Once Upon a Wager (9 page)

“Good morning, my dear,” he replied, looking up with a boyish grin. When he saw what she was wearing, though, it faded, aging him instantly. “I have mixed up the days, haven't I?” She followed his eyes to her dress. In her haste, she'd put on the lavender muslin. How could she have been so careless?

“Look at the time I've wasted,” he said sadly. “You are wearing lavender, which means it must be Thursday, and not Tuesday as I'd supposed. I thought it was Tuesday, so I've laid out the quills and the papers for cataloging our finds.” He was becoming increasingly agitated. “I can see now I should have pulled out our boards, our glues, and brushes. I'm so sorry.” Muttering, he ran the fingers of his left hand through his graying hair, catching them in a knot. He'd forgotten to comb it properly this morning. It was standing in a series of odd tufts, full of tangles.

He had always been eccentric, but since the deaths of Gareth and Mother, even the smallest adjustments in his routine were upsetting. And he'd abandoned any role in preserving their estate. Annabelle had tried her best to manage things, but the signs of benign neglect were obvious. The castle's heavy sixteenth-century doors were sagging on their hinges. Several of the ancient mullioned windows that ran along the north face had sashes infected with dry rot, and the formal gardens that had once been Astley's glory were sadly overgrown. There was no longer any money to repair them.

She walked forward, and gently reached for his hand, pulling it from his hair. “Father, let me comb that for you,” she said, her voice hitching in her throat. “You're not blame for the mix-up today. I've worn the wrong dress, you see. We have a visitor. Can you imagine? And I was in a rush. You are right, perfectly right. I should be wearing my peach dress. It is Tuesday, after all.”

“Are you certain, Annabelle? If it is indeed Tuesday, I must get the boards and glues. I must get this right. I am haunted by my mistakes.”

“Father, the mistake was mine. Please don't upset yourself. Today, we shall simply be daring. It's an adventure, is it not, to wear the wrong thing, and to do the unexpected?”

She could tell from his sad, perplexed expression he didn't think so.

Once he was settled, the afternoon passed with relentless predictability. Father wrote out tags featuring both the vernacular and Latin names for each new specimen, and then Annabelle laboriously copied them, because two sets were always better than one. They ate their customary luncheon—yeast rolls, cold meats and cheeses, sliced fruit, and tea—and then cataloged the tags by family, genus, and species. Just as they had for two years' worth of Tuesdays.

• • •

Over the course of the next several days, Annabelle learned a number of things about her aunt. First, Sophia Middleton was a remarkably tenacious woman; you wasted time and breath standing in her way. Second, her aunt saw no point in spending time with people whom she did not like, which was why the Laytons and the Simpertons now dined separately. Estrella and Augustus had failed to impress. That wasn't to say, thirdly, that she was without kindness or sympathy. If Father had initially been discomfited by her arrival, lapsing into prolonged silences when she was near, Aunt Sophia had slowly won him over with a well-feigned interest in lepidopterology. She'd also indulged Annabelle's relentless questions about her mother's childhood, and even ordered up a special poultice when she overheard Thompson, their footman, complaining of muscle spasms.

The poultice incident underscored Annabelle's fourth observation. Aunt Sophia had an abiding weakness for handsome men. Fifth, even a handsome man was not a good enough reason to rusticate indefinitely. Aunt Sophia was most assuredly unsuited to country living.

Which was why, three weeks after her arrival, she rushed into Father's workshop in a flurry of green taffeta and lace and made a declaration.

“Annabelle, we're bound for the Continent. How soon do you think you can be ready?”

She laughed in response, sure that her aunt's outburst was prompted by another unpleasant interlude with Estrella. “You know I can't leave Father,” she said with a quick glance behind her. He was at his desk, absorbed in mounting a silver-spotted skipper on a specimen board, oblivious to the conversation.

“My dear girl, you are young. You're beyond beautiful. Allow yourself, for once, to be self-indulgent. It's past time that you should see more of the world, and the London Season won't be in full swing for at least another month.”

“Do you really think I'm beautiful, Aunt Sophia?” she asked, even as she cringed at her own insecurity. Every painful and agonizing step of her rehabilitation had taken her farther away from the girl she'd once been—carefree and overconfident in her beauty. “The truth is I am awkward, and I limp when I'm overtired. I don't know enough about what goes on in the outside world to offer much in the way of sophisticated discourse. I've forgotten how to behave in the company of others. You can't sugarcoat it.”

“Never doubt you are beautiful, my dear. And if you were any of those other things, I'd have left this backwater weeks ago. My duty—too long overlooked—is to make you live the life you were born to. I'll be grossly offended if you continue to waste it by hiding out in Nuneaton.”

“But Father will never leave his collections.”

“Annabelle, your father is grieving, and to an unhealthy degree, I might add. You've assumed so many of his responsibilities that he has never had to move beyond that grief. Trust me when I tell you this. I'm an expert in dealing with death. I've buried three husbands, after all.”

Could it be true? All she'd ever wanted to do was to give him time to heal.

“But Augustus and Estrella have a strong suspicion of foreigners.” Annabelle was caught up in the notion of a trip, despite herself. She missed the wider world. She missed her old self and her old life.

“Your cousins are hardly invited. A more encroaching woman than Mrs. Simperton, I've yet to meet, and Augustus? Such dreadful clothes, with a personality devoid of wit or humor. As for your father, if he chooses not to travel with us, it will offer him an opportunity to reassert his control over Astley Castle.”

“It's not so as easy as that, Aunt Sophia. And even if I could go, I'm afraid I don't have the funds to undertake a prolonged journey.”

“I have more money than is conscionable, and a strong desire to return to Valladolid in Castile-Leon, where I lived with my darling Carlos. I still have an estate there. We could drink Spanish brandy in the shade of my olive orchard.”

“I don't believe I have ever had brandy,” Annabelle said wistfully. Could they travel for just a short while? Surely, she could muster the courage for that? She'd been practically fearless once.

“No brandy?” Aunt Sophia asked, thoroughly shocked. “Well, we'll have to remedy that. And did I mention that Spanish men are marvelous dancers? It will be wonderful practice for the Season.”

How tempted she was. She could not spend the whole of her life hiding away. She'd done enough of that already. Just this once, she wanted to be carefree again, full of promise and possibility.

“I would love to drink brandy with you in the shade of an olive tree.”

Aunt Sophia smiled broadly. “Leave it to me.”

May 20, 1812

London

Back in London for less than a month and already Alec's new title had settled like a yoke upon his shoulders. He was the ninth Earl of Dorset. His father had raised him for this, not only to handle the many obligations of their estates but also to further their position in society. To proudly represent the Carstairs name.

What was the point of it? During the war, the traditions of the aristocracy had seemed petty when men were dying all around him.

His final battle had been at Badajoz in Spain. He'd fought in the trenches, but after his father's unexpected death, the military sent him home, a privilege of the peerage, it seemed. He'd been tasked with giving Whitehall an overview of the victory there, distilling a grisly, gut-wrenching battle into a bloodless accounting of what had been lost and gained.

Afterward, he'd returned here to Dorset House with only his soldier's trunk and a small satchel filled with journals and private correspondence. He'd forgotten how beautiful the house was, with its immense proportions, its antiques and heirlooms, but he'd never felt more out of place. Apparently, four years was more than enough time to grow uncomfortable in one's own skin.

As he looked around his father's private office—his, now—his mind was racing. He needed to see to his mother's care. Despite a few streaks of gray, she looked much the same as she had when he'd left. But she was not the same. Something vital had gone out of her.

He also needed to take up his seat in the House of Lords, to argue that Parliament's hesitations were undermining the war effort on the Peninsula. There, at least, he could make a difference.

And he needed to visit his father's grave in the chapel at Arbury Hall to say goodbye.

Arbury Hall. So close to Astley Castle and Annabelle. All that he had left behind. He'd fought hard not to think of her once he'd learned that her leg, thank God, had been saved. But there had only been that one letter from Mary, her maid, when she'd promised more. And reports from Nuneaton said that Annabelle was no longer seen in the village there.

Not knowing how she fared was haunting. As haunting as his dreams of her in the night. But he did not take vows lightly.

A sudden knock on the door distracted him from his thoughts. “My lord,” his butler intoned as he stood in the doorway. “Are you at home to visitors? Lord Marworth would like to speak with you.”

Benjamin Alden, the fourth Viscount Marworth, was always welcome at Dorset House, but Edmunds strictly enforced the rules of etiquette. No doubt he'd have old King George himself cool his heels in the hallway. Not that Marworth was the sort to cool his heels anywhere. Tall, with a ready smile and golden good looks, he was one of the leading lights of the ton.

“Of course, Lord Dorset is at home,” Benjamin said, slipping past Edmunds. “Despite my best efforts to get you out on the town these past several weeks, you're always here, wading through that sea of correspondence. I wouldn't be surprised if your ass had grown roots in that chair.”

Alec rose and came around his desk with a smile, as the butler raised his nose a notch higher and swept from the room. “Some of us actually bother to answer their correspondence.” He gave his friend's hand a warm shake.

“Unless Claudette has sent an invitation to call, my personal secretary can handle the mundane matter of organizing my schedule and keeping the duns from my door. You really need one of those, you know. A secretary. Come to think of it,” Marworth continued, “you could use a mistress, too. Claudette has several appealing friends.”

“You know I've never been one for mistresses.” He still hadn't gotten over the shame of the last time he'd purchased a woman's affections. She'd had long blond hair and blue eyes. Just like Annabelle.

“Don't you ever tire of being so respectable? I make it a point to do something irresponsible each and every day. It makes for a world of fun.”

“If only I could be more like you.” Alec smiled. “But I am leaving for Arbury Hall tomorrow, and I've a number of things to settle.”

“Off to Nuneaton so soon upon your return? I'd thought you'd forsaken it.”

How he wished he could. There were too many painful memories there. “The estate must be seen to. I can hardly ignore it.”

Marworth considered him from a long moment. “Then your visit has nothing to do with Annabelle Layton?”

“You know that it cannot,” he said, picking up a sheaf of papers from his desk, and making a great show of studying them. Anything to distract Marworth from his question.

“I had wondered, with Lady Layton's death, if your position had changed.”

The papers suddenly slipped from his hands, scattering onto the floor. He'd had no idea. “When did she die?”

“Two years ago. There was a notice in the paper. I wrote to Miss Layton to express my regrets. I've always had a soft spot for that girl, miracle of beauty that she is.”

Alec felt as if the room was spinning. “Did she write you back?”

“She did. She thanked me very prettily for my condolences.”

His first, irrational spurt of jealousy was replaced by a dawning sense of hope. Was she well, then? Had she recovered? If she was writing correspondence, would she welcome a letter from him?

“Have you seen her?”

“I have not. I've heard that the Laytons no longer welcome visitors. But you are an old friend. No doubt they'll make an exception for the hero of Badajoz.”

“That designation is patently ridiculous,” Alec said, raking a hand through his hair, his voice sharper than he'd intended. “The heroes of that battle are still there, dead in the ground.”

Two years, Lady Layton had been gone. Why hadn't Annabelle tried to reach him? Did she despise him, as her mother had vowed she would?

Marworth quirked a brow. “I'm only quoting
The Times
.”

“Well, it should never have been printed,” he said, welcoming the distraction of the subject, if only to keep his thoughts from spinning. “The men I fought with came from some of the poorest segments of society. They sacrificed their lives knowing their families wouldn't be provided for. What did I sacrifice?”

“Several years of your life, I'd say.”

“Even if I hadn't survived the war, my mother would still have been taken care of. Very few of the soldiers I fought with had that consolation.” Here Alec sat, surrounded by every luxury. Living the life of his father. Missing a woman he might have been able to love. How had it come to this?

“For the love of God!” Benjamin groaned. “Do you have advantages that others don't share? Of course you do, in the same way you bear responsibilities that others are free from. God knows your father drilled
that
into you. So propose a bill on the subject when you take your seat in the Lords. But for now, put aside your work and join me for a drink. You've made me thirsty. I feel like I'm at a sermon on Sunday.”