Alex's Angel

by Natasha Blackthorne

  “I am just trying to place him in my mind. The Eliots of Boston are a very solid family. I want to know what branch she hails from.”

  “Actually, we’re not related to those Eliots. My grandfather came here to Pennsylvania from East Anglia when he was a young man.”

  “Oh, I see,” Cornelia said with a pleasant smile. “Well, I hope you have a good time tonight, child. Ah, I see Peter has finally come back down.”

  She hurried away, leaving a trail of lavender-scented air in her wake.

  “I didn’t do well, did I?”

  Alex took her hand and enfolded it in his own. Even through her gloves, cold radiated from her to him. She was nervous. He caressed her palm with his fingers. “You did fine. She’s just…difficult. She’ll warm to you in time. I’ll make certain of it.”

  “Yes, you always get your way.” She gave him a somewhat sad and wistful smile.

  For the first time that evening, he suddenly saw her. Truly saw her as she was with her elegantly coiffed hair and crown of gilded laurel leaves. But he noticed so much more. She had changed since their first night. Her face had filled out. All her sharp angles were gone. Her breasts were the size of small peaches and filled out the bodice of her dark green gown quite nicely, with a delicate refinement that he found very enticing. She looked like a young woman, no longer a girl.

  Equal parts of tenderness and lust pressed on him. He had to tell her.

  “You are beautiful tonight.”

  Emily thought for a moment that she hadn’t heard him correctly. Oh, he’d often called her lovely in that careless, charming way of his. But truly beautiful?

  He smiled, his eyes warming. “You’re the most beautiful woman here tonight.”

  Lord, such talk would go to her head.

  “You needn’t flatter me, Alex.” She snapped the words more harshly than she had intended. But damn it, he frightened her when he looked at her like that. She was afraid she’d believe in it too much.

  He leaned away for a moment, frowning at her. “I certainly mean every word.”

  Despite his light tone and pleasant expression, darkness shadowed his eyes. She could almost believe she had hurt him.

  You don’t really know this man. His family—even the man himself—tells you not to trust him.

  He was frightfully handsome in his dark blue, double-breasted coat with a white satin waistcoat and buff-coloured breeches that ended two inches below his knees with white stockings and polished buckled shoes. Excellent tailoring made his clothes cling to his powerful body in a sublime way. His hair shone like spun gold in the light from the countless jasmine-scented candles in the shiny brass candelabra above.

  He was every inch her sun god—even more handsome than when she’d first met him in the Blue Duck—and yet he would never truly be hers.

  He had told her he loved her and then in the next breath told her his love was meaningless.

  He offered his arm and she took it, feeling the whole time the discontinuity between touching him in the here and now, yet never being able to hold on to him. He was like a mirage in her life. Something too extraordinary to be true. They walked through the brightly lit assembly room, which was really two parlours opened onto each other with their usual furnishings removed. A musical quartet began playing in one corner.

  He took her around the room, introducing her to a plethora of people. She would never remember their names. He knew them all and their stories. He had a kind, considerate word for everyone. It made her aware of how very different they were. He was so charming, so socially facile. She would never be comfortable in a crowd. Even more proof of how unworthy she was of him. How poorly they fitted together.

  Mrs Hazelwood returned to Alex’s side, bringing with her a black-haired woman. She must have been around thirty. She was tall, with a body like a Grecian statue, and her oval face had the classic features of a cameo. Her gown of emerald silk was the height of elegance and not a hair in her coiffure was out of place. Her cleavage was of epic proportions. She smiled, dimples popping out on both sides of her face while her big blue eyes, alight with joy, devoured Alex whole.

  The way he seemed to freeze at the sight of the woman, the way his pupils dilated slightly, told her everything. They were lovers.

  Yes, of course Emily had known he must have many lovers. She’d not allowed herself to think long on it. She certainly hadn’t been prepared to face one of them in the flesh, especially not such a living paragon of beauty.

  “You naughty boy—Brigit tells me you haven’t even called on her yet,” Mrs Hazelwood said, slapping his hand lightly.

  “I have been very busy,” Alex said in smooth tones, turning on Brigit a smile of such dazzling warmth that it made Emily’s insides twist. But then again, he’d smiled at everyone like that tonight. Charm seemed to be his habit.

  “Too busy to spare an hour here or there?” Brigit laughed, a sound like tinkling bells. “My word, that is busy.” She shifted her gaze critically to Emily and raked her gaze over her. Her eyes hardened even as a relaxed smile crossed her perfect, cupid’s bow mouth. “So, you are Alex’s little artist?”

  “Alex is always dabbling in some project or other, if he is not running off on some voyage,” Mrs Hazelwood said.

  “Yes—pity that he so quickly grows bored with most of his”—once again, Brigit raked her blue eyes over Emily—“projects.”

  A touch on her arm startled her. She turned. Mrs Hazelwood was beaming a smile up at her. “Why don’t you come with me, Miss Eliot, and I shall introduce you to some people.” She nodded at Alex. “And you can dance with Brigit and get caught up with each other.”

  There was no way to decline even if she’d wanted to. But she would rather have died than allow Alex to know that she was deathly green jealous of the beautiful Mrs Forbes.

  Mrs Hazelwood led her away. “Mrs Forbes and Alex are old friends. They knew each other as children. Now that Mr Forbes has passed on, Mrs Forbes is doing the best she can to run the mercantile business he left her. Alex advises her.”

  Yes, Emily was sure he did.

  “Child,” Mrs Hazelwood said. “Why did you not tell me that your mother’s father was a Virginia Fletcher?”

  “I didn’t think much of it. She was estranged from her family after she married my grandfather.”

  “They are a very fine and old family in Virginia.” Mrs Hazelwood beamed a dazzling smile at her and squeezed her arm. “You must show more pride in your origins.”

  The ladies were far warmer to Emily now that she was on Mrs Hazelwood’s arm and not Alex’s. They made the rounds of the ballroom and then she returned Emily to Alex and left them there.

  Alex was silent, watching the dancers. Emily didn’t know what to say.

  A woman was making a beeline for them. Her faddishly short-cropped, strawberry-blonde hair was wisped into a crown of curls, a fetching foil for her delicate features. Her skin was like old ivory and her figure lush. Obviously this was another of Alex’s tea-drinking ladies. Were none of them less than perfect?

  “Alexander Dalton, you’re in town two whole weeks and not a word have I heard from you!” Smiling toothily, the woman rapped Alex playfully on the arm with her closed fan and her hazel eyes glittered teasingly.

  He laughed nonchalantly. “I’ve been busy.”

  “So I’ve heard,” she replied, eyeing Emily archly. “Well, aren’t you going to introduce me to your pretty little propagandist?”

  “I am no one’s propagandist. It was only chance that my work coincided with Mr Dalton’s goals. I wrote my book in honour of my father, who died in Algerian captivity.”

  “Most people assume the book was Alex’s idea. After all, you’re just a sketch artist, a female, not to mention so very young and timid. Well, no one knows anything about your people—”

  “Put your claws away, Maggie,” Alex said, laughingly. “Miss Eliot worked on that book for two years before I even met her.”

  Maggie seemed unfazed by Alex’s
casual, almost disrespectful demeanour. She fanned her face slowly, batting her lashes as she leaned a bit closer to Alex. “And does your propagandist dance?”

  “No, I don’t,” Emily said.

  Maggie smiled. “Then you won’t mind if Alex dances with me. He is an excellent dancer and, unlike so many men, he seems to enjoy it. It would be a pity if he had to sit out every set tonight.”

  “Maggie, I don’t think—” Alex began.

  Emily spoke over him, “Oh please, do dance with her. She’s right—you shouldn’t have to remain on the sidelines just because I can’t.”

  Alex’s jaw tightened ever so slightly but he offered his arm to Maggie and escorted her to where the other couples were lining up for another set. It didn’t matter whom he danced with. Truly it didn’t. She would soon be finding a new job and leaving his house. He would simply be a pleasant memory.

  Why, then, did her throat burn to see him turn and smile at Maggie? Beautiful, flawless Maggie. Emily could never hope to be in the same class as his other women. She couldn’t hope to hold his attention for long. But she couldn’t stay and watch this scene unfold, either.

  She went out onto the balcony to clear her head with the cool, crisp night air. Something rustled in the hedge to her left. She turned to look down and, between the bushes and the window, off to the side of the balcony, a pair of startlingly sky-blue eyes met hers, wide and frightened.

  “Elizabeth, what are you doing there?” Emily said.

  The little girl took flight, running towards the garden, her pale blonde ringlets bouncing and her flannel nightdress glowing ghostly white in the moonlight.

  Emily hadn’t meant to frighten her. And it was such a cold night—she shouldn’t be running about in just a nightdress. She hurried down the stairs to follow the child into the garden. A flash of white flitted into the hedges that bordered the far end of Mrs Hazelwood’s property and she quickened her pace. When she reached the border, she caught another flash of white from the corner of her eye.

  She turned.

  Elizabeth was standing there looking up at the tall, thin shadow of a man. The man was fishing in his pockets. He handed something to the girl. She took it and studied it.

  He patted her on the head.

  Emily’s heart stopped. She ran towards them.

  The man looked up, his boyish features pale. Richard Green.

  Emily sucked in her breath. “Elizabeth!”

  Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder and her sky-blue eyes turned huge. With a little cry, she turned and ran back for the house, going the roundabout way along the line of hedges that marked the perimeter of the property, her hair streaming behind her, glinting silver in the moonlight.

  Emily picked up her skirts and turned and ran after the child. The sound of boots clanking on paving stones sent another jab of anxiety pounding through her. She ran harder, lifting her knees high.

  Richard Green came running in front of her and stopped, forcing her to halt.

  She stood there, taking great gulps of air.

  “I’ve been needing to speak with you, Miss Eliot. It is about your father.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Richard Green’s manner was polite, as if he hadn’t just forced his presence on her. As if he had never attacked her previously. Yet the way he stood there, his limbs twitching almost as if he were dancing, the way he kept cutting her sideways glances and putting his hand halfway over his mouth, sent prickles over her skin. It made her afraid to make a sudden movement. Some instinct, at the hint of a wild glimmer in his eyes, told her he would be best handled through watchful calmness. If he were to grasp her—

  She backed away slowly, moving further into the garden. Further away from the safety of the house.

  He quickly closed the distance. He took her hand.

  A scream welled up in her throat, burning, pressing its way up. She swallowed it. If she screamed, she would have to explain to others why she was alone in the gardens with him.

  It would also give credence to all the rumours that she had been the petite, thin, dark-haired girl in the Blue Duck that night, whom Alex and Richard Green had fought over.

  With all of that against her, who would believe her an innocent in this?

  The gardens had been empty in any case. The music from the house carried to them. No one would hear her screams.

  “Please, let me pass.” She tried to voice the words evenly but her throat constricted on the last word.

  His grip tightened on her arm. “Aren’t you going to pay me the least civility and ask how I have fared? Or do you see me as something less than a fellow human now that your lover has beaten me to the ground?”

  She gaped at him. Had the man forgotten his own bestial treatment of her?

  “We didn’t meet on exactly friendly terms, Mr Green. Nor did we part well on our last meeting.”

  He loosened his hold and frowned. “I am sorry for that. I’d had a bit too much to drink. Now, are you going to ask me how I have fared or do I have to assume you despise me now?”

  She decided to placate him, then pick her moment to slip away and run back inside.

  “How have you fared, Mr Green?”

  “I’ve had some bad luck since our last meeting. A ship I invested heavily in was one of those captured.”

  “I am sorry to hear it.”

  His green eyes burnt with righteous conviction. “You helped him humiliate me that night. I’ll never forgive you.”

  She shook her head. “No, no—I didn’t even know who you were.”

  He smiled, his lips trembling as if he were simply a boy, nervous about talking to a girl. “I must apologise for the other night—at the Blue Duck. I had been drinking quite a bit that night as well. More than I normally do. Seeing Alex there after so long…well, it’s never easy, you understand, to face someone who hates me so much. I always need something to fortify myself.”

  “Why does Alex hate you so much?”

  “Why, indeed—how smoothly you say that, as if you don’t know why.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “Let’s not play this game—we’re not children, either of us. You want to keep your secrets from me, then keep them. But I wanted to apologise.” He laughed softly, the sound full of chagrin. “I thought you were a harlot. I should never have assumed such a thing and I treated you savagely. I am not like that. I do know how to treat a young lady and so I shall treat you from here on out.”

  She nodded. What else was she to say? Whether he was regretful or not, he terrified her. She wanted nothing more than to get away from him and go back inside. “Thank you, Mr Green, for explaining. I really should be going inside now.”

  “I knew your father well and I wonder how you can hold your head up so high today.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The food you ate, the clothes on your back, the very roof over your head, were paid for with the blood of slaves. How can you live with that, Miss Eliot?”

  “You’re insane. My father was a kind man. A just man. He could never have been a slaver. Anyone who knew him would know that.”

  “I knew your father well, I served under him as a boy.” Green continued in detail, giving the name of her father’s ship, his officers, the distinctive marks on her father’s face. “I was called upon, just as any other member of that vessel, to toss the bodies overboard—the men and women who had died wallowing helplessly in their waste—”

  “You’re insane! My father never traded in slaves.” Emily pulled hard on his hold.

  He let her go.

  She ran from him.

  “Miss Eliot! Hold up!”

  She picked up her skirts and ran faster.

  “But we’re not done talking!”

  His voice carried on the wind, barely audible above the music that seemed to pound in a staccato rhythm in her ears. She reached the safety of the balcony. On this chilly night, it was still empty.

  She leaned against the wall, backing along it.


  But Green had followed and he was approaching. The gay music echoing loudly from inside the ballroom provided a surreal juxtaposition as he came closer, then loomed over her, his boyish features twisted into a menacing expression. Finding herself fixed tightly in the corner, she swallowed convulsively against rising nausea.

  Of course Green was lying—but why? Just to hurt her? Just because of Alex?

  He slammed his hand on the wall next to her head. She jumped and her breathing increased as he leaned in to her, his green eyes burning into her without mercy. “He was a slaver, trading in flesh and blood, packing them in ships as thoughtlessly as other men stack cord wood. Thousands died at his mercy, all for your pretty frocks and ribbons. It’s poetic justice that your father died in shameful captivity.”

  “Why are you tormenting me with this?”

  “You think the noble-minded Dalton will tie himself to slaver’s daughter? He’s going to use you, throw you over when he’s done,” Green said, his voice caressing the words with pleasure. “Perhaps you’ll whelp his bastard, spend the rest of your days begging him for scraps.”

  “Get away from me!” she cried, pressing her fist to her mouth.

  “People have short memories and back then no one really cared who traded in slaves. But times and sensitivities have changed—and I’ll remind them. I’ll tell everyone exactly who and what your father was. I will. To repay you for helping Alex to shame me at the Blue Duck.”

  “Please—just leave me alone.”

  He laughed, the sound soft and sinister. “Watch the papers, sweeting. You’re going to be a scandal.”

  He moved away from her.

  “Wait!”

  He stopped. “Yes?”

  “You can’t possibly mean to do that to me without proof that I really helped Alex shame you, as you put it.” The words came pouring out of her, a desperate attempt to reach whatever was rational or human within him. “You said yourself you were mistaken about me being a harlot. Isn’t it possible you’re mistaken about this as well?”

  He came back to her. “I don’t think I am mistaken.”

  “But I don’t know—an—and if I did, I wouldn’t tell anyone. Not if it was something painful that could hurt Alex—or even you. I have no wish to hurt you, I simply wish you to leave me alone.”