She shook her head, mirth dancing in her eyes. "I believe the wind is blowing it to the other side. Perhaps if we are patient, we can retrieve it there."
"Patience is not one of my virtues." Alex let out a low growl as he sighed.
"I find I'm not surprised by that revelation."
Miss Marleigh grimaced as Alex leaned heavily on the walking stick, trying to straighten his coats. "I’m sorry for your injury."
He gave a half shrug, wincing at the pain it caused. "You have nothing to apologize for. You were not the one who shot me."
"Then let me apologize on behalf of my cousin."
Alex snorted. "That would be a bouncer. I am certain your cousin has no remorse for her actions. I heard her boasting of them last night in the parlor, although her details were very vague. She left out any compromising information." They walked toward the bridge and he motioned her forward, allowing her to take the lead across. "I am afraid she will be quite disappointed when she discovers she did not, indeed, mortally wound me as she believes."
Miss Marleigh's head bobbed. "Yes, she will be disappointed. It is the most excitement she has had in the whole of her life."
They reached the opposite side of the pond and just as Miss Marleigh had predicted, his beaver bobbed against the bank. Alex stooped down and scooped the hat up, water dripping from its brim.
"And you did not even have to exercise any great patience, my lord." She emphasized my lord as her ribbon ends whipped across her face.
"It doesn't appear the weather is going to subside any time soon. Shall I escort you back to the house?" He offered his arm, but she clasped her hands in front of her. Alex did not know what to make of it. She had seemed friendly enough when they were talking.
He moved his hands behind his back, but when pain shot down his arm, he brought them to the front. He grunted, partially out of pain, but mostly out of dissatisfaction. He must look quite the sight, limping and favoring his right arm. Add the scar on his face and it would be miraculous if no one figured out his secret.
They walked the rest of the way to the house in silence. It was likely the wind would have blown their words away, had they spoken.
Alex glanced over at Miss Marleigh several times, but each time her gaze was focused on the path ahead of them.
When they reached the entry hall, Miss Marleigh handed off her bonnet, pelisse and gloves to the butler. Several tendrils of hair had escaped from their pins in the wind and they now hung down across her cheek. She looked lovely.
Alex handed his beaver to the butler, who looked at him oddly when he felt the wetness. Alex shrugged but offered no explanation.
Miss Marleigh dipped a slight curtsy. "I am expected at tea with my cousin.”
Alex shuffled closer to her and grabbed hold of her wrist. He swallowed hard as his heartbeat thundered like a herd of wild horses—so anxious he was about her answer. His cheek twitched. “I’m sorry, but we were interrupted last night. You never answered my question.”
Miss Marleigh straightened her back. “I will keep your secrets and I will speak to Clara.” She stepped back, putting distance between them. “Thank you for seeing me back to the house, Lord Grayson."
Alex settled his weight onto his stick as he watched her walk away. Gah! She did it again. Would she do it for the whole of the party? If it wasn’t accompanied by her slightly dimpled grin, he might think she found him distasteful. Perhaps it was the beginnings of a joke between just the two of them. Alex smiled, finding he quite liked the notion.
Chapter 8
Abigail fingered the curl Hannah laid at the side of her cheek and studied her reflection in the mirror. What was wrong with her? The last conversation with her uncle replayed in her mind.
"You need not attend another house party. What good have the others done you? It is only more proof of what I have been saying. You are too homely to make a match on your own. You would do well to stay home and accept the match I have arranged for you." Uncle Rupert scowled at her. "Unless your delay has ruined your chances with Sir Charles, as well."
Abigail's stomach churned at the thought of marrying her uncle’s choice. She had heard the rumors. "I don't wish to marry Sir Charles. I should prefer to be a spinster than be leg shackled to him."
Her uncle sneered. "If you think I am going to continue to support you because you cannot accept what has been offered, you are mistaken."
Abigail straightened her back. She would not allow him to see her cower. "Then I shall find a position. My father saw to my education."
Her uncle closed the distance between them. He grasped her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. "I will allow to you attend this house party, but if you do not secure a match, you will wed Sir Charles. Is that understood? No relative of mine will lower herself to seek a paid position." He released her arm and turned, muttering as he walked out the door.
Abigail rubbed absently at her arms. Even though the bruises were long since gone, she could still feel the tenderness. She took a stuttering breath. Perhaps Uncle Rupert was right. She had never thought herself a great beauty, even though her mother had oft told her she was. That's just what mothers did. But Abigail did not believe herself homely either. Her head tilted to the side. The last several house parties were making her doubt her own belief. She had watched numerous couples pair off and make advantageous matches, yet Abigail still had no prospects.
"There you go, miss. Does your hair meet with your satisfaction?"
Abigail left her thoughts and focused on her reflection. A small braid on each side of her head united with the rest of her hair and formed a knot at the back of her head. Hannah had placed several tiny rose buds throughout the knot, creating a pleasant arrangement.
"It is lovely, Hannah. Thank you for your help."
"I can't make something beautiful which doesn't already have beauty within it."
Abigail looked down at her hands, afraid the girl had already read her thoughts. When she looked up, Hannah caught Abigail's gaze in the mirror and studied her. Oh, how Abigail missed Sally.
"I know serving Clara and me must be very difficult for you."
The girl smiled kindly. "You are no trouble, miss." She took several steps back.
"If you two are done squawking like a couple of hens, Abi needs to get dressed. We are already going to miss most of the pre-dinner conversations." Clara gave an exaggerated huff from the window seat. "How are we to discern which gentlemen to add to our list if we do not even speak with them? I was quite disappointed in Mr. Jennings." Her nose flared slightly. "You were right, cousin. His breath was dreadful. Which could be tolerated if the gentleman did not insist on leaning in so closely. I have crossed him off the list."
Abigail stood still while Hannah tightened the laces on her stays. "He was already off my list, even if you had not crossed him off yours. Besides his horrendous breath, he is not much of a conversationalist."
Clara stood up, pacing around the room while Hannah carefully placed a gown over Abigail's head.
"Who was the gentleman you were speaking with last night? I had not seen him before, but he is quite handsome, aside from the scar on his cheek."
Abigail turned her head and looked at her cousin. Did she truly not recognize Captain Stringham?
"Sir Richard introduced him as Lord Grayson."
Clara's eyes lit up. "A lord? Surely we should add him to our list."
"No." Abigail’s voice came out louder than she intended. "I don't think he should be added to the list. And I suggest you keep your distance.”
Clara laughed. “I shall not pursue an acquaintance with him, Abi, if you are interested. He did seem to single you out last night.”
Hannah finished fastening the buttons on the back of Abigail’s gown.
Abigail walked to the box on her dressing table and lifted out a broach. Leaning down to look in the mirror, she fastened it to the front of her dress. “It is not what you think, Clara.”
Turning around to face her cousin,
her shoulders sagged slightly. “Truly, you do not recognize him?” Abigail looked from Clara to Hannah.
The maid lifted her shoulders as she shook her head.
“He is Captain Stringham, Clara.”
Her cousin’s eyes widened even as Hannah sucked in a breath.
“We must inform Mr. Garvey and Sir Richard immediately.” Clara turned toward the door.
“Clara, wait.”
She stopped and turned back to look at Abigail.
“I promised Captain Stringham or Lord Grayson, whomever he is, that we would not share his secret with anyone.”
Clara’s mouth dropped open. “How could you do such a thing? We are not safe with him here. Nobody is safe.”
Abigail closed her eyes and took in a calming breath. “If he wished to hurt us, Clara, he had plenty of opportunity to do so before now. He says things are not as they seem.” She bit her bottom lip. “And I believe him. Captain Stringham says if we bandy about who he is, it could put others in danger.”
Clara’s face was pinched and pink.
“Please, Clara. Promise me you will keep his identity a secret. Besides, if we were to make him known, we would also have to make known how we know who he is. I don’t think either of our reputations could survive such a scandal.”
Clara clutched her fists at her side. “Oh, very well. I know you are correct.”
Abigail looked to Hannah.
“I promise, miss.”
Dropping into the window seat, Abigail sagged against the pillows. Why was she so relieved to find Clara and Hannah willing to protect the Captain’s identity?
Abigail looked at the platters of food the footmen served to the other guests. The foods were rich and decadent and completely opposite of the previous night's meal. If Abigail did not know better, she would have thought she had moved to a different house party.
Mr. Garvey sat at the head of the table, smiling and laughing with those around him. Sir Richard sat close to him, on the same side of the table as Abigail. Captain Stringham sat opposite Sir Richard.
Abigail tried not to stare, but she found it difficult to keep her eyes from darting in his direction.
The footman ladled a rich brown broth with chunks of vegetables and meat into her bowl. The smell of the soup wafted up to her nose. Even the smells were bolder than the night before. Abigail took a small sip of the soup from her spoon, her eyes again drifting down the table as she savored the flavor.
She watched as Captain Stringham lifted the bowl to his lips and drank it in a matter of gulps. Abigail saw the wide eyes of the ladies surrounding him and she lifted her wine glass to her lips to hide the grin and laugh hovering in her throat.
Sir Richard cleared his throat loudly. The noise drew Captain Stringham's gaze. The First Lord of the Admiralty looked at the pirate with wide eyes and a small shake of his head.
Captain Stringham looked at those around him. Even from her distance down the table, Abigail could see his ears, tinted a bright shade of pink.
The gentleman next to her, Mr. Poole, she believed his name was, leaned in. "I have heard he has been away from England nearly a decade. From the looks of his manners, I would guess he has been living in America." He picked at a minuscule crumb on the table cloth and chuckled at his own witless joke.
Abigail mentally starred Mr. Poole's name on her list. One thoughtless sentence was not enough to cross someone off entirely. She needed to learn more about him. Was he always this cutting about strangers? What would he say about someone he knew well?
She took another taste of her soup as a thought struck her. What else was being said of Captain Stringham? What was known of him? Had anyone actually known him as Lord Grayson before this party?
"Is there much gossip being bandied about concerning Mr.—er Lord Grayson?" She cleared her throat. "I admit, I have heard nothing of him until yesterday."
"It seems he was the second son. His brother only recently died, transferring the title to him. I believe his name is Bellingham." Mr. Poole smoothed out the napkin sitting on his lap. "I never knew of him. He had already left Cambridge before I arrived. Only Lord Ainsley knew him then, although several others have heard of him."
Abigail thought about this information. Was any of it true? It seemed reasonable to assume Captain Stringham must have been acquainted with the Bellingham family, to some degree, if he was able to give such detailed information.
Hoping to not give the gentlemen the impression she was interested in Captain Stringham, Abigail changed the topic of conversation. "Have you been to America, then, Mr. Poole? You must have some experience to form such a strong opinion."
"Goodness, no!" He chuckled. "I should rather visit Australia, than America. At least Australia is civilized."
Abigail waited as the footman dished a large slice of Yorkshire pudding and a thick slice of beef onto her plate. The next footman ladled a thick gravy over the top of both. As she cut the food into small pieces, she pressed on. "How would you know such things, sir, if you have not seen it for yourself?"
"Because I am educated, Miss Marleigh. I don't need to see America to know of its savageness. I have read enough accounts to know what I would find."
Abigail sat up straighter in her seat, her head cocked to the side. "I also have read about America, but I admit to getting an entirely different opinion than you. Perhaps it is the difference in authors." She paused. "Or just the difference in readers. I have found we sometimes believe what we wish to, even if we discover the opposite to be true."
He shook his head, again chuckling, a note of condescension apparent. "You obviously did not understand those things you read. But do not feel bad. Gently bred young ladies need not be educated. In point of fact, I believe it is better when they are not. For, in my experience," he nodded his head at her, "most women are not capable of understanding those things they are taught."
Abigail tightened her grip on the fork in her hand. What would happen if she were to stab him in the hand with it? She pinched her lips shut, waiting for the anger to subside. When she finally felt able to speak without impaling the man on her fork, her gaze remained on her plate. "Thank you for sharing your knowledge, Mr. Poole. I have learned more than I expected tonight."
Thankfully, a footman appeared at her side, ready to refill her glass with wine. Abigail was relieved when Mr. Poole turned his attention to the lady on his other side. It gave her the chance to again watch Captain Stringham. No, Lord Grayson. If she did not wish to expose him inadvertently, she should think of him as his title, however unlikely it seemed that it was his true identity.
She glanced down the table and found him staring at his plate. He pushed the food around, but none of it seemed to make it into his mouth. Had the soup incident spoiled his appetite or was he just unsure of how he should behave?
His eyes came up from his plate and caught her gaze. She dropped her eyes back to her own plate, feeling her face color up. Now she was the one pushing her food around.
For the rest of the meal, every time she looked in his direction, he was watching her with one brow quirked, ever so slightly, up. Her stomach felt unsteady, like the food was battling around inside her.
She was relieved when it was finally time for the ladies to retire to the drawing room to wait for the musicale, while the men drank their port.
Clara came to her side as they entered the room, the pale purple covering the walls calming Abigail’s jumpy feelings. "What did you discover of Mr. Poole?" Clara whispered as she slid onto the settee next to Abigail. "Is he someone to move to the shorter list?"
"No." Abigail shook her head emphatically. "The man is arrogant and altogether ungentlemanly. But, Clara, this is not the time to discuss such things."
Clara shrugged. "I believe Mr. Carter has promise."
Abigail leaned in close. "Can you not wait until we retire to our chambers? You may as well post the list for all to see, for as loud as you are whispering." Abigail smiled at those around them who were staring.
"Please, you will ruin us if you are not more discreet. And I for one can't afford to leave this party without some kind of offer.”
Mrs. Thorne and Miss Felicity sat on the settee across from them. Abigail did not know them well. This was the first house party she had attended with either of them.
Mrs. Thorne turned to Miss Felicity, "Dinner was delicious, tonight. Was it not?"
Miss Felicity shrugged. "This is the oddest house party I have ever attended." She looked to Abigail. "Did you only receive a single candle?"
Abigail nodded, but Clara responded. "Not even a full candle. Mine was already burned to half." She straightened her skirts and pursed her lips. "I believe I will need to purchase another one when we make a trip into town."
Miss Felicity smiled. "Perhaps I should count myself as lucky, for my candle was nearly new.” She looked around the room and nodded. “Yes, it is certainly odd."
The men joined them quicker than Abigail would have expected. She grimaced when Mr. Poole's eyes sought her out.
Oh, could the gentleman truly believe their dinner conversation was pleasant enough that she desired to continue it here in the parlor?
She caught Mr. Cavanaugh’s eye, but he glanced away and moved away from where she sat. Abigail’s brow creased. What was he about? Had they not had a pleasant conversation last evening?
Before Mr. Poole could get half-way across the room, Abigail stood and walked toward a group of people in the opposite direction. If she could manage to stay away from him until the musicale started, she wouldn’t need an excuse not to speak with him.
Mr. Garvey entered the room. "If we could have everyone follow Morton to the music room. Please help yourselves to some refreshments before finding a seat for the musicale selections." He clapped his hands together, his face alight with excitement. "We have great talent amongst us tonight. I am looking forward to hearing every one of you lovely ladies. And perhaps even a gentleman or two. Now, come along." He waved everyone toward the door.
Miss Marleigh's Pirate Lord (Regency House Party: Havencrest Book 1) Page 6
