by Lauren Royal
The silence reigned for a space of time, stretching awkwardly between them.
“I am sorry for defying your wishes,” she said at last. “But I confess I’d do it again. It’s over, but if it wasn’t, I’d do anything I could to find a way to clear your name.”
He couldn’t summon any more anger—what he felt edged closer to guilt. After all, it was his fault—his sleepwalking, his failure to leave her room—that had landed them in this impossible marriage.
Maybe a tiny part of him had hoped she’d be successful. Hoped she’d find a way to erase the stain on the Nesbitt name. Hoped she’d prove able to keep that stain from spreading to her own family.
Of course, a much larger part of him—the part that was scared stiff of what she might have found—overshadowed that tiny part.
But it was there. Maybe.
“I’m glad it’s over, then,” he said. “And I’m sorry, too.” He wasn’t quite sure what he was sorry for. Given the chance, he’d try to stop her all over again. But he did feel sorry. And guilty. And a little angry still, and he didn’t know what else.
She sighed and moved the few inches between them to lay her head on his chest. “You’re damp.”
“I had to ride home through the rain.”
She snuggled closer anyway. “I guess we’ve had our first fight.”
“I didn’t know you had it in you,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “You’re always so calm.”
“When something matters to me as much as this does—as much as you do, as much as my family—I will not be calm.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said dryly.
She felt warm and soft in his arms. Irresistible. Though his emotions were still running high, he’d never been able to resist her pull.
Never.
“It’s very late,” he said regretfully. She obviously needed sleep, which meant he’d just have to do his best to resist. “Do you want to put on a nightgown?”
“All my nightgowns are so plain,” she murmured against his chest. “I borrowed a pretty one from Juliana, but it’s really much too short. I didn’t have time to acquire a proper trousseau. I shall have to hire a seamstress—”
“Another servant here for you to interview?” he said bitterly. “I think not.”
She tilted her chin up to see him. “Was there a seamstress here at the time?”
She looked dead serious, which he found less than thrilling. Very much less than thrilling. “I thought you said you were finished.”
“Only because there’s no one left to question.”
“It’s over. You said it was over.”
“If there was another person here at the time—”
He silenced her with a kiss. Exasperated, he could think of nothing else to do.
He half expected her to protest, but she reciprocated instead. He lifted her into his arms and laid her on the bed without breaking the kiss. She smelled heavenly and tasted divine, and he would never get enough of her.
And, in this moment, there was just enough anger left swirling inside him that he didn’t care if she was too tired.
“Sweet heaven,” Alexandra whispered later. “I cannot move.”
Tristan chuckled, feeling more than a little done in himself. With effort, he raised himself on an elbow. He ran a finger alongside her face and kissed the wide expanse of her forehead. “I knew the hour was too late. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Her eyes drifted shut. “I’m not sorry.”
Although she couldn’t see him, he smiled.
She lifted her lids and met his gaze. “I love you, Tris. Even though we don’t always agree, I love you.”
The only answer he could give her was a kiss. He poured all the tenderness he possessed into it and still knew it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what she wanted.
But much as he cared for her and desired her happiness—more than he wanted happiness for anyone else in the world—he knew it wasn’t really love. And he couldn’t say words he didn’t mean.
Finally he pulled away. ”I’ll get the lights.”
He walked around the room, dousing the gaslights one by one, his gaze fastened on her as he went. He still couldn’t believe she was his.
He still didn’t believe he wouldn’t lose her.
If he woke in the night, he wanted to be able to see her. He left the last light burning.
FORTY-TWO
TRISTAN WOKE in his study.
At first he just blinked, disoriented. Slowly he noticed the light coming in through the shutters, the ticking of the clock on the desk. The dog snoring in the corner, rattling the windows.
He swung himself upright on the leather sofa and rubbed his face. The sofa was too short, and his legs ached. He stretched them out before him, wondering how many hours he’d slept cramped in that position.
Hours. Hours? For pity’s sake, he must have sleepwalked here during the night.
Thankfully, his sleeping self had donned a dressing gown. He wrapped it tighter and retied the sash. Yawning, he stood and left the study, intending to head upstairs.
No sooner had he stepped foot in the dining room, however, than Hastings popped in. “Good morning, my lord. Will you be wanting breakfast?”
“What time is it?”
“Half past eight.”
Blast it. He needed to get back to the gasworks. He’d promised to arrive with the sun. “Yes, breakfast, please. Is Lady Hawkridge up and about?”
Hastings looked at him curiously. “No, my lord. She’s yet to make an appearance.”
“I’ll let her sleep,” he decided, amused. He must have worn her out. Rather than risk waking her, he’d have breakfast now and then quickly dress after she’d arisen.
When he’d downed his last bite of eggs and drained his second cup of coffee and she still hadn’t appeared, he returned to his study to finish going through his mail. An hour later, he sent a footman to the gasworks with a note. An hour after that, he hurried upstairs, concerned.
No matter how late he’d kept her up, a girl who habitually rose at six didn’t sleep until after eleven.
“Alexandra?” He knocked softly. “Alexandra?”
He opened the door. Curled up under the covers, she looked so peaceful he had to smile.
He walked closer and shook her shoulder. “Alexandra, it’s time to wake up.”
She slumbered on.
“Alexandra.” He shook her harder. “Alexandra!” Still no response.
Fighting panic, he drew a deep breath. And suddenly felt lightheaded.
For a moment he just stood there, a vague prickling in his brain suggesting the woozy feeling should mean something significant. Shifting uneasily, he glanced around the room. And noticed the gas lamp he’d left lit.
Only it wasn’t.
His pulse stuttering, he rushed over and twisted the key, hoping it wouldn’t move.
It did move. The gas line had been open. It had been open with no flame, and Alexandra had been breathing gas for who knew how long.
He prayed to God as he scooped his wife and the covers from the bed, ran down the corridor, and turned into the Queen’s Bedchamber.
“Alexandra!” He laid her on the turquoise and gold counterpane and crawled up beside her, his heart pounding so hard he had to yell over the roar in his ears. “Alexandra, wake up!” Kneeling on the mattress, he gathered her into his arms. “Oh, God, please, let her wake up.” He rocked her back and forth. “Wake up!”
Her lids fluttered halfway open, then closed.
He held his breath. His heart seemed to stop. “Alexandra?”
“Just…”
Had he imagined that single, breathy word? He’d had to strain to hear it.
“Just…wait a moment.”
A moment. Wait a moment.
He’d wait as long as it took. Hours. Days. Until the end of his days. If only she’d wake up.
He waited.
“You’re holding me too tight,” she finally said.
His heart started again.
He was shaking all over.
“I mean it,” she murmured, her eyes opening at last. Warmed brandy. He’d never seen anything so beautiful.
She blinked up at him. “Let go of me, Tris.”
“I can’t.” He did loosen his hold, though even that small compromise took effort. “I think I’m going to hold you for the rest of our lives.”
Her little chuckle was the most glorious sound he’d ever heard. “What happened?”
“Good God, I almost lost you.” He sent a thank-you up above.
“What happened, Tris?”
“The gas. The lamp I left burning last night. The flame went out, so gas leaked into the room, and you were breathing it.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I know. You were breathing it, and you could have died.”
She struggled to sit up on his lap. “Don’t be so melodramatic. I’m fine.”
“Thank God that room isn’t airtight. It may have been leaking for hours.”
“I’ve never heard you talk so much of God,” she said with a little smile.
“Hours,” he repeated, feeling the blood drain from his face.
“Tris?” She levered off his lap and knelt facing him on the bed, drawing the covers over her shoulders and around her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. No.” His heart was pounding again. “I must have extinguished the flame.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I sleepwalked again last night. Woke up this morning in my study. Before I left the room in the night, I must have extinguished the flame in my sleep.”
“That’s ridiculous.” The blanket slipped off a shoulder, and she pulled it back up. “It was stormy last night. A draft blew it out.”
“The glass chimney is there to protect the flame. A draft cannot blow it out. It had to have been put out deliberately.”
“Anything can happen, Tris.”
He wanted to believe her. He didn’t want to believe he was capable of harming his own wife in the middle of the night. What kind of person would that make him?
A dangerous one.
What would that do to their marriage?
“I know what you’re thinking.” She sighed, sounding so much like hale-and-hearty Alexandra he wanted to hug her despite his dread. “Even if you did put out the flame—which I am not at all convinced is the case—surely it wasn’t intentional. For heaven’s sake, you did it in your sleep. You must have meant to turn it off and mistakenly extinguished it instead.”
“Maybe,” he said—because he knew that was what she wanted to hear.
“Absolutely.” Having settled the matter—to her mind, in any case—she scooted to the edge of the high bed and slid off, swaying a bit on her feet.
He landed beside her and caught her by the elbow. “Careful.”
“I’m fine.” Hitching the blanket back onto her shoulders again, she peered up at his face. “Better than you are, I’d wager. What are your plans for today?”
He winced. “I need to ride out to the gasworks. I was supposed to be there hours ago. But I cannot leave you—”
“Don’t be a goose. I told you I’m fine. I’m going to make some sweets and take them with me to meet the villagers.” He’d barely opened his mouth when she added, “I know what you’re thinking. I won’t be asking anyone any questions about your uncle’s death.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said you know what I’m thinking.”
She shrugged prettily and smiled. A smug smile.
He kissed that smug smile off her face.
While they were still embracing, Rex plodded in, nudged Tristan with his huge head, and barked. They broke apart.
“He doesn’t like me,” Alexandra said.
“He just wants some attention. Which I cannot give him right now.” He rubbed the dog’s head. “I need to get dressed.” He turned to leave, then turned back and pulled up the blanket that had slipped off her shoulder again. “Make certain to take Peggy with you.”
“Of course I will.”
“And a footman for good measure—and a carriage. I shouldn’t like to see you walking or riding after what happened here this morning. You may not be as fine as you believe.” He gave her one more short, hard kiss, ignoring Rex’s bark, then headed off to find Vincent.
No matter what Alexandra claimed, he was certain she couldn’t read his mind. Because there was no chance she’d let him walk away if she knew what he was thinking at this moment:
If he had poisoned her with gas while sleepwalking—intentionally or otherwise—then it was even more likely he had also poisoned his uncle.
FORTY-THREE
SUGAR-CAKES
Take Sugar and half again as much Butter, Beaten together, and add Eggs, as much Flour as sugar, a little Cream, some Sherry, a generous amount of Currants and a spoon of shaved nutmeg. Shape into thin round cakes and Prick all over, then bake in a warm oven. Cover with icing Sugar mixed with white of egg and return to oven until Crisp.
These travel well and are good for visiting.
—Lady Diana Caldwell, 1692
IT TOOK A LOT of sugar cakes to feed a village.
At half-past noon, barely an hour after Tris left, Mrs. Pawley took the fourth pan out of the oven and brought it over to where Alexandra was spreading glaze on top. “Might I pour you more sherry?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Pawley.” The small glass Alexandra had finished was quite enough—just enough, in fact, to take the edge off her disappointment. Just enough so she could smile and laugh and pretend that everything was all right.
Although, of course, it wasn’t.
Now that her investigation had failed, it would never be all right.
More than half a glass of anything alcoholic made her very giggly or put her to sleep. When the cook had suggested they have a wee taste of the sherry before adding it to the recipe, she hadn’t expected to finish the bottle. But Mrs. Pawley was making a good dent in it.
“I’ll just have another myself, if you don’t mind.” The cook filled her glass for the third time and sipped, watching Alexandra swirl the sugary mixture onto the cakes with a knife. “You do that very prettily, my dear.”
“Thank you. My mother taught me how to do this. And my father’s mother taught her, I expect, considering the age of the recipe.”
Mrs. Pawley smiled and sipped again, one eye on all the activity in the kitchen. While Alexandra wouldn’t normally approve of her cook drinking wine while working, Mrs. Pawley seemed unaffected, and she couldn’t argue with the woman’s results. Her meals were exquisite, and her kitchen was spotless.
The woman did, however, have a smudge of flour on her little button nose that Alexandra itched to wipe away. “I know your father was Hawkridge’s last cook,” she said to distract herself, “but did your mother work here as well?”
“Bless her, she did. Started as a scullery maid before she caught m’father’s eye.” The cook’s blue eyes danced. “’Course she became his assistant in short order.”
Alexandra smiled. “I imagine she did like that better than scrubbing dishes.”
“No one aspires to stay a scullery maid long. If a girl cannot expect advancement—”
At the sudden silence, Alexandra looked up from the pan of cakes. “What is it, Mrs. Pawley?”
“I just remembered. We had a scullery maid—Beth, she was called—who went to Armstrong House for a better position. She was here that night—the night his lordship’s uncle died. Will you be wanting to ask questions of her as well?”
“Goodness, yes.” The news lifted Alexandra’s spirits more than an entire bottle of sherry could have done. “How far is Armstrong House?”
“An hour or less on horseback. You’ll just need to follow the river.”
“Lord Hawkridge would prefer I take a carriage.” There was no reason to ignore his wishes completely. He’d doubtless be angry she’d gone at all, but she couldn’t very well
ignore an opportunity to solve their problems, could she?
“May I prevail on you to finish these?” She shoved the pan toward the cook. “I have to change my dress, and have a carriage brought round, and find a footman to accompany Peggy and myself.” She was already headed toward the door. “They need only a few more minutes in the oven; when the icing has hardened, they’re done.”
Half an hour later, plans for her journey in place, she returned to fetch a few sugar cakes to bring along with her to Armstrong House. She couldn’t very well arrive empty-handed.
After yesterday’s rain, the day was beautiful. She opened the carriage windows to let in the sunshine and fresh air. Ernest, the footman she’d recruited to accompany her, rode up on the box with the coachman, and Peggy sat with her inside. No sooner had they started rolling than Peggy pulled a basket out from under the seat and began filling plates for them both.
“What’s this?” Alexandra asked.
“Luncheon. You missed breakfast. I won’t have you wasting away from starvation.”
Alexandra laughed, suddenly realizing she’d forgotten to eat. She supposed she’d been too upset to really care. But now that her investigation was open again, she felt famished.
Peggy truly was a dear for taking care of her so well. She piled cold meats, cheese, pickles, and fruits on two plates. “No strawberries for me,” Alexandra told her. “I cannot eat them.”
Peggy handed her a plate before adding a few strawberries to her own. “Why is that?”
“They make my tongue swell and my throat feel tight. It’s really quite dreadful. The last time it happened, I thought I might perish from a lack of air.”
“That is dreadful,” Peggy said, her eyes wide.
Throughout the drive, Peggy kept up a running conversation that required little more than nods and murmurs from Alexandra. Sooner than she expected, they arrived at Armstrong House. Although smaller than Hawkridge, it was obviously the home of a wealthy man. It looked to have been extended many times over the years and was now a sprawling mishmash of styles—medieval, Tudor, Stuart, and more modern.
