by Brenda Joyce
Her intensity shocked him. But he’d heard the rumors—apparently her husband had been a real bastard. “Yeah, it can—bad things happen to good people all the time, and there is no justice.”
For a moment she was silent, staring into his eyes. Then she said, “You deserve good things, Mr. Jefferson, I am certain of it.”
She laid her small, soft hand on his arm as she spoke, and his heart lurched like a locomotive hitting broken tracks. For one moment, as his blood heated, it was hard to speak. “That’s kind of you,” he said gruffly, and he actually felt himself blush.
ALEXANDRA WALKED SLOWLY up the crowded street, zigzagging between the pedestrians while trying to avoid piles of refuse, sewage and potholes. She wished she could hold a handkerchief to her nose. The stench was so foul, she thought she might vomit, but she couldn’t hold a kerchief, because she had two bags in her arms. One contained groceries, the other, sewing supplies.
She was beyond dismay. Twelve days had passed since she had moved into Mr. Schumacher’s inn, which she had come to regard as a veritable paradise in this dank and fetid swamp of impoverished and hopeless humanity. Alexandra had been aware of the terrible conditions of Britain’s working classes. She had always felt sorry for the working poor, especially the children. But reading about the conditions in factories and mills—and debating the various ways one might institute economic and social reforms—was so very different from living among Britain’s poor. She hadn’t realized how terribly most of England was suffering, and just how privileged even the destitute among the upper classes were.
Everyone here was ragged, tired and hungry. Even the children had gaunt, expressions and dead eyes. It was heartbreaking.
And perhaps the worst part was that these men, women and children didn’t realize she was just like them. They looked at her with respect, they doffed their caps to her, they called her “my lady,” and even, sometimes, “Yer Grace.” They understood that she was gentry and simply did not know that now she was one of them.
Alexandra wondered how she would live the rest of her life like this. The thought was dismal and depressing. She could bear the burden of her poverty, but she missed Olivia and Corey terribly, and she was always tired.
She tensed, an image of Clarewood coming to mind. She still thought of him all the time, with hurt and anger, with betrayal, even though almost three weeks had passed since their ill-fated affair had begun and so precipitously ended. But she would not blame him for what had happened. Too late, she knew she’d been weak; had she been stronger, had she resisted his advances, she would be comfortably at home right now.
And then Alexandra saw a beautiful closed carriage at the end of the street, with two handsome bay geldings in the traces. She halted, tensing. Only a very wealthy nobleman or merchant would own such a coach, but she did not recognize it. At least it did not belong to Clarewood, not that she ever expected to see him again, and it was not Lady Blanche’s. She relaxed a little and decided that the carriage had nothing to do with her.
She pushed open the door to the inn with her shoulder, her arms filled with her groceries and supplies. Randolph had called on her a few days ago, inquiring after her welfare. It had taken all her resolve to remain calm and composed, and even indifferent, while in his presence. She’d met with him in the public room, claimed she was fine, and refused him when he had asked if she wished to stay as his guest at Harrington Hall. She hadn’t told him about his mother’s visit, but he was an admirable and compassionate young man.
Now, as she entered the front hall, the public room ahead, the stairs on her right, she saw a beautiful noblewoman seated at a table there, chatting with Mr. Schumacher. Instantly her landlord waved at her; as instantly, the blond woman turned and stood up.
Alexandra felt faint. Although they had never met, she recognized the dowager duchess of Clarewood instantly. She’d seen her at the Harrington ball.
Julia Mowbray glided toward her, smiling. “Hello, Miss Bolton. I believe I am being terribly bold, but I decided we must meet.”
Alexandra clutched her bags, afraid she would drop them otherwise. What could Stephen’s mother want? Her stomach churned with sickening force. “Your Grace,” she somehow said.
“Can we go upstairs? Mr. Schumacher has promised to send us tea.” The older woman smiled.
Alexandra met her gray gaze and realized that her eyes were warm, as if friendly. But that was impossible. Her stare was also searching. What could she possibly want?
She tried to find an excuse to send the dowager duchess away, but none came to mind. She managed to smile in return. “I’m afraid my accommodations will not suffice, Your Grace. I do not think you will be comfortable.”
“Do you have two chairs in your room?” She did not wait for an answer. “I thought so. Come, let’s go up. You can hardly refuse me, especially as it was an hour drive to find your lodgings.”
Alexandra inhaled, now nauseous. She led the way upstairs, placed her bags on the floor and unlocked her door. As they went inside, she stole a glance at Julia Mowbray.
The other woman’s face was grim as she looked around the small, tidy but dismal flat. However, when she caught Alexandra looking at her, she smiled. “You are very brave, my dear,” she said. “And you cannot stay here.”
Alexandra placed her bags on the counter, facing her breathlessly. “I am afraid I have nowhere else to go.”
“Nonsense. You will come to Constance Hall.”
Alexandra was alarmed. “You are inviting me to your home?”
“Is my son not responsible for your predicament?”
Alexandra turned away, inhaling. What did this woman want? What did her offer signify? Was she as kind as her son was cruel? She would never accuse Stephen of anything, especially not to his mother. “Clarewood is not responsible,” she muttered uncomfortably.
“Really?” Julia approached and touched her arm. “My dear, I have heard all the rumors. I rarely heed gossip, but obviously something has happened to cause you to have fallen on very hard times. I also know my son very well, and I saw him at Blanche’s, so I suspect that Stephen’s interest in you has played a role in your downfall. Am I right?”
Alexandra turned. “No.” She held herself proudly. She would never reveal what had happened—to do so was simply wrong. And she would never lay all the blame on Stephen, not when she should have refused his advances. As the dowager duchess looked startled, Alexandra said, “Choices are rarely simple. I have always felt that one should take responsibility for one’s choices. Mine have led me to this moment, Your Grace.”
Julia’s eyes widened. “You are a remarkable woman. You will not blame Stephen, will you?”
“No—I blame myself.”
“You still cannot live this way.” Julia’s stare had sharpened. “But your restraint, and lack of malice, is commendable. Do you hate Stephen?”
Alexandra gasped. “We had a misunderstanding,” she said slowly. God, that was such an understatement—and so much pain remained. “But I could never hate him.”
“Do you love him, then?”
She flushed and turned away, trembling. She was afraid to consider the question, much less answer it.
For a moment Julia was silent, but Alexandra knew she was staring at her back. Then she said, “Good. My son is an exceptional man, though also a difficult one.” Alexandra slowly turned as Julia Mowbray went on. “He was raised to be a difficult man, Miss Bolton. His father was cruel, cold and critical. Stephen was never loved and never praised. When he failed in an endeavor, he was punished, often with a fist or a riding crop. He has learned to be hard and difficult. He has learned to be intolerant of those in his employ, in his household, in his life. But he is compassionate. I am certain of it. If wrong, he will eventually realize it. And you must know he is a champion of those who have been wronged, or who suffer hopelessly and needlessly.”
Alexandra stared. She hadn’t known anything about his childhood, and she cringed, thinking about any child being so harshly treat
ed. And she wanted to believe that he was compassionate. Just then, she kept recalling the warmth in his eyes as he made love to her—his promises to be generous. And suddenly she recalled how safe she had felt in his presence—and in his arms. She shivered. “There is no right and no wrong here, Your Grace,” she whispered. “And if you are suggesting that Stephen—I mean, His Grace—will champion me or my cause, there is nothing to champion. Sooner or later I will work things out with my father and return to Edgemont Way.”
“Really? Are you refusing my invitation, then?”
Alexandra trembled. She could not imagine accepting, and not only because she was too proud to take charity. She was not about to live with Stephen’s mother. Not under any circumstances, particularly these. “I cannot accept.”
Julia Mowbray started. “You are too proud to accept my offer? You would rather remain here, as a working woman?”
“Yes.”
“You are an unusual woman, Miss Bolton,” Julia finally said. She picked up her gloves, which she’d laid on the table. “I am pleased to have met you, and now…I am not sorry you have turned me down.” Alexandra had not a clue as to what that last remark meant. “And I must say, I am also pleased that you are the one who has come into Stephen’s life.”
Alexandra trembled. “I cannot understand.”
“Oh, I don’t expect you to, not yet. But you will.” And she smiled, as if she knew something Alexandra did not.
“YOU DO NOT HAVE TO announce me, Guillermo,” Julia said, striding briskly past the butler.
His eyes widened. “His Grace has left strict instructions that he is not to be disturbed, Your Grace, and you did not send word.”
Julia was wry. “Yes, he will be put out—I have not made an appointment, and I am interrupting some grand scheme for a new charity. Charity does begin at home, Guillermo.” She did not pause as she crossed the hall, the butler hurrying after her.
“I beg your pardon?”
Though she could hardly explain, she had been referring to Stephen’s former mistress, Alexandra Bolton, of course, a simply amazing young woman. “Is he in the study?”
“Yes, he is. Your Grace, please! Let me at least announce you.”
Julia ignored him, pushing open the door to the study, where Stephen sat at his desk, flanked by two lawyers who also handled her own affairs on occasion.
He looked up, startled. “Mother? This is a surprise.”
“I am sure it is. I’m afraid I have an urgent matter to discuss with you—and that I must interrupt.” She paused, smiling.
Stephen stood warily, coming out from behind his desk. “Is someone at death’s door?” he asked, as the two gentlemen nodded at her and vacated the room.
“I certainly hope not.” She kissed his cheek. “I have just met Miss Bolton.”
His face darkened. Ignoring her words, he said, “I have been thinking about you. In fact, I have decided to begin looking for a husband for you.”
Julia knew he meant to startle her—and change the subject. And he succeeded. Instantly she thought of Tyne Jefferson. It had been almost two weeks since that afternoon when she had learned about the child he had lost. He had called another time, but the weather had been too poor for riding yet again, so they had chatted while touring her stables. And when she had shown him her horses, there had been so much tension between them that Julia knew she hadn’t been mistaken about his interest. Nor had she mistaken his direct male glances.
Her heart thundered. She had been expecting him to call on her as a suitor after that. But he hadn’t—and how could he? She was a duchess, he an American rancher. She was going to have to take matters into her own hands.
And now Stephen thought to come to her rescue—but this was not a rescue, it was a fate worse than death! “I will not marry,” she told her son. “And I mean it, Stephen.”
He stared. “Do not tell me you are still besotted with that American.”
“He calls himself a Californio,” she said, unthinkingly. Her heart raced again. “I do not think I will confide in you again.”
“And that is a confession in itself.” Stephen stared closely. “You seem upset. He does not return your interest?”
“I am not discussing Jefferson with you again,” she said. “Are you aware that Miss Bolton has been thrown out of her home, and that she now lives in a small, dank room, with no amenities, a room not even fit for a vagrant, much less a gentlewoman?”
He stared. “There is no stopping you, is there? I am aware she has taken a room at Schumacher’s Inn.” He folded his arms, scowling. “I cannot believe that you have thought to meddle.”
“She is living in abject poverty, Stephen,” Julia said. “And I believe you are the cause of her downfall.”
He flushed. “That is unfair. If I were the cause, I would make amends. However, she tried to deceive me. She is a very clever woman, and I am sure she will manage her current circumstances well enough.”
“I am disappointed,” Julia said, meaning it. “And I think you had better call on her before deciding just how well she is managing her current circumstances.”
“Randolph has already called on her! So have Lady Blanche and Sir Rex. Now you have called—I believe she has enough champions. My God, before I even know it, Elysse and Ariella will visit her and blame me for everything.”
“So you will let her starve? Sew by candlelight? Share common bathing facilities?”
He suddenly slammed a fist onto his desk, stunning her. “And what would you have me do? Marry her?”
Her son never lost his temper. She stared, then said, “Is marriage to Miss Bolton on your mind?”
“Of course it’s not,” he snapped. And he returned her regard, finally saying, “You are exaggerating her plight, are you not?”
She was grim. “No, Stephen, I am not. It is miserable—and unacceptable. I expect you to rectify this.”
His only answer was to pace, his expression resigned and grim—and reflective.
ALEXANDRA WAS BEGINNING to wonder if she was ill. She was always tired, but then, she was not sleeping very well.
Several days had passed since the dowager duchess’s surprising—and incomprehensible—visit. Alexandra remained shaken by the encounter, and she was trying to forget it—just as she continued to try to forget all that had happened with Stephen. But it was impossible.
She wished the dowager duchess had been mean, unkind and even cruel. Instead, she felt almost certain that if she ever came to the comprehension that she simply could not go on as she was doing, the dowager duchess would open her home to her. And that made no sense.
Alexandra slowly walked toward the inn. She had no funds left—she had just used her last few shillings to buy precious thread and enough groceries for a few days of meals. She was owed payment by several customers, and she was going to have to find a way of driving out to call on the ladies and beg for what was due her.
Two thin dogs ran past her, and Alexandra tripped. She did not want to let go of her sewing supplies, so she fell, letting go of the groceries instead. She landed hard on her knees and elbow, clutching the one precious bag. The other bag landed in a puddle of dirty water, and three potatoes, a cabbage and an onion rolled into the filthy street. Sitting back on her calves, Alexandra cried out as she watched two small children dive upon her groceries. One of the mongrels came up to her and licked her face, wagging its tail.
She looked at the happy black-and-white face, the dancing brown eyes, and she felt tears rise.
“Here,” a child said.
Alexandra saw a small, dirty hand holding an equally dirty potato under her nose. She looked up and saw a solemn little girl, her dark hair in pigtails tied with small scraps of rags. She was razor thin. “You can have the potato,” Alexandra said.
The girl’s eyes widened. Then she quickly turned and ran off with her precious cargo.
Alexandra saw that the rest of the groceries were gone and felt like crying, but she refused to do so, even thoug
h she could not afford more, not until she was paid. Then she looked at the dog who was sitting beside her. “If you think there will be scraps at my table, you are wrong.”
Alexandra was about to get up when she caught sight of a beautiful royal-blue silk skirt, just inches from where she sat. The fabric was expensive, and only a lady would wear such a gown. Instantly she prayed that one of her customers had come to offer her payment, but she immediately knew better—her clients paid their bills by sending a servant. She looked up.
Two extremely wealthy ladies stood there looking down at her. One was a matron, wearing far too many jewels, the other a breathtakingly lovely and young blond girl. The matron stared with contempt, the girl, with horror. Certain they knew her, and were, perhaps, new clients, Alexandra got up awkwardly. As she did, the girl reached out to steady her.
The matron said, “Do not touch her, Anne.”
Anne dropped her hand.
Alexandra looked at the matron. “I tripped and fell.”
“Obviously.” The woman inhaled harshly. “You must be the infamous Miss Bolton.”
So, she was infamous now. Alexandra held the bag of sewing supplies more tightly to her chest. “I am Alexandra Bolton. Are you looking for me?” She desperately hoped they were new customers.
“Yes, we were,” the matron said with absolute condescension. “I had merely wondered if the rumors were true that he had tossed you onto the streets. I wanted to see for myself the trollop he chose and cast aside—when my daughter would make a perfect duchess. Let’s go, Anne.”
But the lovely blonde didn’t move. “Mother,” she whispered nervously.
Alexandra followed her gaze—and her knees buckled. Her heart pounded as shock ran through her. Turning the corner was a huge black coach pulled by six magnificent black horses—the Duke of Clarewood’s red-and-gold crest emblazoned upon the doors. What was he doing here?
For one moment she could not think, could only stare, horrified. Then coherence began. She did not know what he wanted, but she knew she had to run. Yet still she could not move. Her heartbeat had become deafening.
