He regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Miss Bursnell, I do believe you are a bluestocking!”
She laughed. “Perhaps I am, my lord.”
“Very well. I will tell you the story.” He paused, circling his thoughts. “Once upon a time, as the saying goes, two brothers were born to Isaac. They were born mere seconds apart, with the younger grasping the heel of the elder. The elder was called Esau, and the younger was Jacob. Esau, as the elder, was entitled to the birthright and blessing.”
He could feel her eyes on him, but he kept his own firmly on the throne before him.
“Esau did not value his birthright, and Jacob valued it, perhaps, too much,” Nathaniel continued. “Esau traded his birthright to Jacob for a bowl of beans. Jacob then tricked Isaac into giving him the blessing, as well, and Esau begged for a lesser blessing. And so things continued. Neither behaved well, and they tormented each other. Jacob was loved, and Esau was less loved. It made him bitter, and he attempted to murder his brother. Jacob escaped and fled. He stopped at night and lay down, taking a rock for a pillow. That night he had a vision from God, wherein He promised to bless him and his descendants.” Nathaniel paused and gestured to the coronation chair. “The rock he used for a pillow is the Stone of Scone.”
Miss Bursnell breathed in a slow, deep breath. “Fascinating.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Was my way of telling the tale interesting to you?” he teased.
“Oh, yes.” She twirled the tip of her umbrella against the marble floor. “If I had told the story, you would have heard how Edward the First brought the stone to Westminster Abbey as a spoil of war. I would have laid out all the theories. Is it the Stone of Scone that lies beneath the chair before us, or is it not? Where lies the true Stone, if not in King Edward’s Chair? Undoubtedly you would realize from my telling of the story that I enjoy a good mystery, and revel in the pursuit of solving a puzzle.”
A feeling of unease settled in his stomach.
“But you chose to tell me of Jacob and Esau. What, I wonder, is the significance of that story to you?” She regarded him carefully. “Do you have a brother, by any chance, Lord Abingdon?”
His teasing smirk was instantly replaced with a scowl. Fiend take it, she was a clever one!
“I do have a brother. Nicholas,” he said shortly. “My twin, in fact. I am the eldest by a mere twelve minutes. Further than that, I do not care to discuss him with you.”
For a split second, she appeared shocked. “Ah! I see.”
“No. You do not see.” He hoped to God his tone conveyed that the subject was closed. He must pay more attention and learn to imitate Wessex, if he continued to be around the lady. Wessex was a master of the haughty setdown.
She turned her head away, freeing him from her piercing gaze. “Very well. I do not see.”
But he was horribly afraid that she did see. That he had allowed her to see.
Neither behaved well, and they tormented each other, he had said. That was not Biblical. It was his own confession of guilt.
He was afraid she saw through to his very soul.
Chapter Twelve
Alice was rocked to her core. Her world—well, her world as she had understood it for the past fortnight, anyway—had just been thrown into a whirlwind.
Walking home from Westminster Abbey with Mary after Lord Abingdon had made an abrupt and precipitous departure from their company—for which Alice was singularly glad, for she had suddenly become as tongue-tied as the viscount—she was tripping over so many cobblestones in her inattention that Mary was forced to take her arm so she didn’t land on her nose, or worse.
Merciful heavens.
Lord Abingdon was not Adelaide’s seducer.
From their first meeting, Alice had pondered the mystery of how, exactly, Adelaide had allowed herself to be seduced by a man so clearly not to her usual taste. Adelaide swooned for smooth, brooding, mysterious heroes, and saw nothing romantic about a sense of humor.
Lord Abingdon, however, was bashful and enchantingly bumbling, and yet undeniably in possession of a sly wit. He was, in short, as far from the dashing hero of Adelaide’s dreams as he could be.
Now the missing puzzle piece clicked into place. He had a brother. A twin! Likely, the brother was charming and suave, and everything Lord Abingdon was not. Wasn’t that how it always went?
And he also had the same initials from the locket—NE, for Nicholas Eastwood, not Nathaniel.
Alice did not like to be wrong. On the List of Things Alice Bursnell Very Much Detests, being wrong fell below death of a loved one, but a good deal above frogs. And there was little doubt she had been greatly mistaken about Lord Abingdon.
Even worse than being wrong, this new information would delay her plans for revenge.
This was not good, not good at all.
She should be angry. She should be annoyed.
Oddly, instead, she was relieved.
Lord Abingdon was not her sister’s seducer.
She would not go so far as to admit this knowledge made her happy. Her sister was still dead, and the man responsible for that was likely frolicking through the countryside, seducing other gently bred maidens.
Even so, Alice was relieved. She felt as though a heavy weight that had been pressing hard against her breast had suddenly lightened—not been removed altogether, but at least she could breathe a little more deeply.
But why should she feel so?
She was not in love with Lord Abingdon, she was quite sure of that. Perhaps it was merely relief that a genuine puzzle had been solved. Perhaps, too, she had been uneasy at the thought of harming Lord Abingdon or his reputation. He was such a quiet, bashful man that it would have been akin to slaying a field of bunnies. Alice did not like to slay bunnies.
Now she could avenge her sister’s death with a clear conscience.
Except for one tiny, very significant detail. Where, exactly, was Nicholas Eastwood?
She did not think he was in London. If he were, surely their paths would have crossed, would they not? At Almack’s or Hyde Park or some such place. He had not attended Lady Freesia’s coming out, which would be odd, indeed, if he were in town. That would have set the gossips’ tongues wagging.
Although…come to think of it, had anyone ever spoken of Lord Abingdon’s brother in her presence? She furrowed her brow. She could not recall a single instance, until Lord Abingdon did so himself. It could not be that Eastwood was simply a boring topic of conversation. A son of an earl, even a second son, was always a fascinating specimen to unmarried ladies.
How very strange.
The man existed, and yet somehow, he also did not.
How could she find someone who, for all intents and purposes, did not exist?
The only person to acknowledge the man’s existence was Lord Abingdon, and she could not ask him. He had clearly been disinclined to tell her he had a brother at all. But even outside of that, one could not say, “My lord, please tell me the whereabouts of your brother so I may bash his brains out with a frying pan.” Even estranged brothers would not wish each other death or destruction.
Would they?
Not that she was planning to murder the man. Lord, no. That would be beyond the pale, even for such a well-deserved revenge. She would ruin him, somehow, along with his reputation and his entire future. She hadn’t quite figured out how she would accomplish all that, but she had no doubt something would come to her.
She tapped her chin with a finger and pondered the puzzle of Lord Abingdon and his mysteriously estranged brother. For the expression on his face as he’d told the story of the Stone had said it all.
Something was amiss between the two brothers.
She must discover what that something was. Perhaps it would serve to aid her revenge, or perhaps it would be an added complication. Either way, she could not allow the question to go unanswered.
She pursed her lips. The only way to solve the puzzle would be to stick close to Lord Abingdon. True, he seemed deep
ly reluctant to share his secrets. But no matter.
Slowly, she smiled.
It would be such fun to make him talk.
Chapter Thirteen
The social season of London was in full swing. Visitors left calling cards, gentlemen brought Alice flowers, and no one spoke of anything but the prior ball, except perhaps to discuss the upcoming ball at Almack’s, to be held at the end of the month.
Tonight, she was to attend the theater with Aunt Bea and Lady Claire and her mother, the Marchioness of Chatwell. It would be, Alice had no doubt, another endless night of discussing beaux and balls. She was only looking forward to it on the assumption that during the play itself, at least, there could be no conversation.
London was so very wearying.
She was homesick, that was the truth of the matter. Her very bones ached with yearning for her quiet life by the sea. London was all right in small doses, but the constant hustle and bustle made her restless. She could scarcely breathe from feeling so closed in. She did not want to spend her days sitting with this lady or that, discussing this ball or that, until her body weakened from lack of exercise and her mind weakened from lack of thought. She longed to walk the cliffs of Northumberland, to gallop across its grassy hills, to hear the rolling thunder of the North Sea.
She sighed. Revenge came at a very dear price.
When she and Aunt Bea arrived at the Drury Lane Theater, they took their seats in a private balcony with Lady Claire and her mother.
Lady Claire sprang to her feet. “Oh, Alice, I am so glad you are here! Tell me, what did you think of Lady Freesia’s come-out ball?”
Alice lifted a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle a groan. In theory, she liked Lady Claire. She was a kind girl with a good heart. But, heavens! She was so dreadfully dull. “I thought it was very lovely. Lady Freesia could not have asked for a more splendid coming out.”
“I thought so, too.” Lady Claire tucked her arm through Alice’s. “Let us sit together back here, and leave my mother and your aunt to take the two front seats.”
When they were thusly arranged, Alice glanced about her. It was her first time at a real theater, and despite her homesickness, she was eager and fascinated by her surroundings.
She glanced at the playbill. “Amoroso, King of Little Britain,” she murmured. “A serio-comick bombastick operatick interlude in one act.” She tapped the bill with one fingernail. “That sounds promising, don’t you think, Lady Claire?”
“Hmm? Is that what we are to see?” Lady Claire leaned closer to Alice to examine the playbill. “Ah. I suppose there is not much difference between one play and another. I saw you dancing with Colonel Kent at the ball last night. Did he call on you today? They say he is quite smitten with you.”
“Yes, he did call.” Alice felt the speculative gaze of Lady Claire and felt obliged to add, “He brought me flowers.”
“Oh!” Lady Claire was all excitement. “What kind did he bring?”
Alice thought rapidly. Well, goodness, what had he brought? She couldn’t remember for the life of her. Colonel Kent had proved to be a wonderful dance partner, and it was kind of him to bring flowers, but she had no intention of being courted. She had forgotten the flowers almost as soon as they arrived.
“Roses, I think.” Very likely they were roses. Most gentlemen sent roses, didn’t they? The colonel didn’t strike her as one to deviate from tradition.
Lady Claire nodded her approval. “An excellent choice.” She sighed contentedly as she glanced around the theater. “I also danced with Colonel Kent. He did not send me flowers.”
Alice sent a worried look to her friend, but it did not appear that Lady Claire was at all perturbed. Still, Alice did not wish to discuss him further. She had much more important matters on her mind.
“Have you ever met Viscount Abingdon’s brother, Lady Claire?” She kept her eyes on the playbill, lest her friend suspect the question was not casual.
“Goodness, does Viscount Abingdon have a brother?” Lady Claire frowned and tapped her fan on her leg. “I cannot recall being introduced to such a gentleman. Perhaps he is dead?” On this cheerful note, she turned the topic back to the ball. “I danced the first set with Mr. Billingsworth. He is not titled, but he has an estate in Hampshire and is an excellent dancer.” Lady Claire looked around the theater again. She waved to Eliza, then turned back to Alice and smiled.
Despite her whirling thoughts—heavens, did no one truly know of the brother?—Alice smiled back. Lady Claire took that as encouragement.
“The second set I promised to Baron Dillingham. He is such a pleasant man, is he not?”
Alice busied herself with the hem of her glove rather than answer. Dillingham was tedious.
“A baron is not so good as a viscount, of course, but he is quite wealthy. And pleasant, as we just agreed. He had such a problem choosing his cravat this evening! I had him list all the choices in great detail so I could give him my honest opinion. I daresay he chose correctly.”
“I’m sure,” Alice said drily.
“The third set was a waltz. As you know, I danced that one with Colonel Kent.”
No, Alice did not know. Moreover, she did not care.
Claire tapped her spyglass in her palm. “Colonel Kent is a good height, I think. He is not too tall, nor too short. Medium height is best, don’t you agree? And his uniform is so dashing! Now that the wars have ended, he is a safe choice once again.”
Dear God.
Suddenly, Alice understood the full horror of what was upon her. Her friend intended to name every dance and discuss each partner in detail. She looked desperately for an escape.
“The fourth set was with Lord Hemsway. He is a second son, to be sure, but so handsome. All that blond hair! And such green eyes! I daresay I was half in love with him by the second dance.” She closed her eyes rapturously.
Alice gave a silent scream of agony.
“The fifth set—”
Alice jumped to her feet. She could take no more. “Please excuse me, Lady Claire, but I believe I dropped my spyglass in the entryway. I must go retrieve it.”
Lady Claire stood. “I’ll go with you.”
“No!” Alice nearly shouted. Lady Claire’s eyes widened, and Alice immediately regretted her harsh tone. “No, thank you,” she said in a calmer voice. “Please do not trouble yourself. I will only be gone a moment.”
She made her escape with a barely concealed sigh of relief.
How on earth would she survive the night? Where was the strong, very silent Lord Abingdon when one needed him?
Chapter Fourteen
From two boxes over, Nathaniel watched Miss Bursnell dash from her seat. Too bad. It had amused him to see her growing desperation as her friend prattled on. He had almost laughed out loud, but had not wanted to draw their attention. He preferred to listen unobserved.
So, Colonel Kent had brought flowers to Miss Bursnell. What of it? It was of no concern to Nathaniel who brought her flowers. He would stop thinking of it immediately.
Roses, indeed. He let out a noise of disparagement. He would have brought her violets. She reminded him of a violet, all dark along the edges with a creamy white center.
His aunt’s advice notwithstanding, he would do well to put a good distance between himself and Miss Bursnell. Their meeting last week at the abbey had proved that much, for certain. Clearly, he couldn’t trust himself around her. It was bad enough to say too little, but it was far worse to say too much. And, good God, had he said far too much.
She was best avoided altogether.
“Excuse me, I must—” He broke off. His companions paid him no mind. Ah, well. He slipped unnoticed from the box.
She was several steps away from the balcony doors, examining a large portrait hanging on the wall. Despite the vividness of her coloring—the darkness of her hair and eyes, the redness of her lips and cheeks against her very white skin—she looked wilted, somehow. It was her expression, he decided. She looked wistful.
/> He took an involuntary step closer, and then another.
She heard the soft step of his foot on the carpet as he approached and turned to face him, looking vaguely startled. “Lord Abingdon! It is good to see you.” She glanced around. “Are you waiting for a friend?”
“No. I came to find you,” he said, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Why couldn’t he lie like a proper gentleman?
Her mouth formed a small O, and for a moment she looked even more bewildered. But the moment passed quickly, and she shook her head. “I am not very good company at the moment, I’m afraid. You should rejoin your friends, who are undoubtedly in better spirits. I will not be offended.”
He continued his approach slowly, as though she would dart like a startled doe if he frightened her. No, not a doe. Like a cornered wildcat. She was more likely to scratch his eyes out than run away.
“Why? Is something troubling you, Miss Bursnell?”
“Ah. Yes. I am suffering from a rather embarrassing malady.” She smiled ruefully. “I am homesick.”
He was right beside her now. “Homesick?” he asked, distracted. She smelled like lemon verbena, sweet and sharp.
“It is not at all the thing, is it? I fear I am woefully unsophisticated.” She shook her head in mock despair. “But there you have it. I miss the country. I miss my mama and papa. I miss my horse and the ocean and the cliffs of Northumberland. I miss everything that is not London.” She turned her black eyes to his. “I must seem horribly provincial to you.”
He desperately sought words to show he understood, that he commiserated with her longing. “No.”
Lord, but he was an idiot. Could he not manage eloquence just once in his life?
But she just smiled, as though she hadn’t noticed he was a dunce. “No?”
He forced his lips to action. “I much prefer the country, too.”
“Do you, my lord?”
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