one angry swallow. Trust Alix to put the cat among the pigeons.

While Nicholas had been ruminating on the events of the previous night, Alix had been happily talking with the three boys, all of whom seemed to have a great interest in how things were done in America as opposed to their own English traditions.

At that moment she was—propelled by some imp of mischief that had taken up residence in her brain—describing the outlawed but still practiced mode of courting called bundling. “Oh yes, boys,” Nicholas overheard her saying with a remarkable lack of guile, “it was quite the custom to have the courting couple lying, fully dressed I must tell you, in the same bed, with only a bolster keeping them apart. It can get quite cold in America, you see, and it was done to preserve heat in the cold weather. I understand that, even though it has been against the law to practice bundling since 1785, it is still widely in use in at least the western parts of my home, the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.”

“Well, I must say, Alix,” Cuffy put in irrepressibly, “it sounds like a whacking great custom to me. Pity the government had to go and get their backs up about such a perfectly splendid idea.” At Nicholas’s frown the boy added belatedly, “To conserve heat, sir. It was a good idea to save heat—that’s what I meant?”

Fortunately, Poole chose that moment to call them all to dinner, not that Alix’s mood had eased enough for her to see the sense in keeping her mouth shut and letting others toss the conversational ball back to within the bounds of polite dinner table talk. Oh no, she was not about to do any such thing.

They were not at table five minutes when she turned to Jeremy—she and the rest of the younger generation were, thanks to Mrs. Anselm, again seated below the salt, while only Helene was somehow put at Nicholas’s right hand—and began telling him about the time Philadelphia had played host to royalty.

“From 1796 until his departure in 1799 France’s Louis Philippe resided in our city, his lodgings in a solitary room above a tavern. He called himself the King of the French and boasted that he would one day rule France—he was a Bourbon-Orléans, you know.

“Well,” Alix went on, sure of the interest of her audience, “while he was peacocking about in society he took it into his head to ask for the hand of the well-to-do daughter of our senator, William Bingham. The senator forbade the match, however, pointing out that if Louis were indeed to be King of France, he was too good for his daughter, and if he were
not
, then the senator’s daughter was quite above Louis’s touch! It was perhaps fortunate for Louis that the senator was so astute, for I have read that in 1809 Louis was married to a daughter of the King of the Two Sicilies and is now living on the Orléans estates in France.”

Nicholas heard everything Alix had been saying and, knowing her grandfather had little love for the French (actually, the man had little love for anybody), tried to bring her tale to a hasty conclusion. “I hear even now the republicans wish to make him a citizen king over Charles X—not that any French government lasts for more than a sennight,” he said with an air of finality on the subject.

But Alix was not to be thwarted. “Ah, yes, that word brings back memories of my childhood—
citizen
, that is. We Americans were very sympathetic with the French and their revolution—having had one of our own against oppression not that long ago—and even took to calling each other
citizen
when we met on the streets. I remember, although I was quite young at the time, being taken by my father to watch a reenactment of the beheading of Louis XVI at The Sign of the Black Bear theater and tavern.”

“Bah!” Sir Alexander exploded. “It figures that rogues would stand together. Damned Colonials and damned Froggies—two of a kind. Mannering, I need a cup of the creature to wash out my mouth. Where in blazes do you keep your gin? Last thing I need is this namby-pamby Froggie wine you’re serving!” As Poole ran to fetch a decanter, Sir Alexander muttered under his breath, “Probably knows all the words to that cursed Frenchie song and all the rest of that damn bilge. My own flesh and blood—who would believe it!”

“You mean the ‘Marseillaise,’ Sir Alexander?” Mrs. Anselm egged the man on sweetly, drawing out the full flavor of his anger against his granddaughter.

“I don’t mean ‘God Save the King,’ you daft female!” the man was goaded into responding before Poole arrived with the decanter and Sir Alexander slumped over his glass, intent on getting himself well and truly drunk.

The remainder of the meal passed well enough, with Mrs. Anselm pushing Helene at Nicholas’s head and Alix determinedly flirting with the three boys. Sir Alexander again served to amuse his tablemates (some of them) by once more nearly diving into his fingerbowl as he cleaned himself up after his meal. Then, shunning all entreaties to the contrary, he stayed at table sipping gin long after everyone else had retired to the drawing room.

The company then seemed to divide itself into separate parties consisting of all females and all males as the gentlemen discussed politics and the ladies listened to Mrs. Anselm talk. She went on at great length too, telling Alix of her ambitious plans for the gardens at Linton Hall. “I envision a copper umbrella in the west garden, a large affair with a circular iron seat underneath to sit upon if one desires some shade. And of course there shall be an aviary built in the flower garden.”

“I dislike the idea of caging birds, no matter how pretty their prison,” Alix said disgustedly, above all things wishing the lady would take the hint and shut up. Really, how ever was she to have a coze with Helene if her mama continued sticking to their sides like a barnacle!

Mrs. Anselm, her plan being to show how firmly she was entrenched at Linton Hall, went on doggedly, “And what do you think about building a garden wall on the east prospect—covering it with moss and lichen to make it homey looking?” she pressed Alix.

“To be truthful, ma’am, I think very little about it either way, as my interests don’t lie in that quarter.”

“That’s true enough, Mama,” Helene said conversationally, not understanding this byplay a jot. “Alix is much more interested in housekeeping—or so I once overheard Nicholas tease her when he asked if she had run out of dustcloths yet.”

“Really?” Mrs. Anselm exclaimed, eyeing Alix distastefully down the length of her long nose. “How very—er—
domestic
of you, dear. I have always left that sort of thing to the servants, you know.”