Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3) (25 page)

              “We came to a camp of Delaware near Ohio,” she continued, “And they were punishing a woman outside the chief's lodge. For adultery, we came to learn. The elder women held her down and an old man, a shaman or some official, slit the tip of her nose with a bone-handled knife. When my father asked, one of the braves said the wound was meant to resemble the part of her body by which she'd committed her offense.”
              So at least some of the stories had been true. “Brutal,” he acknowledged.

              Alix shrugged. “Perhaps, but that is their law. I never felt it was my place to judge, but Chas was horrified. He didn't speak to anyone the rest of the night, and he never traveled out with father again.”

              “So, he wasn’t much of an obstacle to Van der Verre.”

              “Useful,” she agreed. “To this day I have no idea why father thought Paton should belong to Chas. Wishful thinking, I suppose.”

              “I have no sons of my own,” he raised his hands at Alix's look, “but being the older of two boys sired by a demanding sort of man, I think that in some men, there's a hope that his son will rise to the occasion.”

              “Not always,” she muttered.

“Not always.” It was time to broach the topic neither of them wanted to consider. “Which brings us to your brother
now
, and what the hell to do about our returning to London.”

              “Our returning to London,” she repeated, staring past him with eyes narrowed. “That is why Paulina is looking for me. Or you.”

              “I don't follow.”

              “Paulina hasn't survived so long or pushed Chas so far by being stupid. She's perceptive enough, and she’s obviously caught our attraction.”

              A blind man could have. Spencer held his tongue.

              “If we courted, if we
married
,” she added meaningfully, “it would be a threat to Van der Verre. You would make a formidable enemy.”

              An unfamiliar feeling gripped his gut. It took Spencer a moment to identify it as protectiveness.

He strangled his knife handle, knuckles aching. “We'll face him together, Alexandra. This ends
now
.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

London -- July 20th, 1814

Alix sat in the carriage, staring up at the number '24' on the townhouse's whitewashed face. She had been there at least ten minutes, putting off going inside. She felt different, so changed after her week with Spencer, and was certain that everyone would be able to tell.

Her dread wasn’t helped by Paulina knowing the truth, or knowing at least that she had not gone to Stirling. She'd put off their encounter for part of the afternoon, collecting business papers Spencer had asked to have sent to his townhouse. She wished for all the world that the stage had not been full at Longbridge, that bad weather and worse roads had not conspired to trap other travelers and fill the seats so that she and Spencer were separated. If only they had traveled back together, to face Chas and Paulina now as one. One more day, one more night apart, and they would never be separated again. Drawing a last steadying breath, she opened the door and climbed down.

              Stepping inside, she was nearly barreled back out into the street by a stout, silver-haired butler with slits for eyes. “You will knock and present a card,” he growled.

              “Mrs. Rowan!” she shouted in reply to his snatching fingers as he tried prodding her outside. Her name halted his assault, but that was all it gained her. He stood, silent, staring at her no doubt in accordance with Paulina’s instructions.

“Where is my brother?” she demanded finally.

              “Upstairs.” His tone was curt, and final. He turned and strode off through a shadowed doorway.
The usual treatment
, she sighed; relegated to below-stairs.

              Several doors off of the landing were closed, and only one showed a strip of light along the crack. Knocking but not waiting for a response, she went in.

Small but extravagant, the room was taken up mostly by a bed, its elaborate red velvet drapes concluding in a canopy held aloft by gold-gilt plumes. Everything was in the French style, from the pot-bellied cabinet inlaid with exotic wood to round-cushioned chairs perched beneath the window, set like miniature thrones.

              “Chas?” she hazarded quietly, unable to brush off a hunted feeling.

              “Mm.” His grunt came from inside the cavernous bed.

              She peered in, settled on the mattress, and looked him over. Blue bruises ringed both eyes, brown- crusted scrapes painting one side of his firm jaw. Thick linen bandages wrapped his head in two directions. “What happened.” She didn’t bother asking; it wasn’t a question.

              “Where have you been?” he accused, not meeting her eyes.

              “Ah … away? I left before you went to Bath.”

              If that wasn't what he meant, Chas didn't correct her. He lay still, eyes half-closed, reeking of stale gin.

              “Where's Paulina?” she pressed, far less inclined to tolerate him since her time with Spencer.

             
Silence
.

              “What happened in Bath, Chas?”

              He sighed as though it were the most tedious thing in the world, talking with her. “Paulina and I had breakfast. We went out to the ruins ahead of the Conynghams. I was taken by a spell. Dizziness. Lost my footing.”

              “Or poisoned scones.”

              Chas snapped up and winced. “You can be hateful, Alix. Paulina was nothing but attentive to me the whole of our time in Bath.”

              She got up. “Her attentiveness should be warning enough.”

              His glare was bleary, not quite finding her eyes. “Meaning
what
?”

              “Meaning I'm through suffering both of you. And Van der Verre. I'm not going back to New York with you.” Her ribs strained, chest full to bursting with the pleasure of telling Chas off and joy at what lay ahead.

              He sat up further, pawing his temple. “We have discussed this, Alexandra,” he ground out, wild- eyed. “Don't make trouble. It won't go well. For either of us.”

              How many times had she heard those same words repeated, the same threat prodding her back into her cage? She backed away a step at a time, disgust filling the distance. “I'm not going back,” she repeated. “Paulina, Silas. They should never have been my problem. That is being rectified now.”

He writhed up onto his knees. “Goddamit, Alexandra --”

She slammed the door on his abuse and swept the staircase with no direction in mind save away from the house and away from Chas.

              She rounded the foot of the steps, gained the hall and skidded to a stop just short of barreling into Paulina, who pressed herself to the door, smile thin and eyes hot. “Alexandra.”

              “Get out of my way.”

              “Come now. Before you go, we should speak.”

              Her courage nearly faltered, molded by years of brutal conditioning. She swallowed down a lump and raised her chin. “I have nothing to say. Move.”

              “But I have something to say that you’ll wish to hear.” Paulina tugged a crumpled letter from inside her reticule and waved it like a threat. “Come into the parlor,” Paulina hissed, the stone-faced butler appearing beside her. “We should speak.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

London -- July 27th, 1814

              Spencer paced his study’s length, arms and legs trembling with unspent frustration.

              First, there had been no answer to his letters. Then, they had been returned, unopened. Next, he’d visited five times in two days, and conveniently, the Patons were never at home. There had been not a sign of Alexandra since they parted a week earlier, and his temper and patience were frayed through, fear gnawing at his heart.

Tonight, he would not be so patient. Either he would force his way in and find her at home, or he would wait until she returned.

Convinced at last that plowing a fist into something was a useless solution, he forced himself to sit behind the desk and take out a sheet of paper. Rank and celebrity might limit how much of a scene he could make and how many doors he could put a boot through; his friend Ethan Grayfield’s shadowy brand of influence put more clandestine means at the man’s disposal. He scrawled out a note, doing what he should have days earlier.

One way or another, he would gain entry to her house and discover what the hell was going on.

              He threw down his quill, interrupted by the clatter of hooves out front. It was her, it had to be. Alexandra would come at any hour of the day. It took effort not to dash for the stairs, his heart demanding he run while his mind reasoned that the butler was already showing her upstairs. He paced again instead, wearing down the rug’s thick pile.

When the study door opened, however, it was Paulina who hovered at its threshold.

For a moment his chest squeezed with a pressure which made breathing impossible. “Mrs. Paton.” Not bothering to conceal his crushing disappointment, Spencer took up his armchair in the corner.

              “I hope you'll forgive the hour,” she offered nervously, perching in a chair near his desk and looking ready to flee at any moment.

              “And that you've come unescorted,” he added, knowing she hated to be on the outside of etiquette.

              “My husband is injured.” She smoothed her skirts, not meeting his eyes. “Urgency is my excuse.”

              “And your sister-in-law?” Paulina’s eyes snapped to his, and he had the distinct sense of being plumbed, shook out for information. “How is
her
health, in comparison?” He slouched deeper in his chair, waiting for whatever fantastic story she had concocted.

              She drew a long breath, eyes turned down. “We have spoken before about Alexandra's illness. Her instability.”

              “Mm.”

              “She is worse, Lord Reed. So much worse.” Paulina buried her face in her hands a moment. “I worried at allowing her out into the world alone. I told my husband as much! And now, here we are.”

              “
Where
, precisely, is that?” he hissed.

              Rather than answer, Paulina shook her head and wrung her hands. Ever the consummate actress.

              If she was willing to entrench, then so was he. “You do not feel that you and Mister Paton have a responsibility in all of this? Or should I say, culpability?”

              Paulina huffed a bitter laugh. “She spins a fine yarn about how we have robbed her, imprisoned her, forced her to live in reduced circumstances. Yet, I have never interfered in Alexandra's affairs. None of us have. She makes a mess of them all by herself. There were times when we tried to
help
, to spare her and spare ourselves from her outrageous behavior.” She wrung her hands together, pleading. “My father’s generosity is the only reason she has anything left of her family’s legacy. She is not well, sir. Her mother, too, suffered bouts of madness near the end.”

              He wondered if the madness were hereditary or catching. Paulina must have it in spades to imagine he would believe her tale. “Your account is exceedingly different from the Mrs. Rowan I have encountered. Alexandra is hardly cold. In fact, she claims to love me.”

              “You aren't the first.” Paulina assured him, reaching out a hand. “She plays demure very well, all smiles and doting looks. She's seduced many men in that fashion.” Her face flushed. “We had to bring her to England, where no one knows of her scandal.” Her expression softened. “It is her delusions which are to blame. I must remind myself often that she does not act with malice.”

              He stifled a yawn. Her words were a fabrication and not a particularly interesting one. Told with a lot of feeling, he admitted, but little plot and hardly a crescendo. “Mrs. Paton, I fail to see what Alexandra thought to gain from me, besides a battered reputation.”

              “Wheedling her poor brother has not worked, though she has even tried taking his business by force. So she comes 'round to many others with her hand out.” She waved, gesturing to his study. “She wants your fortune, simply put. That much of her, at least, is calculating.”

              Alexandra was laughter and passion, love and anger and spontaneity. She was many things, none of them calculating. He smirked and leaned farther into his chair. “The only way for her to secure my wealth would be through marriage.”

              “Yes,” agreed Paulina, eyes wide in confusion.

              “I have no intention of marrying.” He gauged her reaction. “Mrs. Rowan or anyone else.”

              “Sir!” Paulina clasped a hand to her heart and slumped. “Oh, sir. That is a relief, and I am glad to hear it. She would not do you credit as a wife.”

              “Not as you do your husband,” he offered. “So concerned and… industrious.”

              “My husband!” She crossed her arms and slouched, rolling a pouting lower lip. “He would never pay me such a compliment.”

              “No?” He toyed with her now, amused and decently frightened by how quickly she had turned the conversation to her own suffering.

              She stared at the ground, shoulders slumped, her voice small. “First, he must remember that I exist. He must care.”

“No attention from Mister Paton?” He swallowed a chuckle; Chas’s every waking moment must revolve around her.

              “He does, but only when he is cross.” She ducked her face. “The blows are not so severe. He and my father … Some days I cannot comprehend why I am necessary to either one.”

              “I am sorry to hear it,” he lied, passing bored. “Let me walk you out.”

              When they reached the hall, he paused with a hand on the knob. “I will pay a call on Alexandra tomorrow, to see this for myself. And I
will
be admitted.”

              “Tomorrow,” agreed Paulina, nodding and dabbing at her eyes. “Of course.”

              He watched her alight her carriage and clatter off down the street followed by her lies, and questioned the wisdom of letting her go. The wisdom of not following.

*              *              *

The morning dawned gray, dreary, and raining, a perfect fit for Spencer’s mood. He’d spent a sleepless night worrying about Alexandra, and turning Paulina’s words over in his head, looking for hidden meaning. He’d finally given up before sunrise, and six hours of nothing but coffee, whiskey, and pacing had done little to improve his mood. When an acceptable hour to pay call on Alix had finally come, he was already in the hall with hat in hand, and dashed from his home, almost commandeering his carriage when his driver was slow to clamber aboard.

Arriving at the Paton’s house, he’d paused for the first time that day, dread twisting his insides. He knew that Paulina’s words were little more than lies, but something was clearly wrong. He couldn’t imagine a situation that would have kept Alix from writing him, even if she couldn’t pay call.

Mustering his courage more than he remembered doing on a battlefield, he climbed out of the carriage, marched to the door, and knocked.

She was waiting in the parlor when the butler showed him in. Spencer had expected Paulina to be present as a chaperone, but Alexandra was alone. She paced the dim room, her movements agitated but slow. She didn’t look up when he stepped in. Clad in a shabby brown calico dress that looked like it had come from a cast-off box, she pulled at a loose strand of hair hanging behind her ear from a haphazard bun. She was thinner than he remembered, dark half-moons beneath her eyes. Swallowing growing fear that wormed its way up from his gut, he took a steadying breath. How could she have deteriorated so much in only a week?

              “Alexandra,” he probed, watching her as he took a seat.

              “Why are you here?” She still didn't meet his eyes, didn't use his name.

“To visit with you.”

              “No visitors. Not today.” Her words were clipped and impersonal.

              “Alix, I'm …” he pressed a fist to his chest, “Please, just a few moments to put my mind at ease.”

              She laughed and hung her head, eyes half open. “I'm perfectly well. I don't need your thumb over me.”

              “My thumb?” He braced, tried not to be wounded, and failed. “I'm not here to frustrate you.”

              “Then go!” She threw her arms out wide. “Respect my wishes, and leave me alone!”

              “You don't mean that.”

              More pacing, but her eyes met his for the first time. What he saw there frightened him more than any words Paulina could concoct: she recognized him, but nothing more. He might have been a face she’d seen before in a crowd. There was no emotion, no warmth in dim blue eyes. “Try leaving and see if I stop you.”

              He'd come determined to prove Paulina a liar. To find an Alexandra intimidated by her sister-in-law and held prisoner, or something close. It galled him beyond reason to take any of Paulina's words seriously, but it was clear that something was very wrong with Alix.

              They could spend the last few minutes of his visit in tense animosity, but Spencer was certain the friction between them wouldn't be improved by forcing Alix to endure more of something she'd already rejected. Sighing, he rubbed his eyes and stood up. “Get some rest, Alexandra. You'll feel better tomorrow.”