“What’s that?” Hungan John looked at Beezle.
“Her Grace’s pet,” Henson said, having released his death grip on his wig.
“He ate Henson’s hair,” she said.
The huge cook leaned over and examined Beezle. He touched Beezle’s fur, then looked at the fire. “That fur would burn plenty fast.”
Beezle hissed, loud and long, but Henson’s mouth held a hint of a smile.
“Hungan John could change the menu. Make weasel ragout. Hmm.” He rubbed his stomach and winked at Joy, then laughed that deep, echoing laughter before turning back to his duties.
She handed her pet to a maid and told her to take him back upstairs and make sure Polly locked him up. Beezle climbed over the girl’s small shoulder and began pulling the pins from her hair. Two pins pinged onto the stone floor, and Beezle looked up at Joy, guilt all over his sly face.
“Stop that,” Joy mouthed as the maid carried her familiar up the stairs. The last thing she saw was Beezle chewing.
Henson opened the back door, and Joy tentatively stepped forward, her stomach a tight knot of apprehension, her throat clogged. The bite of cold air hit her cheeks. Her eyes misted with tears again. She hadn’t thought she had any left. She took one deep fortifying breath and stepped outside.
Her vision was blurred at first, and she saw nothing but misty white. She willed the tears to stop flowing. She did have a wee spark of pride left. She lifted her small chin and focused her eyes. Everything was still covered with snow, white and clean and fresh now. But standing in front of the stable doors was a shiny black sleigh with Jem in the driver’s seat and Alec standing at its side.
She froze, unaware of the joy that shone from her face.
A shaft of pleasure flashed in Alec’s dark eyes. She’d expected anger. She had expected a lecture, a reprimand, a denunciation. She had expected to be sent away. She hadn’t expected one of her fanciful dreams to come true. But better than the sleigh, better than the bells that hung from the team, better than the realization that she was not to be banished, was the hint of an apology on her husband’s face.
“Are you planning to stand there all morning or do you want your sleigh ride?” He pulled the brass catch and opened the door.
She hurried down the steps, but instead of taking her hand, Alec lifted her onto the seat. Her heart picked up a beat, and she held her breath for an instant, then settled into the plush leather squabs and adjusted her skirts and coat around her. An instant later Alec was at her side, his arm across the back of the seat, his legs alongside hers. He looked down at her. “Ready?”
She gazed up at him, not knowing that excitement and love and relief glowed from her face. He watched her for a moment, silent, pensive, and seemed about to say something important. She cocked her head to try to read his intention, but she couldn’t determine his thoughts from his face.
“Where to, Yer Grace?”
Joy looked up and caught Jem’s expectant and impatient look.
“The park,” Alec answered, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder.
And with a snap of the whip, the sleigh lurched along the snow-covered drive.
Part IV
The Change
Excite the mortified man!
—Macbeth, William Shakespeare
Chapter Twenty
On most days London rang with the noisy shouts of street hawkers and piemen, the music of flute-pipes and hurdy-gurdies, and the incessant clatter of iron wheels and clopping hooves upon cobblestones, but not this day. As if struck by a Sabbath pause, even Hyde Park stood deserted. It was a dreadful shame that most of the ton snuggled deep in the warmth of their fur robes or sought the melting intensity of hot coal fires after the steely English sky had deigned to sprinkle the rolling park lawns and lanes in a silent magical blanket of fresh snow.
Along the drive a double avenue of oaks arched in a fleecy white canopy. The normally clamoring hooves of the prancing team fell silently, like snow upon snow. But the sleigh bells rang clear and clean in the frozen air, the chiming melody dimmed only by the lyrical notes of the Duchess of Belmore’s delighted laughter.
“Look Alec! We’re the only ones here!”
“I know.”
Joy pivoted in the seat to see the landscape—an unfettered ivory wilderness in the center of town. “Doesn’t it take your breath away?”
“What? The fact that no one is here?” His look told her there was little that the Duke of Belmore would lose his breath over.
“No.” She waved a hand around. “This!” Then she saw from his expression that he had no idea what she was talking about. “Look around you and tell me what you see.”
“Snow.”
“What else?”
“More snow.”
“What else?” she said on an exasperated sigh.
“The park.”
She stared in thoughtful silence at the muff in her lap and wondered what kind of person saw only the shell of things. Tilting her head she studied him. He was perfectly serious. But somewhere beneath that cold exterior lived another man. She’d seen glimpses of him. In fact, she wondered if that wasn’t what she had first seen in Alec—a soul locked up. It was almost as if he didn’t know how to live life, as if he somehow didn’t quite fit in, so he kept himself aloof.
She placed a hand on his arm, hoping for a wee glimpse of the other man she knew was there, the man who only a little bit earlier had managed to wear an apology on his face. “Look at that long loch and tell me what it looks like to you.”
“The Serpentine?”
“Is that what it’s called?”
“Yes.”
She looked at the long silvery snake of ice and understood the name. “Describe to me what you see.”
“I see frozen water—a lake, or loch as you Scots put it”
“Do you notice anything special about it?”
“No.”
“What color is it?”
“Gray.”
“What do you think of when you look at it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think about it.”
“Just try.”
“I see gray ice. Nothing special.” He turned his cynical gaze toward her. “I’ll bite, Scottish. What do your eyes see?”
She looked at the glittering loch. “What do my eyes see? ‘Tis not only my eyes, but my mind, too.” A wispy smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I see a ribbon of shimmering silver, as if its surface has been painstakingly polished for hours.”
Alec frowned, staring in puzzlement at the lake.
Her gaze drifted upward. “And look up.”
His eyes followed hers.
“See the sky? How silvery gray it is, too? Except where the sun glows through those clouds. I know it’s the sun shining, but see the way the dark clouds break and every so often there’s a wee bit white of light? I think it looks like moonlight.”
She turned back to look at the Serpentine. “That’s what I see—the miracle of moonlight shining in the daytime.” Her eyes grew misty as she lost herself in the wonder of the scene, but she came back down to earth when she felt his gaze. She smiled, thinking to describe it in terms more familiar to him. “I see a dinner table.”
“Pardon?” He gave her a look that said he thought her daft.
“I see a silver lake that reflects the color of the sky and shines like polished serving plates. I see trees dressed in crisp white ice, standing like waiting footmen. I see pure white clean snow that has never been touched or trod upon or dirtied. To me it looks like the finest damask linen atop a table, and I think that if I held some of that snow high in my hand, up to the light, I’d see it glistening as the cut-crystal goblets do when they are near candlelight during a dinner at Belmore Park.” She turned to him and smiled. “Now can you see it?”
His stubborn jaw tightened, and he exhaled in a way that said he thought her description silly. “I see what’s there. A plain gray lake and cold snow, nothing more. It’s monotonous and dull.”
She watched him put up that shield of his, but instead of warning her off, it did the exact opposite. Through narrowed eyes she watched him, thinking he’d have to do better than that to discourage her. “Look! Over there, beneath the snow.” She pointed to her left. “I see bits of color—the orange and yellow leaves of pollard oaks peeking through the snow. And there! If you really look, you’ll see snippets of red—holly berries,” she said with a nod of her head. “And next to them, in the hedgerows, look closely and see that poor wee bird?”
“Where?” He squinted at the bushes.
“There, tucked inside that hedgerow as if it’s trying to get warm.” She pointed at a hole in a hawthorn bush about the size of a Scottish golf ball. “A wee spot of blue. See it?”
The bird fluttered, and Alec grunted something she took for a yes.
She faced him again. “Those are the things I see. If you look closely, you’ll see them, too.”
“Why would anyone want to take the time to see things that aren’t there?”
“But they are there. That’s my point. How can you appreciate anything if you don’t really look at it? To imagine that the moon is shining in the daytime makes the day seem special, different from yesterday and probably different from tomorrow, which means one can only enjoy today . . . today.” She watched him shake his head in disbelief. “Alec?” She touched his arm. “How will you ever have any memories if you don’t create them?”
He seemed to think about that.
“Didn’t you ever make things up when you were a child? Pretend you were a knight, a soldier, a king? Make believe that an apple was magical, that a stick was a broadsword or a horse, that a dog was some fierce beast out to gobble up the world and only you could save it?” The moment she finished the question she saw the change in him and knew she’d said the wrong thing.
There was no child in him and there never had been. And no, he’d never done those things.
Jem turned around and gave Alec an odd look. Alec turned away. His eyes scanned the area. After a pause he said tersely, “I suppose ‘tis how one views things. I have no time for whims and fancy, no time to weave tales about nothing.”
“What do you have time for?”
“I found the time to take you for a foolish sleigh ride.”
The sleigh lurched forward with a strong jerk. “Sorry, Yer Grace. Hit a hard rock.” Then Jem muttered something about a head.
She swallowed hard and stared at her hands, then whispered, “If you consider it foolish, why did you do so?”
He didn’t answer, but she saw that his own hands had tightened as if he was once again struggling to speak or searching for the words. Without looking at her, he finally said none too gently, “I don’t bloody know.”
Neither said another word, but the sleigh jangled onward, around the drive and on toward the dell, over a wee hillock and down a stark white path where the snow was as virginal as a new bairn.
After long minutes of tense silence, she gave up. “You may take me home now.”
“You wanted to ride in a bloody sleigh, so ride in it.” He spoke through clenched teeth and glared at the park so angrily that she wondered why the snow didn’t melt.
One glance and the urge to speak became too strong for her to quell. “I imagined it would be . . . different.”
“So did I,” he said under his breath.
After another tense interval she asked, “How?”
“How what?”
“How did you think it would be different?”
He said nothing, but continued to look out his side of the sleigh. His hand tightened on the rim. “I thought ‘twould please you.” He spoke the words quietly, like someone admitting a dreaded sin.
She stared at his tensed hand, at his straight stiff shoulders, at the too-proud lift of his head, and knew the struggle it had taken for him to make that admission. Perhaps there was still hope. At least they were talking. Also, that was probably the closest thing she’d ever get to an apology.
She reached out and placed her hand on his forearm. Under her fingers, his muscles tightened in response. “I had hoped to please you, too.”
He faced her then. “How?”
“When I hired Forbes and Hungan John.”
Frowning, Alec ran his hand over his forehead. “I take it Hungan John is the cook.”
“Have you seen him?”
“One couldn’t miss him.”
“Forbes is the butler.”
“So you said last night.”
Again the silence, both of them thinking of the night before. Neither one comfortable.
“The deaf butler.”
Joy winced at his tone. “He’s only a tad hard of hearing.” She watched Alec to gauge how angry he still was. “And we did need a butler.” She paused, then said, “And if you could have seen him. Poor wee old man was thrown out on the street after fifty years of faithful service. He needed us, too.”
“I’ve no doubt he needed us. There must be thousands in London who need us, but no one needs a deaf butler, Scottish.”
She stared at her hands again. “But that’s exactly my point.” She touched his arm again. “He has so much pride. Surely you of all people can understand that?”
“Was that supposed to be a compliment?”
She ignored him and went on. “He stood on that hiring platform, his head high despite his tattered old livery. Couldn’t we give him some of that pride back? Please?” She stared straight at him, watching his eyes as the mental battle continued within him.
He tore his gaze away. “Just keep him away from me, and the front door.”
“Their lordships, the Earl of . . . eh? What was that name again?”
The drawing room door slammed shut, only to open again a second later.
“Their lordships, the Earl of Town and the viscount . . . ”
The door slammed again.
A few seconds later it cracked open. “What do ye think I am? Some numbskull? Not announce yer presence, for God’s sake!”
Another voice said something.
“What’s wrong with yer face? I don’t see anything wrong with yer face! Ye can’t go in yet! Let go of that door! Eh? Benson! Benson! Oh, there ye be! Their lordships forgot their names. Do ye know them?”
The door opened slowly and Henson stepped inside. “Their lordships the Earl of Downe and the Viscount Seymour.”
“I need brandy.” Downe moved past Henson and headed straight for a decanter on a table near the wall.
“Where’s Seymour?” Alec asked.
“Still trying to get that paper scull of a butler to say his name right.” Downe sipped his drink, then turned back around. “He never knows when to give up.”
Seymour came into the room. “I say, Alec, odd choice for a butler. The old fellow can’t hear a bloody thing.”
“Really, Seymour? How observant of you. I’m sure Belmore here hasn’t figured that out yet and truly needed you to tell him his new butler—and I use the term loosely, considering the man’s as old as Methuselah—is deaf.”
Alec stood by the chimneypiece, ready to fend off the usual round of bickering. Downe had poured his second drink, moved to the closest chair, and slowly lowered one hip onto the arm with a groan.
“What ails you?”
Downe winced again, then scowled at the room in general. “Nothing that murder won’t cure.”
“Whose?”
“Letitia Hornsby’s,” Seymour answered, grinning.
“Feather-skulled, bacon-brained child from hell,” the earl muttered.
“What happened this time?” Alec glanced from one friend’s brooding face to the other’s grinning one.
“One word, Seymour. One bloody word and I’ll call you out,” Downe threatened.
“Should have been there, Belmore. ‘Twas better than the Christmas Ball. Downe never saw it coming.”
“You’re a dead man.”
“Only if I manage to stand too close to the Hornsby chit,�
� Seymour goaded with a laugh. “And her dog.”
“The beast should be shot, along with its mistress.”
“Her dog bit him on the ass.”
“Dawn tomorrow, Seymour.”
“That’s what got you into this in the first place. If you hadn’t gotten in your cups and called out Hanford, this never would have happened.”
“Speaking of asses. Who’s the ass who told her?”
“I didn’t tell her. She was hiding behind a potted palm at Maitlands’ ball and overheard the whole thing.Destiny, you know.”
“He doesn’t know when to quit, and he doesn’t know when to shut up.” Downe’s face turned redder with each comment.
“You wish I’d shut up because you don’t want to hear about your own follies. Hanford’s a crack shot, Downe. You know that as well and I. ‘Twas a stupid move. Your hand was shaking so badly from your excesses the night before I doubt you could have hit a tree at three paces.”
“And I doubt you can keep your mouth shut for more than five minutes.”
“Letitia saved his drunken hide,” Seymour told Alec, then added, “Although from what I saw, the hound’s teeth had a good hold on most of it. Surprised the animal didn’t get the hiccups.”
“Hudson Green, Seymour.”
“Do you suppose the beast is hung over?”
“At the crack of dawn.”
“You’re not going to call me out, Downe. I’m the only one willing to be your second.”
“A pound of good you did me when I met Hanford at dawn.” The earl turned to Alec. “Seymour was crawling around on all fours searching for a bloody four-leaf clover.”
“Found it, too,” Seymour said, stroking the rabbit’s foot on his watch fob, “just before the chit’s hound came bounding up the hill.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “Do you suppose that’s prophetic?”
“No doubt it was planted there by the dueling fairy.” The earl swigged down his brandy, then frowned at the empty
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