In the distance, the choppy waters that lay between France and England stretched out. The time had come for a reckoning. Dieppe would be their last stop before England. He had no idea what might happen between him and his Andria after that.
The wind blew sharp on the cliff tops, flattening the grass and pressing the women's skirts against their legs. Paxten turned away from the view to go back and speak with the old woman.
As he did, he felt Alexandria's stare on him. But Paxten had business yet to finish with the Vendéans.
Turning to watch Paxten, Alexandria shaded her eyes from the bright sunlight. Though she had not been able to follow all of Paxten's conversation with the woman, she knew he had struck some bargain with her. What had her promised the woman to bring them to Diepee? More of her jewels? It did not matter.
She turned back to the land and lifted her face to the salt-tanged air. Home. England. Across the gray water lay safety and security. Or at least their illusions.
She pulled in a deep breath.
She wanted to spread her arms wide, as if she could fly. She felt that light, that soaring. Paxten could give away her jewels. And why not? Everything else had been stripped from her; her silken clothes, her satin shoes, her servants, her luggage, and all the things she had once used to make life pleasant. Everything that had weighed her down.
She wanted them gone. All of them. They had been distractions, really, to keep her from noticing how little of value she really had.
Turning away from the ocean, she watched Paxten, admiring his broad shoulders and straight back. The wind tugged at his dark-brown hair, and at his open waistcoat and at the dark coat the Vendéans had given him to wear. She saw him gesture to Maximilian, their donkey and their cart.
Something tugged at her heart. The words lay on her lips to tell him not to give that away. To give away the jewels instead. She wanted almost to climb back into the cart with him. When had she ever felt more alive than over the past few days with him and Diana in that tiny, uncomfortable cart? But she had to think of more than her own wishes.
She glanced at her niece, who was hugging the children, and brushing tears back, and giving her cream shawl to one of the Vendéan girls.
She had Diana to think of still. Diana had to go home, to the life that lay before her and the opportunities there. A boy ran forward to give Diana a daisy plucked from the roadside. Alexandria's throat tightened. She, too, had a son to whom she must return.
But what happened now to Paxten?
He must come with them to England, of course. But then what?
He turned away from the Vendéans and came to her, and suddenly she had to know.
"Paxten, what—?"
Smiling, he put a finger across her lips, stopping her words. "Not now. Not here. We've a walk into Dieppe yet, and a boat to hire. And enough time yet."
She nodded, and linked her fingers through his.
Diana had to pause to say her farewells to Maximilian, and they parted company with the Vendéans. Alexandria glanced back once, but the Vendéans had already vanished down the road, going their own way again, now the owners of a donkey and a new cart.
She thought again of the gold buttons the Vendéans had collected. She did not want to think these people were on the hunt yet for more buttons, but those hard faces had told their own story. Turning her back to the road, she followed Paxten and Diana toward Dieppe.
The port town bustled. Fishermen mended nets on a beach near the quay, sitting on their fishing boats, talking as they worked, or mended canvas sail. Others called out the price for their morning catch, which had begun to give off the strong odor. Women hurried past them, baskets on their arms, their glances curious. Near the docks of the quay, rigging clanged, wood against wood and ships groaned as if unhappy to be trapped at anchor. A few men stood about, idle, smoking long pipes or talking, their garb that of sailors with wide legs to their trousers.
Stares followed them as they walked.
Paxten decided that they must look as disreputable as Gypsies. Something had to be done about that. They stood out far too much. Particularly so when the town had its share of military men garrisoned here.
Twice he pulled Alexandria and Diana into narrow alleys, once to avoid a chattering, casual group of soldiers, and later as a double column of infantrymen marched past the quay. They left Paxten uneasy. However, he glimpsed no sight of a hussar uniform.
The first task was to find passage. For that, Paxten wanted Diana and Alexandria out of sight as he bargained. He wanted to draw the least attention possible and Diana too easily pulled the stare of any man.
He found an inn—one small enough to be obscure—and dug out coins enough to buy refreshments for the ladies. He told them to wait for him. Alexandria looked ready with questions and arguments, so he kissed her, and grinned as she smiled at him and her niece glowered. He strode away before they could say anything to him.
An hour later, he came back with coins in his pocket, more of Alexandria's jewels gone into a pawn shop, and what remained of the gems now promised to a fisherman who claimed to own the fastest boat in Dieppe. The fellow had a smug smile, but he also seemed to have a closed mouth—he had asked no question as to his passengers or their destination. He had also had, Paxten had noted, crates on board his ship, and a glimpse into one had shown champagne bottles packed with straw.
He had grinned at that. Since the man had goods already bound for the English coast, that 'fisherman' would not mind making an even more profitable trip.
As Paxten rejoined Alexandria and her niece in the dark, back parlor of the inn, he took her hand. "I'm sorry, Alexandria."
Her fingers seemed cold and he wondered if that was due to the lack of a fire in the grate or nervousness. Still, she said, her tone teasing, "I should think so. To leave us waiting for so long."
"That could not be helped—but I am sorry your jewels are gone. Or will be when we sail with the tide at the dawn."
"They do not matter. But do you—oh, bother, do you have enough that we might buy clean clothes and a bath, and a hot meal and beds? Those do matter, I find."
He grinned at her impatient tone. And he calculated the odds. Would they do better to retired back to the cliffs for the night? That would be safer, but it would leave them too far from the quay and their pre-dawn rendezvous. The fat fisherman had made it clear he would not wait long for them. Which meant they'd do best to present themselves now as respectable travelers, and be ready to leave before first light.
With that in mind, he took Alexandria and Diana with him.
He bought them all used clothes in a back alley from a woman who promised the gowns had once belonged to a countess who had fled the Revolution. The gowns looked old fashioned enough to date from a decade ago, but the gray satin matched Alexandria's eyes, and the fine lace at the cuffs and neck was a miracle from a nun's devote hands.
Paxten bargained for the gowns, but Alexandria would not allow him to spend too little. The garments had once cost a fortune, and the old woman who now sold them ought to make some profit, she insisted. He did not argue with her.
He did, however, persuade the old woman into provided a room in which they could change. Straw bonnets and embroidered, woolen shawls completed the ladies' outfits. Paxten bought himself breeches, a clean white shirt, a decent—if somewhat large—coat, a waistcoat and a blue kerchief to wear about his neck. And, at the last minute, something else. He then bought a small portmanteau to carry their peasant clothes.
"Nothing so respectable as luggage," he whispered to Alexandria as they left.
At the inn nearest the harbor quay, he found them rooms, requesting baths for the ladies, and a private parlor for dinner.
"Are you certain we dare?" Alexandria asked him. "It seems so extravagant."
He lifted one shoulder, and said, "We should be a good deal more obvious lurking about all day and most of the night. So we hide in plain sight now. And hope our luck lasts."
At that, Alexand
ria's smiled faltered. Good luck would have gotten them to the coast days ago, comfortably in her brother's coach.
A half-hour later, however, as she sank into the hipbath, bending her knees to immerse herself to her neck, she decided this had to be worth any risk. Hot water had never felt so good. She began to scrub at what seemed days of dirt. When it came Diana turn to bathe, Alexandria scrubbed even harder, using lavender scented soap, but the stain on the girl's skin barely faded.
"I do hope this is not permanent," she muttered.
Diana insisted it would fade, and managed to at least wash a little of the black from her hair.
After dressing again in her gray satin—in a room she had quite to herself—Alexandria came downstairs.
She found a gentleman in brown velvet waiting for her at the base of the stairs.
Pausing, one hand on the worn banister, she smiled and asked, "What have you done with the disreputable looking Monsieur Marsett?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Paxten smiled at her, the corner of his mouth barely lifting. "Ah, Madame Chantel, I thought we agreed that was not a name to recognize just now."
She came down the stairs in a mood to flirt, and the warmth in his eyes made her feel far lovelier than had the glance in the faded mirror upstairs. "Well then, Monsieur Chantel, allow me to say I ought to have thought of your dressing so fine sooner. If you had traveled as the Duke of Lavel, it would have been so much more comfortable."
"But difficult considering the duke is twice my age, a military man, and would have needed a coach with a crest and a full escort."
She started to answer him. Before she could, Diana came down the stairs. She had put up her hair, and the cherry stripe in her gown suited her, but Alexandria still could not accustom herself to the inky blackness of her niece's curls. What would Frederick say when next he saw his daughter? And with that dusky skin?
Paxten, however, offered a compliment and ushered them into a small, private parlor with whitewashed walls and a snug fire in the grate. A small, round oak table had been set for their dinner, the china plain and the flatware serviceable. After days traveling with so little, what indulgence it all seemed.
A question hovered on Alexandria's tongue if they could afford it, and she almost laughed at herself. She had once taken such things for granted.
The food could have been anything and she thought she would have eaten it, but the inn served up delicate stuffed capons, sole poached in butter, and a variety of spring vegetables, including new potatoes, and tender white asparagus with a mustard sauce. She ate as if she had been starved for days.
Diana ate even more.
"You'll soon fit that dress of yours, ma fille, if you keep on like that," Paxten said, teasing the girl. The stripped dress did sag around the girl's waist and hips, Alexandria noted. But they had not had time for alterations.
Ignoring Paxten's remark, Diana leaned back in her chair. "The very first thing I shall do when I get home is to put on a dress that fits me—perfectly. And shoes. How does anyone bear wearing shoes that are not made to fit? What about you, Aunt? What shall you do?"
Alexandria stared at her niece for a moment. Blinking, she asked, "Should we not call for desert perhaps?"
They did. And for cards to amuse themselves after. Diana beat Paxten shamelessly at vingt-et-un, turning up twenty-one so many times in a row that Paxten swore she had stolen everyone's luck.
No one again raised the topic of England, but it haunted Alexandria.
What would she do? Would Paxten be with her? And would Diana ever go to bed and leave her alone with him?
With the candles burning low and the fire reduced to glowing embers, Alexandria decided that if she wished her questions answered tonight she had best do something. She rose and took Diana's arm. "It is past time for bed for you."
"Oh, very well, I suppose we do have an early morning. Good night, Mr. Mar—Monsieur Chantel."
Alexandria placed a candleholder and lit candle into Diana's hand. At that, the girl's eyebrows rose. "You are not coming with me? However shall I manage—we've no maid."
Taking Diana's shoulders, Alexandria led her into the hall. "That has not trouble you any night before this. So I wish you pleasant dreams, dear."
Frowning, Diana glanced back into the parlor at Paxten. Leaning close, she whispered, "Really, Aunt, I am not certain I should leave you alone with him. The man simply does not know how to hold himself within any bounds."
"No, he never has. And, quite frankly, I am tired of holding myself within them."
Diana stared at her.
Alexandria smiled and patted the girl's hand. "Now, I have shocked you. Go to bed, dear. When you are nearly forty yourself, it will not seem so shocking. Besides, I only mean to talk to the man."
Reaching out, Diana grasped Alexandria's hand. "It is what he means that worries me. And I—oh, now I am going to start lecturing like Mother. Well, I will not do that." She gave her aunt a kiss on the cheek. "I shall trust that you know what you are about, for you always seem to. Good night."
Diana turned away, and Alexandria watched her for a moment, just to make certain her niece reached her room. Pulling in a breath, she smoothed a hand down her stomach and turned back to Paxten.
Did she know what she was about?
He stood by the fire, a glass of red wine in his fingers, one foot braced on the copper fender around the hearth. In his old-fashioned velvet coat and evening breeches, she could almost imagine that ten years had not passed. The white of his cravat, shirt, and stockings gleamed. He had such lovely, muscular calves.
He looked up as she shut the door behind her and leaned against it, and he asked, his mouth lifting, "Is your duenna put to bed?"
"She is—well, I think she believes you have dishonorable intentions towards me."
He put his glass on the table—which had been cleared earlier of everything but fruit, cheese and wine. He strode across the room, stopping close before her. "And what do you think?"
The glitter in his eyes left her breathless, but she answered, her tone almost even, "I think she is probably right. However, I assured her that I only wish to speak with you."
He shook his head and asked, his words light but with bitterness underneath, "Talk? When we could do so much more? Where is your sense of adventure, Andria—or is it that you never had any?"
Her chin lifted. "Actually, I killed it when I had to let you go."
He stared at her and she pressed her lips tight. Heat scalded her face. Where had those words come from? She had not meant to say any such thing. Nor had she wanted to sound even more caustic than he—but she had.
And she realized the truth.
She had answered so because his words had wounded her. It did not matter if he had meant only a jest about her prosaic nature. He had touched the raw spot of her guilt for not having followed him. And she had lashed back.
She turned away. She had been stupid to think that they would ever be able to bridge the past. She had dug too great a ditch between them by how she had dealt with him, so why did it still surprise her when he sought retribution in small ways? Because she wanted to believe otherwise? Or because she wanted to think that what they had once felt for each other was stronger than this petty nipping at each other.
"Andria...?"
She would not turn back to him, but his hands closed on her shoulders, turning her anyway. His tone softened, became teasing again. "I had forgotten what a delight you take in causing me pain."
This time she tried to take it as a joke as well. Swallowing the dryness in her throat, she looked up at him—the pretense fell apart around her. "I don't delight in it—but you never leave me any other choice, do you?"
His smile twisted. "No—I don't. Do you leave me many choices?"
Still aching inside, she smiled. "No. I do not suppose that I do. Is that how we are well matched these days? In our ability to scratch at each other?"
His fingers stroked down her bare arms. Neither of
them had thought to buy gloves today.
She glanced at his hands—the strong backs of them and the narrowing wrists. She looked back up at his face. His dark eyes no longer glittered, but she thought she saw regret mirrored there. And something else stirring.
"What will you do after we reach England?" she asked.
Letting go of her, he gave a careless shrug. "Who knows. There is Ireland to see. Or the Americas—there's a rumor that France sold its territories there. Or perhaps I'll go east—I've not yet been so far as India."
She swallowed. "But not England. You will not stay?"
Paxten watched her, doing his best not to show his interest in her reactions. He had blundered tonight. He had meant it all to be smooth seduction, charm and sweetness. Instead, he had blurted out hard truths. Somehow he kept forgetting that he had plans for her. He kept tripping over his own pride, and his own tangled feelings.
Taking her hand again he lifted one finger, and the next, and the next, playing with them. Her hand lay passive within his. Such slender fingers. So delicate. He did not look into those clear, gray eyes.
"I was angry with you once for not coming with me, but that was so long ago. As to the future—well, shall we let it take care of itself tonight?"
Glancing at her, he watched the golden firelight warm her skin and draw soft shadows at the base of her throat and between her small, high breasts.
Eyes wide, she nodded.
He leaned closer, close enough to see the flecks of green in her gray eyes, to see the edge of black around the rim, to see the faintest of freckles that had sprung up across her nose. Close enough to smell the tang of wine on her breath, and to breathe in the scent of lavender that clung to her now. Close enough to feel the heat stirring in her.
Reaching up, he tangled his hand into her hair, letting the strands wrap around his fingers. He pulled her head back as he stepped even closer, pressing himself against her and pressing her against the door. She did nothing but give to him, soft and pliant, her head angling back to expose her slender, white throat.
Lady Scandal Page 16
