What a Lady Craves

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  Of course he had. From Alexander’s letters. He let his lips tighten into a semblance of a smile. “So you know all is not lost, then. There’d be even more to salvage if I’d found insurance on the cargo.”

  Lind waved his free hand. “Understandable. It’s rare enough the insurer who will take on an untried captain.”

  Thank God the man had decided to take the news well. Still, they had business to discuss—Alexander and Lind and Battencliffe. “At any rate, I meant to send for you.”

  “I’d say we’ve quite a bit to catch up on.” Such a declaration ought to have been articulated far more lightly. Any delight in his voice had vanished, like a sudden cold wind snuffing out a candle.

  Alexander studied his friend’s expression for a clue. Lind retained the rigid bearing of one who had spent time in the military. Years of campaigning had left subtle marks on his dark features, in the twin furrows above his hawkish nose and the deepening lines about his haunted green eyes. The evidence of deep-seated pain, whether from his wounds or the horrors he’d witnessed, was clearly etched on the man’s face, but Alexander had never learned the specifics. Lind’s letters had trickled to a halt at some point after the war. What Alexander had lived in the Orient, Lind had no doubt experienced on the battlefield several times over.

  Lind turned away. His hand clenched about the metal cap of his walking stick.

  “What say I buy you a drink and you can tell me of your adventures?” Lind added once the moment had drawn itself to the point of awkwardness.

  “I’d be happy to take you up on that offer, but I don’t think you want to chance anything here. Why don’t you come with me, and I’ll offer you some of my aunt’s brandy?” Lind was likely to want the drink once Alexander told him what had precipitated his return from India. “I daresay, she’s got some of the good stuff spirited away, for her own personal use, naturally.”

  “Ah, yes, naturally.” Lind gestured to a carriage standing in the midst of the main thoroughfare. “I might even give you a ride.”

  The few steps toward the conveyance proved Lind would never have made the journey up the hill. His lopsided gait would have slowed them considerably. He leaned heavily on his walking stick and dragged his left foot behind him on every step, a reminder of why he’d sold his commission. Napoleon’s defeat had nearly cost Lind his life.

  “Have you brought your family back with you?” Lind asked casually once they were seated, as if the past eight years and half the world hadn’t separated them. Naturally, he’d have heard of Alexander’s marriage. When Alexander first arrived in India he wrote regular letters home. In Lind’s case, he’d wanted to keep an investor—and friend—informed of his doings.

  He studied his friend from the corner of his eye. “My daughters arrived today. Thankfully, they were on the second ship.”

  Lind nodded, confirming Alexander’s suspicions. So Lind had received his later messages. By the time Francesca was born, Lind’s replies had ceased. “And what of your wife? How has she fared through all this?”

  “She hasn’t, I’m afraid. I buried her back in India.”

  Lind cleared his throat. “Good God, I’m sorry. If you’d ever written to inform me of that event, I never received the letter.”

  “Think nothing of it. Marianne’s death is a relatively recent occurrence. Any message would have arrived about the same time I did.”

  Lind turned his attention to the passing scenery as the carriage trundled up the hill. Silence descended on the cab, a thick sort of silence that made Alexander want to shift in his seat and stare out the opposite window. As it was, he couldn’t help but notice the rich velvet of the squabs or the brightly polished wood interior. Lost investment or no, Lind certainly wasn’t in need of blunt.

  How had matters come to this? Lind was an old, old friend. From the age of eleven, they’d banded together with Rowan Battencliffe to affront the gauntlet known as Eton.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to?” Alexander asked at last. “It seems as if you received my letters, but I rarely got a reply. Or perhaps you’ve had hard luck with return ships. I did manage to hear of your marriage, though.”

  Lind turned a hardened eye on him. “I imagine you heard a great deal more than that.”

  “No, actually.”

  “You mean your friend Battencliffe hasn’t told you all about it?”

  Your friend. Not our, but your. What the deuce was Alexander to make of that statement? He attempted a smile. “Apparently Battencliffe has had as many problems with the post as you have.”

  “Yes, well, that bastard has nothing to be proud of. I’m shocked that he’s perceptive enough to realize that much and keep his gob shut.” The edge to Lind’s words was finely honed. Alexander studied his school friend. The man’s speech fraught with … With what, exactly? Anger, regret, anguish entwined in his tone.

  “What the devil happened to the pair of you? After all we’ve gone through—”

  “Are you going to lecture me about honorable behavior?”

  Alexander stared at the man. Lecture was an apt term. Certainly, he’d rattled on about honor and chivalry when they were youths, when Alexander was an annoying prig and full of his own personal notion of morality.

  “Perhaps dredge up the Ludlowe incident again?” Lind added.

  As yes, the Ludlowe incident. Alexander, Lind, and Battencliffe had attended a house party with several other young bucks just coming into their manhood and feeling their oats when it came to wagers and horseflesh.

  “You know Ludlowe spooked that horse intentionally.” And Lind would always hold that belief.

  “He couldn’t have known you’d end up in that pile of manure.” God, this old argument. Why was Lind even bringing it up? Unless he wanted to deflect Alexander’s attention from more pressing matters. Like Battencliffe. “It isn’t as if horses are predictable creatures.”

  “The bastard would have been happier if that horse had run me down.”

  “Then count yourself fortunate you only ruined a few of your garments.” The matter might even have ended there, but for two things—a female and a wager.

  On his way to change, Lind had no choice but to parade, dirty and smelly, before a crowd of young ladies, including Lydia Bowles. He’d no choice but to laugh off the incident with everyone else, but inside, Alexander knew, he was seething. The following day, Lind challenged his rival to a race across the far pasture, but halfway through the mad gallop, the girth of Ludlowe’s saddle gave way. Inspection proved the strip of leather had been cut partway through.

  “You might have got Ludlowe killed with your idiocy,” Alexander reminded Lind. “If not in the race, in the duel.”

  Lind gave a half shrug and pointed his gaze out the window. “Ludlowe could have killed me if that horse had run me down. Either way, we both survived.” He turned his unsettlingly green eyes on Alexander. “Either way, honor was satisfied.”

  A challenge, that. Hang it, Alexander could come up with one of his own. “Things never should have been carried so far. And might I remind you who stood as your second that day?”

  Certainly not Alexander.

  “You think old memories will change my mind?” Lind pounded a fist against his thigh. “That’s for Battencliffe. When you’ve been gone so many years, things change. And if you must know, the news of your shipwreck is the best you could have given me.”

  The carriage shuddered to a halt in front of the manor. The steps creaked as they were let down, but Alexander made no move to get out. “What? But what of your losses?”

  Lind leaned forward, eyes glittering. “To the devil with my losses. They’re worth every last shilling if it means Battencliffe is ruined. And you’ve just ensured that he will be.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Francesca!” Helena jumped onto the bed, but her sister yanked the box out of her reach. “You know you’re not supposed to touch.”

  Henrietta was inclined to agree with the older girl, but Fra
ncesca’s eyes had filled with tears. “Why don’t you show me your mama’s things?”

  “We’re not allowed,” Helena insisted.

  These jewels might well be the girls’ last connection to their mother. It was hardly the time to point out the woman would never learn of the transgression. “I think it’ll be all right, as long as we’re extra careful.”

  Francesca nodded, her shoulders visibly relaxing. She pulled out a strand of luminous pearls, each one perfectly formed, and of uniform size. A tiny rainbow of color glowed on every orb.

  Henrietta formed a picture in her mind of the woman who had worn such riches. Tall, slender, dark-haired if Helena was anything to judge by. Beautifully perfect and perfectly beautiful. Calm, mannerly. Someone who always knew just the right thing to say. In short, everything Henrietta wasn’t.

  And Alexander had made his choice.

  Francesca ran her finger along the strand of pearls, her stroke reverent, obviously imagining touching the perfection of her mother’s throat, and not simply the jewels that had adorned the soft skin. But Henrietta couldn’t allow jealousy to take hold. The girls would have only their memories of this woman.

  “Perhaps …” Henrietta cleared a lump from her throat. “You can put these aside, and one day, when you’re all grown up, you can wear them yourself.” And just like that, they’d have a piece of their mother with them, always.

  Francesca kept her eyes riveted on the pearls. “Mummy let me try them on.”

  “She did not,” Helena snapped, but she fixed a covetous gaze on the matching set of earrings.

  “If you are very careful not to lose anything and don’t leave this room, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for you to try something on.” A new thought struck. “Go ahead. We’ll see how you look in the mirror. And then we might imagine the sort of ball we’re all attending.” Anything to lighten the somber mood.

  That did it. Francesca looked up, and a smile plumped her cheeks. Her eyes shone, not with unshed tears, but pure, girlish glee. Whatever she became in later years, she’d dashed well better find herself a rich suitor. She was going to cost the man she married a fortune in gowns and jewelry and accessories.

  She set the pearls about her neck and dived into the box for a gold bracelet or two. Henrietta helped screw the earrings onto Helena’s lobes.

  “Ow,” Helena complained.

  Henrietta gave her a wry smile. “This is the price we women must pay for beauty. Society demands it of us and more’s the pity. When you get older, you shall have to wear stays and perhaps shoes that pinch, all in the name of fashion. And when you’re presented at court, you’ll have to wear the most outlandish outfit.”

  Francesca tore her attention from the jewelry box. “What’s being presented at court?”

  Heavens, their mother must have told them nothing of the ton. “When a young lady is old enough to make her entrance into polite society, she must make her bow to the king.”

  “Did you do that?”

  “I did—although at the time I bowed to Queen Charlotte.” At the tender age of eighteen, just before she’d met the girls’ father.

  “Did Mummy?” asked Helena.

  Henrietta had no idea, but surely their mother had been born and raised in England. “I’m certain she did. I don’t know what she might have worn,” she added, to keep the topic light, “but I’m sure it was as silly as what I had to wear.”

  “If you’re to meet the queen, shouldn’t you wear your finest clothes?” Francesca asked seriously.

  “You would think so, but when I made my bow, the queen had very particular ideas about young ladies’ dress. And since she was the queen, she made the rules. We all had to wear the most ridiculous ostrich feathers in our hair and the widest hoops beneath our gowns.” She took her skirts between her fingers and spread them out. “And then there were the trains. Our gowns had to have extra lengths of fabric trailing behind us. We practiced for ages learning to walk without getting tangled up.”

  Both girls giggled, their jewels shimmering. They joined Henrietta in holding out their skirts, twirling about as if they were wearing their court dress to a ball.

  “Oh, but we didn’t dance,” Henrietta said. “Not in front of the queen.”

  “What did you do?” Helena asked. “You bowed before her and that was all?”

  Henrietta nodded. “There were usually a lot of us to be presented at once, so we had to wait in line. And we were all rather frightened.”

  “Was the queen scary?” Francesca asked.

  “Not scary, just old. But there were so many people watching us constantly, and if one of us made a mistake, it would be a disaster. My mama took me when I made my bow, and there were the other mamas. And of course, their daughters were the most beautiful and most refined and had the best manners. They were only waiting for someone else to make a mistake.” The ton’s scrutiny had made the entire ordeal even more nerve-wracking. “It was a lot of waiting and worrying, and you had to make your curtsey just so.”

  Caught up in her story, she demonstrated, holding her skirts out, setting one foot behind the other, and making a low bow.

  With a giggle, Francesca tried to imitate the move, and nearly toppled over.

  “Careful now.” Henrietta took her hand. “It’s easy if you have help at first. Now, this foot behind, bend your knees, and dip your head. And don’t forget to smile. One must always appear gracious. That’s it!”

  “What is this?” said an accented voice. “We are having lessons?”

  Henrietta froze. Satya paused on the threshold, his expression inscrutable, before entering the room soundlessly. Gracious, the man padded as softly as Albemarle.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said.

  The girls smiled and ran to him, clambering about him and giggling. “Your papa has sent for you,” he said. “Look lively now.”

  “Wait,” Henrietta interrupted. “We need to return our finery to its proper place.” And she must return the box to its rightful owner, although she was no longer certain who its rightful owner was. If the box contained their mother’s jewelry, it belonged to the girls more than Alexander. But he was also the logical choice for keeping the contents safe until the girls were old enough to wear the pieces.

  Satya’s gaze snapped to the box, and he stiffened. “Mr. Sanford has been looking for that. Where did you find it?”

  Henrietta looked up from helping Helena off with the earrings. “It washed up on the beach the other morning, and I happened across it.”

  His dark brows lowered. “And worked out how to open it on your own?”

  “No, the girls showed me.”

  The muscles around his eyes tightened. Had she just given Francesca away? Was the girl not supposed to know the secret to unlatching the lid?

  “Never fear,” Henrietta said. “I plan on returning this to Mr. Sanford immediately.”

  Satya grabbed her arm. “I will take it to him.”

  A shiver crept down the back of her neck, and she recoiled. How dare he touch her? She did not know this man. Not only that, his manner since he’d entered the room—or more specifically, spied the box—had been nothing short of threatening. Granted, he was from India, and perhaps they did things a bit differently there, but if he intended to stay in England, he’d best learn English ways.

  She stole a glance at the girls, but nothing about their posture or demeanor indicated anything was amiss. Still, she didn’t like simply handing over a box full of expensive jewelry to an essential stranger. No, the jewelry wasn’t merely expensive; for Helena and Francesca, it was priceless. Even if the pearls were false and the precious stones paste, they would be beyond cost. The finery was a final, concrete connection between two girls and their mother. Eventually, their memories would fade, but they’d always have this part of her.

  She tightened her grip on the box and stepped back. “I was about to hand it over directly, but you may accompany me and make sure it falls into the proper hands.”

  He
stared at her for several seconds, his black eyes impenetrable. If he wished, he could snatch the box, lay her low, and she wouldn’t be able to do a thing to stop him. By the time she screamed, it would be too late.

  But then the tension about his shoulders eased. “So be it.”

  Henrietta let out a breath, even as the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled with alarm.

  “Off with you now,” she said to the girls, her voice loud and falsely cheery in her ears. “Go find your father before he has to come looking for you.”

  Francesca and Helena scampered through the door. Gaze firmly on the floor in front of her, Henrietta made to follow them, but Satya placed himself in her path.

  Part of her mind tolled a warning that it was unseemly for him to be alone with her in her chamber. She must keep her reputation spotless if she meant to retain another position. She moved sideways, trying to clear a path toward the corridor.

  He advanced on her. “Are you frightened of me?”

  She edged toward the door. “Of course not. Only I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong impression.”

  “You should not be frightened. You will find no one more loyal to Mr. Sanford than me.”

  And why did he find it necessary to tell her this? “Oh?”

  “It would reflect poorly on me and my entire family should I fail him.”

  “Then perhaps we ought to hold this conversation somewhere safer.” She nodded toward the corridor, and finally, he allowed her to pass.

  He slipped through the door in her wake. “I simply wanted you to know.”

  She raised her brows at him. “Forgive me, but why me?”

  “I know who you are.”

  Her knees suddenly refused to support her weight, and she sagged against the wall. “You know who I am,” she repeated faintly. “How?”

  “Mr. Sanford often spoke of a Miss Upperton.”

  “I see.” The statement set her heart pattering. “How long have you known Mr. Sanford?” She might not feel completely at ease with this man, but curiosity pushed her to ask.

  “He was in India nearly two years before he acquired me.”