It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

  Abby commenced scratching Ivan’s withers rather than meet Axel’s gaze. “You’ve been to see Handout and Whoever?”

  The horse loved to have his withers scratched, while the middle of Axel’s back had developed an infernal itch.

  “To no avail.” Except… the early morning ride into Oxford had removed Axel from the temptation to look in on his guest again, to linger at breakfast in hopes she’d come down for the meal when he’d ordered that she wasn’t to be disturbed.

  Wasting time with the lawyers had saved Axel from making a complete fool of himself, in other words.

  “They wouldn’t talk to us,” Nick said, unhitching Ivan the Shameless from the cross-ties. “You’re ruining a good horse, Abby dearest. Stealing his last pretensions to dignity, and making me jealous.”

  Abby dropped her hand and beamed at Nick, who’d doubtless been tossing metaphors at Axel instead of punches.

  “I’m also getting my hands dirty, which a lady never does. Why wouldn’t the lawyers talk to you? Mr. Belmont is the magistrate, and you’re prone to violence around lawyers, I take it.”

  As a younger man, Axel might have taken his horse from Nick, shoved the pathetic creature into a stall, and muttered about checking on the roses. Nick was, after all, well equipped to explain to Abby the frustrations of their outing to Oxford.

  Axel was a professor, which in the ordinary course required some facility with explanations.

  “Handstreet told us that he owes his clients a duty of confidentiality,” Axel said. “Without an order signed by a judge, or a power of attorney signed by you, he wouldn’t discuss particulars of the estate settlement.”

  Abby patted Ivan’s retreating quarters, then aimed a smile at Axel, a naughty, delightful smile, such as should have melted not only several acres of snow, but the glass houses Axel so treasured.

  “Handstreet waved about a power of attorney,” Nick said, leading Ivan to the stall nearest the mare and foal. “One that purported to have your signature on it, Abby mine. On the strength of that document, we were politely shown the door.”

  “I might have signed such a document,” she said. “Papa told me never to sign something I didn’t understand, though. Not a contract, not a bill of sale, not a receipt for goods unless I’d checked the tally myself. Papa had learned from Grandpapa a great respect for the written word, and yet… I did not cope well after the fire. I was told there wasn’t an estate to speak of, so I might have been less then entirely cautious.”

  Abby’s smile acquired the equivalent of black spot, going all tentative and wan about the edges. She’d been told by Stoneleigh she had no estate to inherit, the blighter.

  “Nicholas and I will pay another call on the Handstreets,” Axel said. “I told you I’d get to the bottom of your situation, and my every instinct insists Handstreet is hiding important information. For one thing, the same firm does not represent the heirs and the estate, and yet Handstreet would have it so.”

  “When a lawyer wants to hide something—” Nick said, shaking his head.

  “His own arrogance will be his undoing,” Axel retorted. “He waved his almighty power of attorney right under my nose, and a botanist is an observant sort.”

  “What did you see?” Abby asked.

  Axel saw that she’d been ready to accept defeat, simply because a pair of arrogant weasels in solicitor’s plumage had brandished a piece of paper.

  “I saw that your so-called signature was witnessed by Shreve and Ambers,” Axel said. “I saw that either your signature has changed a great deal in recent years, or it was forged on their power of attorney.”

  “When did you—? You saw my signature when I sent for you the night Gregory died, and you recall it that well?”

  Axel recalled the pleasure of Abby’s sighs warming his ear, the novelty of her breasts pressed against his back, the devastation in her eyes as she’d described the horror of a household victimized by fire.

  He recalled all of it, also the lovely, looping script rendered by her own hand.

  “The professor is a force to be reckoned with,” Nick said, rubbing his belly. “Ask any scholar unprepared to recite in lecture at university. Do you suppose Cook has noticed our return? A midday meal might revive my spirits.”

  Abby found it necessary to study the mare and foal, despite the fact that the foal was indelicately attending to her own midday meal.

  “I was hoping Mr. Wheeler might see me over to Stoneleigh Manor,” she said. “I’m in the mood to get back on the horse, so to speak.”

  “Abby, my own sweetest turtle dove, under no circumstances—” Nick began, which prompted Axel’s elbow, all on its own accord, to drive itself into Nick’s ribs.

  “If you’re inclined to pay a call on Stoneleigh Manor,” Axel said, “I’ll happily escort you. I’ve a few pressing questions for Ambers and Shreve, assuming Ambers has returned from Melton. I’m sure Nick has correspondence to tend to in our absence.”

  Abby’s gaze went from Nick to Axel, as if she’d never seen two gentlemen conveying the exact same quotient of innocence quite as effectively. Nick did not want Abby returning to the scene of a murder without protection—very reasonable of him, though Nick failed to grasp how ordering Abigail Stoneleigh about could precipitate disaster.

  Axel did not want Abby to have any excuse to leave Candlewick one moment sooner than necessary. His desire—his duty, rather—to keep her safe was also quite understandable.

  “I’m off to greet my roses for the day,” Axel said. “Abigail, perhaps you’d like to join me?”

  Nick sidled out of elbowing range. “I might like to visit these roses. It’s not every day that a botanist published on three continents—”

  “Nonsense,” Abby said, lacing her arm through Axel’s. “You simply want to flirt and pester and cheer me up. Dear of you, Nicholas, but I’m in good spirits. I started the day with a bouquet of violets and a serving of Cook’s cinnamon toast to brighten my morning. The professor’s escort to the glass house will be more than sufficient, thank you all the same.”

  Axel might have smirked at Nick, but Nick merely winked as Abby half dragged Axel out into the blessedly cold winter air.

  Abby had collected her handsome specimen, but now what was she to do with him?

  “Have we etiquette for this situation?” she asked, as they made their way toward the glass house.

  “Of course. You ask knowledgeable questions as I introduce you to each of my roses. When a botanist shows you the great honor of personally acquainting you with his crosses and hybrids, of reviewing with him his failed experiments, and even examining his unexpected results, you are bound by decency to humor his every lecture and digression. I can’t tell you the number of dukes and nabobs in whose conservatories I’ve been trapped, longing for a glimpse of a famed orchid, which of course is the last item on the itinerary. Amateurs are ruthless.”

  Widows could be ruthless too. “I woke up thinking of you. Feeling you.”

  Axel stopped outside the first glass house and produced a key, then stared at it cradled in his bare palm.

  “One hardly knows what to say, Abigail.”

  “Apparently one doesn’t say what I just did. I’m not asking about botanical etiquette. I’m asking about…”

  He thrust the key in the lock and gave it a sure twist. “About dallying?”

  Was that what they’d done? Merely dallied? “Yes, about dallying. I honestly hadn’t expected to embark on the liberties pertinent to my widowed status quite so soon.”

  She sounded professorial to her own ears—or nervous. Maybe lecturing was contagious.

  Axel led her into the warmth and verdure of the glass house, then latched the door behind them and tucked the key into his watch pocket.

  “Have you regrets, Abigail?” he asked, surveying rows and rows of plants.

  Most were potted, sitting on tables, away from the ground’s chill. A few were so tall as to rest on the floor, their canes brushing the glass ceiling.


  “I have so many regrets,” Abby said, unbuttoning her cloak. “I regret my entire marriage. I regret that I gave up my books, my piano, my writing, my—”

  Axel was peering at a thorny bush, studying it closely, his fingers trailing along a green shoot.

  Abby had been married, and for years, she’d made her priority the study and interpretation of Gregory Stoneleigh’s silences and asides, his postures, and his gestures. Axel Belmont was listening to her, and his listening had a cautious quality, as if he expected her to burst into recriminations at any moment.

  She took his hand and kissed his palm, which tasted faintly of metal and leather. “I have no regrets at all where you’re concerned, Axel Belmont. I dreamed of you, when for the past few weeks, all I’ve dreamed about were gunshots, the scent of stale pipe tobacco, disappearing footprints in the snow… I dreamed of your warmth, your weight. Good dreams that I hope to revisit during my waking hours.”

  He drew her into his arms, or Abby hugged him as close as winter clothing allowed. Their embrace was mutual, of that she was certain.

  “I lack… I lack, of all things, flowery speeches,” Axel said, his cheek resting against Abby’s temple. “Thank you for those generous sentiments. I like to hear them. Last night, after you fell asleep, I remained with you, simply listening to you breathe.”

  He put worlds into that admission. Wonder, pleasure, not a little surprise.

  “The violets were lovely. The scent of that white rose is as complicated as the blossom is simple. Is it one of your crosses?”

  Whatever the etiquette of dalliance, that question was appropriate between Abby and her lover. Axel explained the intricacies of breeding roses, of balancing scent, disease resistance, appearance, longevity of the bloom, and even the rare ability to bloom more than once in a season.

  All the while he led her from plant to plant, he held her hand, patted her knuckles, tidied her hair. By the time they reached the end of the second row, and Abby had been introduced to his sturdiest drafting stock—the Dragon—she had to kiss him.

  “You have so much passion in you,” she said, resting against him several glorious moments later. “You’re like a carrying candle, and I can light my own taper from your warmth. You wait years for one of your crosses to produce the offspring you long for. You document everything. You learn entire languages simply so you can correspond with botanists in far-off lands.”

  “If one knows Latin and French, Spanish and Italian aren’t that difficult.”

  While English probably defied Axel frequently outside the lecture hall. He’d unbuttoned his greatcoat, which allowed Abby to press close. Despite his dispassionate tone, their kisses and proximity had created a blooming interest behind his falls.

  And that was… that was worth waiting years for too.

  “Gregory was a disgrace.” Abby pulled away and took a seat in the rocker before the hearth. “I need to say this, so please don’t muddle me with more of your kisses yet.”

  “My kisses muddle you.”

  “Don’t tease me either. My grandfather was very learned, and his passion was books. All kinds of books, even the naughty ones. To him, books were a kind of holy relic, standing against death, ignorance, war, despair. He gave his books away as quickly as he collected them, saying that books needed to be read and loved. My father was passionate about commerce. He adored seizing a business opportunity and making it thrive as your flowers flourish. He was generous with advice and would back an interesting venture the same way you’ll cross two roses for the sheer curiosity of it.”

  Axel sat on the worktable, out of touching range, but precisely positioned for Abby’s visual delectation. His blond hair was tousled, his cheeks slightly reddened by the cold, and he looked at home here. This was his classroom, his library, and his conservatory, all in one place.

  Perhaps it might even be his boudoir, if a lady were enterprising enough.

  He looked around, as if seeing the damp glass walls, the thriving roses, the worn rug for the first time.

  “I love my roses. I love the mystery and beauty of them, their many medicinal properties, and even how fleeting their beauty is.”

  He’d never said those words aloud, probably never even thought them. Abby was so sure of this, she felt as if he’d given her another fragrant white bloom.

  “Gregory was a caricature of an adult man,” she replied. “He dawdled about, riding the same acres, kissing the same hounds, smoking the same pipes, year after year. When Sir Dewey took him shooting, I always felt better. I could think clearly, I could tend to the estate with more energy. My digestion settled, as much as it ever does.”

  She fell silent, though apparently today was a day for voicing previously unacknowledged sentiments.

  “Abigail, you do realize Gregory swindled a fortune from you, not only your love of reading or your sketching?”

  “I was an heiress, and he found lawyers willing to connive in his swindling.”

  “I suspect he forged your signature on a power of attorney. That goes beyond conniving to felonious behavior.”

  Victimhood reared its weepy, forlorn, powerless head. Again and probably not for the last time.

  “I don’t need that fortune, Axel. I have made Stoneleigh Manor into a thriving estate, I can live sumptuously on its proceeds. I would like answers though.”

  He pushed off the table. “You want to know where the money went. So do I, and I want to know who killed your—who killed Gregory Stoneleigh.”

  “I don’t care about the money, but I care about the why. Gregory was one of Grandpapa’s business associates, though I believe Grandpapa had sold him all but a few shares of the import business. Why did Gregory have to steal my entire inheritance? Why lie to me? Why not court me properly? He might have achieved the same result.”

  “No, he would not have.” Axel turned one of the enormous clay plots sitting on the floor, one that held a small tree—and he turned it easily. “You have good judgment, Abigail, and you would have chosen Pettiflower over Stoneleigh, given half a chance. You were given no chance whatsoever.”

  He surveyed the tree, which now caught the light at a different angle.

  You have good judgment…. You were given no chance whatsoever. From him, those words comforted.

  “Were you planning to work in here this afternoon, Axel? I can ask Nick to take me over to Stoneleigh Manor.”

  His gaze as he studied the tree said that yes, he longed to spend hours among his roses, but his smile… oh, his smile was a rare, precious bloom.

  “Nick is not the magistrate, so he has no authority for questioning Ambers and Shreve. I have promised you answers, and some of those answers lie at Stoneleigh Manor. To Stoneleigh Manor we shall go, after we’ve tended to sustenance.”

  With that, he kissed her. Truly, properly, wonderfully kissed her. “I dreamed of you too, Abigail. All the way into Oxford, all the way home, through bitter wind, on the snowy highway, while resisting the urge to thrash those lying scoundrels, I dreamed of you.”

  He put the key to the glass house in her hand and gestured her toward the door. The kiss, the key, the flowery words… in Abby’s heart, springtime beckoned. After a long, miserable, lonely winter spent half asleep, ailing in spirit, and out of sorts, springtime finally beckoned.

  Axel was reasonably certain that within the next three years, his glass houses could produce a rose without fully developed thorns, to much polite acclaim from his fellow rose enthusiasts.

  Who would then smirk behind their brandies and mutter pityingly in their conservatories about Belmont’s latest oddity.

  Axel routinely cut the thorns from roses he took into the house. He could achieve in a few moments mechanically what years of experimentation might not yield. Success required more than a simple stripping of the rose’s defenses, however.

  And yet, the thornless rose within Axel’s theoretical grasp would have no scent. Its blossoms would last less than a day once cut. They would be puny, and lack
both color and a pleasing shape.

  Riding over to Stoneleigh Manor, he sorted through his situation with Abby as he might have considered potential crosses.

  Solving the murder was necessary, for the sake of duty and honor, but also so that Abigail would feel safe in her own home.

  Parting with Abigail’s company on any terms had grown problematic, and yet again, for her sake, creating a safe path to widowed independence was clearly what honor required.

  Conducting a liaison across the property line bore the promise of obvious pleasures, but also great awkwardness. Did a fellow send a note, seeking the boon of afternoon tea on Tuesday, and hope for the favor of a reply? Did he live in anticipation of a visit from the object of his longings?

  Did he boldly invite her to inspect his latest, robust pink blossom?

  What about when that fellow removed to town for weeks at a time to wallow in academics and… celibacy? Why would Abigail—after years of marriage to a negligent, felonious, martinet—tolerate such an arrangement?

  “You’re very quiet,” Abby said, over the crunch of horses’ hooves on the snowy lane.

  “My late wife often remarked on my propensity for quiet. Are you nervous, to be returning to Stoneleigh Manor?”

  “Yes.”

  Axel hadn’t wanted Abigail to pay this call, and yet, he knew she must.

  “I will be on the premises with you at all times,” he said. “If you experience the least frisson of unease, the slightest hint of a possibility of a worry, you scream, and I will charge hotfoot to your side. The tiniest spider, a glimpse of a mouse, a suspicious noise that turns out to be the pantry mouser above stairs, and I’ll fly to you, brandishing my pistol before you can take your next breath.”

  Abigail turned her mare through the Stoneleigh gates, which still bore their swaths of crepe, though white snow had collected in the black folds and creases.