Laura Matthews

by A Very Proper Widow

  With an abrupt bow to her, William stalked off in the direction of the Saloon. Though it was almost time to assemble for luncheon, Vanessa didn’t follow him. Instead, she made her way to the Morning Room where she could have a few minutes’ peace in which to reflect on what he’d said, because it seemed very important to her. Here, in a few thrown-away sentences, said in annoyance and probably regretted afterward, William Oldcastle had laid forth a spectacularly valid reason for never allying himself with Louisa in the course of twelve years.

  For all his limited insight and his discouraging lack of tact, William was intelligent enough not to be deceived in Louisa’s brother. Edward had probably approached William countless times for loans, had possibly even tried to extort money from him over the years. It was one thing to be a suitor; quite another to be a husband. If William married Louisa, he would be taking on the responsibility of Edward permanently.

  Vanessa could imagine how large this aspect loomed in William’s mind. Edward was likely, given time, to disgrace himself, and bring disgrace on any family with whom he was connected. William was proud of his lineage, too proud to wish to see his name in any way besmirched by the likes of Edward Curtiss. And say what you would, if his wife’s brother was a rat, sooner or later it was going to reflect on Louisa and consequently on her husband.

  To say nothing of the financial drain. If Louisa married William, her mother would go with her to Suffolk. And aside from Mabel’s other annoying propensities, her adoration of her only son was almost an obsession. There was every possibility she would divert every pound on which she could get her hands to her son, whether he followed them to Suffolk or set up on his own somewhere. (Vanessa didn’t like to even consider the possibility that he would try to stay at Cutsdean.) So William would find himself in the position of supporting a very expensive, and a very unethical, Edward Curtiss. The prospect was not tempting.

  Everyone was assembled for the meal when Vanessa joined them. William stood at the windows looking out; Louisa sat on a sofa with downcast eyes and pale cheeks. Alvescot was impatiently listening to Mabel’s sly hints as to the import of his gift to her daughter. Edward was quarreling with Hortense about the cut of his coat. A perfectly ordinary family gathering, Vanessa decided ruefully. Alvescot had once told her he thought perhaps this unpleasant time might be smoothed over by having a few dishes of fruit or nuts placed at their disposal to ward off the hunger they exhibited, but that was before he realized they always reacted this way to one another’s company—hungry or full.

  At the table she was aware of Alvescot’s eyes frequently on her during the meal. His face, though, was unreadable. Even the expressive eyebrows were immobile. Vanessa had begun to distinguish several of his moods by those brows. Raised, lowered, drawn in, askew, they gave information more accurate than his lips, which were as often as not a simple, straight, uncompromising line. Vanessa didn’t think the earl was aware of how much the eyebrows gave away, and she had no intention of telling him. But the one thing she wanted to know most was totally inexpressible by the twin fringes. His eyes, the more likely repository of this information, were invariably guarded.

  But he sought her after the meal, saying, “I wonder if I might have a word with you. It won’t take long; I don’t want to keep you from the children.”

  She led him to the Morning Room, though this time she seated herself in one of the rose damask-covered chairs instead of the sofa. The chair opposite reminded Alvescot forcefully of the one that had collapsed under him in his room that first day and he regarded it with grave suspicion. The sofa had been such a comfortable place to sit, when they had talked there before.

  “I hope you won’t mind, but I don’t trust your chairs,” he said apologetically, heading for the sofa. “They’re a little fragile for my taste. Won’t you sit with me here?”

  “Mrs. Howden told me one of the chairs from your room had mysteriously turned up broken in a storage room, Lord Alvescot,” Vanessa replied, moving easily over to the sofa to seat herself. “Ah, the scratch on your face that first day. My, it was quite an introduction to Cutsdean, wasn’t it?”

  “James,” he reminded her. “Yes, I cannot say it was one of the most pleasant days I’ve spent. I didn’t know Bibury had put it in a storage room, though I didn’t instruct him to do otherwise. I should have had it repaired for you.”

  Vanessa waved a dismissing hand. “It’s of no importance. What was it you wished to discuss with me?”

  Alvescot noted that she had her hands clasped rather firmly in her lap, so he leaned back at his ease against the sofa, casually extending one arm across its back, where it just barely touched her hair. She made no effort to move away from him and he began to speak almost immediately.

  “I wanted to let you know what I've done today, so you won’t think I’m acting high-handedly again. On our drive into town, Louisa mentioned she doesn’t believe her father is dead. She can give no other reason than the ‘feeling’ she gets, a psychic sort of thing, I gather, that lets her know someone is dead. Now, I for one am not prone to rely on that kind of evidence, but it seems to me there’s a fair chance that the man isn’t dead, since no body was ever found. So I’ve written to my solicitor in London asking him to look into the matter. He’s a thorough man; if he finds anything suspicious to follow up, he’ll do so.”

  Vanessa studied his face for a moment before replying. “I can’t object to that, of course, but whyever would the man have left a suicide note if he wasn’t going to do away with himself?”

  “I can think of several good reasons.” The earl smiled at her questioning look. “His wife, his son, and his daughter.”

  “Just as good reasons to kill himself, I would think. And what about his gambling away his whole estate?”

  Alvescot shifted his arm so his fingers rested lightly on her shoulder. At her startled look, he asked, “Do you mind?”

  If he had said nothing about it, she would probably have shifted away from him. After all, it was not quite the same thing somehow as holding her hand. His fingers felt warm through the light lavender muslin dress, and reassuring. She had wanted some contact with him since that other occasion in the Morning Room, some small sign that he was as aware of her as she was of him. But she met his eyes a little doubtfully as she said, “No, I don’t mind.”

  He nodded, keeping his fingers unmoving on her shoulder. “About Mr. Curtiss’s gambling away his estate, I could make a few conjectures. Of course, I didn’t know the man very well. I doubt I met him more than half a dozen times in my life, but Edward reminds me of him. Let us say he was tired of the type of life he was living, nagged by a shrew of a wife, impatient with a dull-witted daughter, exasperated by a son as spendthrift as he. Such a man might take his life; I think it far more probable he would disappear. But he would see no need to leave all his worldly goods behind him. Why not arrange his disappearance to look like a death, his fleecing of his own estate to look like a gambling loss? It could be done, by someone unscrupulous enough.”

  “Where would he go?”

  Alvescot shrugged. “Almost anywhere out of England. To the continent, to America.”

  “But wouldn’t someone recognize him?”

  “Possibly. He didn’t travel in very exalted circles, Vanessa, or I would have run across him a great deal more often than I did.” Because he had wanted to do so for some time, he touched her dark curls, never taking his eyes from her face. “You have lovely hair, like a cascade of ebony.”

  “Th-thank you.” She couldn’t think of another thing to say and swallowed hard in her nervousness.

  “I bought the children some presents while I was in Basingstoke. Louisa helped me choose them. I hope you don’t mind my buying her the parasol. She was so pathetically eager to have it.”

  “Of course I don’t mind! Why should I mind?”

  Alvescot ignored the question, saying, “I wanted to buy it for you, but I was afraid you’d consider it impertinent of me. You’re a very proper widow, my
dear Vanessa, and it would seem a rather personal gift, I fear. Now, Louisa didn’t view it in that light at all, though I fear William did. What a numbskull that man is! To think of his being in possession of the most delightful guest chamber at Cutsdean . . .”

  His eyes were laughing as he said this, mocking himself for his preoccupation with his sleeping accommodations.

  Of what interest could they possibly be to him now, when they were the one room in the house in which there was not the least likelihood of encountering this charming young woman?

  But his mention of William had given her thoughts a new direction. Not that she was unaware of his hand on her hair, gently twisting a curl about his fingers, but she had no desire to comment on that, or on his gift to Louisa, so her former thoughts on William seemed an absolute inspiration.

  “Do you know,” she said earnestly, “I believe this impossibly long courtship of William and Louisa’s is directly related to Edward? Something William said in the Entry Hall gave me pause, and I’ve decided his hesitation is not with Louisa at all, but with marrying into her family. Think about it, L . . . James. Edward is likely to bring disgrace on himself and anyone connected with him, to say nothing of his incredible spending habits. I would certainly not want him to be my brother-in-law. He’s certain to keep turning up like a bad penny for the rest of his life. If he weren’t Louisa’s brother, I daresay William would have married her years ago!”

  The arrested expression on Alvescot’s face was not caused by this simple theory, but by the endearing eagerness of her delivery of it. He was struggling to gain control over his bizarre desire to kiss her when there was a discreet tap on the door. Vanessa guiltily rushed to her feet, forgetting that his fingers were still entangled in her hair.

  This caused her a certain amount of pain, which she felt herself most deserving of for her improper conduct, no matter what Alvescot said. You did not just sit on a sofa in a private room and allow a gentleman to entwine his fingers in your hair, if you hadn’t some idea of his intentions. And she most decidedly had no knowledge of his intentions.

  “Come in,” she called, in an unnecessarily loud voice.

  The footman who entered never once glanced at his lordship, who remained seated comfortably on the sofa showing not the least sign of distress. His mistress, he thought, looked a little flushed, but it might have been the warmth of the day. In any case, it was not his business, and he delivered his message from the nursemaid without hesitation.

  “Oh, yes, the children,” she murmured disjointedly. “No, tell Lucy not to put them down for their naps yet. I was coming directly.” She turned to Alvescot with a trace of embarrassed impatience. “You’ll excuse me, I know. I always go to them straightaway after luncheon.”

  The earl rose gracefully to his feet. “I didn’t mean to detain you so long, ma’am. I had thought what I had to say would only take a moment.”

  “Yes, well . . . in any case, I must go now,” and she hastened off without awaiting his reply.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alvescot decided to give his presents to the children later in the afternoon. Since Vanessa had not invited him to go along with her, he assumed she had forgotten he, too, had an errand in the nursery, and he chose not to embarrass her by appearing there on her heels.

  The afternoon loomed rather long before him as he left the Morning Room, and he decided to take a ride around the estate. Of course, by this time he knew every inch of it, and he was beginning to be a trifle uncomfortable about the excuse of looking into estate matters. The earl knew Paul Burford was becoming a little impatient with his ever-ready questions and his continual appearance where he wasn’t wanted or needed. Suspicion of Paul Burford had gradually diminished to the point of nonexistence, but Alvescot was not willing to let go of the one reason he had for remaining at Cutsdean.

  This was the matter that most occupied his mind as he allowed Bibury to help him into his riding boots. The little valet was babbling away about something—the torn driving glove, perhaps, which had split further on the drive back—but the earl was not attending. Soon, very soon, he was going to have to admit that he no longer doubted Burford’s complete expertise and honesty in managing the estate. Really, his admission was past due, but he couldn’t very well say he wished to stay on so he could spend more time with his hostess. And waiting for a letter from his solicitor, which might literally take weeks to arrive, could hardly serve as a substitute reason.

  That Vanessa had accustomed herself to him, had in fact come to like him, he felt fairly confident. But there was a great deal more to the matter than that. She was his cousin’s widow, the mother of two children whose home was Cutsdean. Little John should be raised on his own estate, should feel that link with the land and that affinity with the neighborhood which would make him a responsible landlord in his adulthood.

  And Alvescot was not quite sure of himself yet, either. It was only recently that thoughts of Maria had ceased to plague him. Did one switch allegiance so easily? Granted, he had hung onto his memories of the Spanish beauty for longer than was healthy, or reasonable under the circumstances. But was this fiercely independent young woman—so different in every way from the dutiful Maria—the right sort of match for him?

  His mother, he felt sure, would not object to her birth, though it was well below his own, and he himself was not in the least troubled about that. She would have no trouble adjusting to the position of a countess, though it might not best please her. Her particular brand of dignity was a personal one, and would never derive from marrying into a title. The precedence, the formality, of life as a countess might even irritate her.

  In the stable, he found Edward leading out the nag he hired from a neighboring farmer. Edward had been cool toward him since the incident involving Captain Lawrence, which didn’t bother Alvescot in the least, but getting Edward away from Cutsdean seemed among the most pressing of his obligations and he stopped now to speak with the younger man.

  “Are you headed in any particular direction? I thought I’d ride toward the South Gate, through Compton Wood,” he said by way of invitation for Edward to join him.

  “I'm going to Basingstoke,” Edward replied, at his most unpleasant.

  Undaunted, Alvescot suggested, “You could easily go by way of the South Gate.”

  “But I’m not going to.” With which he mounted the tired-looking beast and rode off without a word of farewell.

  As Alvescot waited for Satin to be saddled, he reflected that the whole experience at Cutsdean had been one of severe disregard for his consequence, unless you could count Mabel’s angling for him to marry her daughter, or William’s fawning obeisance (when it suited him).

  Vanessa treated him with respect, but hardly the awe one was most used to encountering among people of lesser birth. Hortense acted as though he were obliged to her for his daily bread. And certainly Captain Lawrence had not shown him any deference. Alvescot shook his head ruefully as he swung up onto his nervously prancing thoroughbred. What a collection!

  The reason the earl chose to ride toward the South Gate was that he had some grounds for believing Paul Burford would be in quite another direction overseeing work being done there. Now Burford was someone who treated him properly. Not with any undue servility, to be sure, but as a gentleman of rank and intelligence. This only made it more difficult for Alvescot to keep up the sham of suspecting anything amiss with the estate management.

  Sun was filtering through the leafy branches of the trees in Compton Wood as Alvescot cantered along the well-worn path. It wasn’t a thick wood, nor a deep one, but it was pleasant with the dappled light and the fresh earthy smell of the undergrowth. The only thing that detracted from his enjoyment of it was the rider coming toward him, whom he identified without hesitation as Paul Burford. Since he couldn’t very well simply tip his hat at the man and pass by, he drew Satin up slowly as they came abreast.

  “Beautiful afternoon,” he remarked, unable to think of anything else suitable t
o say.

  “Delightful,” Burford agreed. “I’ve been checking the cattle in the south pasture but I’m on my way to see how they’re coming with the drainage tiles. Would you like to join me?”

  “Thank you, no. I’m convinced you have everything well in hand,” Alvescot admitted under the man’s calm, straightforward gaze. “Everything.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, Lord Alvescot.” Burford smiled widely in acknowledgment of this long-awaited tribute.

  Once he’d begun, Alvescot decided he should, in all fairness, complete the compliment. “And I believe you’ll make quite a success of Buckland over the next few years. Mrs. Damery is fortunate to have acquired your services for Cutsdean.”

  “She’s an excellent employer to work for—open-minded, intelligent, concerned. It’s been an opportunity I wouldn’t have wanted to pass by.”

  The man admired Vanessa, there was no doubt about that. Alvescot could not help wondering, however, as he had that first morning, if there was anything more on either side. He found it difficult to believe that any reasonable man who knew Vanessa would not be attracted to her, for who could ignore her elegant carriage, her subtle beauty, her proud determination?

  Alvescot assured himself he had seen no signs of Vanessa’s having a tendre for Paul Burford, despite the man’s various appealing qualities. He would not have denied a close friendship between them, nor even the suitability of a match once Burford was wholly on his financial feet again, but there was no evidence of any such attachment. This might have meant more to Alvescot if he had not remembered his own observation that Vanessa was entirely capable of concealing her emotions . . . .