“Of course she doesn’t,” Andrew said quietly. “She’s a smart lady and knows I give her every bit of myself I can.”
“Lucky her.” To be a horse, whose heart could be broken only by an absence of oats in her bucket or grass in her paddock. “This magnificent fellow is Magic?”
“One and the same. Gareth gave him to me, probably because he didn’t have the patience for him,” Andrew said, placing a saddle pad across the horse’s broad back.
“What’s his breeding?”
“Don’t know.” Andrew settled the saddle over the pad. “He’s twitchy enough to be bloodstock, but big enough there has to be some draft in him not too far back. For all I know, he’s a reject from the Gypsy fair. But we elegant, noble fellows of good bone have to stick together, don’t we?” he asked the horse as he reached under its belly for the girth.
And females intent on enjoying the morning had to take that hint. Astrid led the mare to the ladies’ mounting block and climbed aboard, arranging her skirts while Andrew rechecked Magic’s girth and bridle.
“Let me know when you ladies are situated, because once I’m up, we’ll move off directly at the walk.”
Magic looked around, seemingly ill at ease in the yard, though he’d been living on the property for months.
“We are situated,” Astrid said, petting the mare.
Andrew was up in the saddle in one smooth movement, no small feat given the height of the horse. Magic danced and wheeled, while Andrew merely nodded at Astrid and followed as she moved her mare forward at the walk.
As Andrew patiently explained to Magic not every ride was going to be a tearing gallop, and the mare placidly ambled off toward the bridle path, Astrid inhaled a bracing lungful of crisp autumn air. The morning was glorious, and she was glad to be alive.
And besides, hadn’t Andrew intimated that he cared for her?
Well, her, the mare, somebody… She glanced over her shoulder, to see Magic curveting and crow-hopping while Andrew sat, tall, serene, and smiling, atop the beast.
“You,” he informed the horse, “are a great looby. You can see our ladies are striking out fearlessly”—Magic shot up, seemingly off all four feet at once, and kicked out behind—“but you insist on these silly tantrums.”
When the horse came down, he stood still, as if waiting for something.
“Isn’t that a cavalry maneuver?” Whatever it was, it was magnificently athletic. “The thing he just did, where he leaps and kicks out? It was quite grand.”
Andrew patted the horse’s neck. “Where in the world would you have seen cavalry maneuvers?” Magic walked forward, his antics of a few minutes ago apparently forgotten. “I do believe,” Andrew addressed his mount, “the Marquess of Heathgate is going to regret the day he parted with you. But you and I will not regret it one bit, will we?”
Magic was, of course, greatly discommoded by the flapping and squawking of the ducks, and once again broke into his peculiar antics. Andrew apparently used cues known only to him—and Magic—because the horse again offered a version of the same athletic maneuver.
“Merciful heavens, you two,” Astrid remarked, “would you stop showing off? We are quite impressed but would both like to see you safely home.”
And if this display from the horse only entertained Andrew, what would it take to unnerve him?
“So you would care if I came to grief?” Andrew teased.
Her in-laws would be underfoot tomorrow—a matter of all too few hours. Astrid brought her mare to a halt and regarded Andrew on his skittish, magnificent black horse. “I love you, and I am in love with you. The last thing I need right now is another occasion for grief. Now toddle on, shall we?”
He had nothing to say to that, not that she’d expected anything, save perhaps some teasing. When they got to the stable yard, grooms came out to take both horses. Andrew for once did not look after his own beast, but offered Astrid his arm.
“You shouldn’t say such things, you know,” he chided gently as they walked toward the house.
“What you mean is that I shouldn’t feel such things, and I agree. Loving you is a very inconvenient business.”
“I am flattered.” He sounded more troubled than anything else.
“You are burdened,” Astrid retorted, giving him a sad smile. “I deem you to be a lovable man, and you cannot accept that. I don’t know why, Andrew, but I know this is what you sincerely believe. And yet, your brother, who is no fool, surely loves you, as does my sister, as does your mother. I suspect every horse in that stable loves you as well, and their judgment, as we both know, is infallible.”
He continued to walk beside her. Astrid expected him to explode into a display of athletics that might take him to, say, Tuscany.
When he remained quiet at her side, she forged on as they strolled through the overblown asters and chrysanthemums. “You need not fear I will importune you for a return of these inconvenient sentiments. I have already been trapped in a marriage with one man who didn’t love me. You, at least, desire me, and I do not believe you are entirely indifferent to me otherwise.”
“I care for you.”
“Famous.” The gardens were well past their prime, as was this discussion. Astrid addressed her next remark to a bed of drooping roses. “You care for me. Given the nature of my appalling admission, I will understand if you forego coming to my room, though I will certainly miss you if that is your decision.”
He stood, gazing down at her, his expression pained, while the silence lengthened.
Damn her wagging tongue, damn her honesty, but mostly, damn whatever pain it was that kept him silent.
“Andrew, you needn’t trouble over this, for just as you have determined you cannot be loved, I have determined I will not stop loving you. I don’t know what kind of love could be so cautious or fickle it died in the face of a challenge. I also don’t know how to love carefully, which is probably the best you could tolerate from me. So will you, nil you. I will be in my bed tonight, loving you, whether you join me or not.”
With that, she dropped his arm and left him standing among the exhausted flowers, staring after her and looking for all the world like he’d just lost his best, last, and only friend.
Seven
“You need to hear what Fairly has to say,” Andrew told his brother, because this little after-dinner tête-à-tête among the gentlemen was not going to be about the weather and the latest gossip from the City.
“This sounds serious.” Gareth went to the sideboard, where griffins, dragons, and chimeras sat gleaming atop decanters. “Brandy, gentlemen?”
When Andrew had accepted a drink he did not want, Gareth took up a characteristic perch on the edge of the desk that dominated one end of the Willowdale library.
“All right, Fairly, I’m listening.”
“The bad news is that Astrid’s dower funds are all but gone,” Fairly began, sipping his brandy. “Heathgate, you do serve a fine drink.”
Bugger the drink.
Gareth nodded graciously. “Thank you. Is there good news?”
“No, there is worse news,” Fairly said, glancing at Andrew the way at an earlier time in life, his lordship might have assessed a patient suffering unpredictable fits of hysteria. “Rumors are circulating that Herbert took his own life, unable to deal otherwise with the family’s debts.”
Gareth peered at his glass. “Those are nasty rumors.”
Bugger the rumors. Bugger dear, departed Herbert. Bugger everything.
“At this point, it’s only rumor, and it might never reach Astrid’s ears,” Fairly said. “The state of her finances, on the other hand, is fact. The accounts are all but wiped clean. The losses can be attributed to some bad investments, and recently, to outright withdrawals.”
Rage had Andrew tossing back half his drink, sorrow for Astrid the second half.
Gare
th did not rouse himself from the desk to provide a refill, a small lapse in an otherwise attentive host’s focus.
“That money was to have been safely stowed in the cent-percents,” Gareth said. “This is going to be very hard on Astrid.”
A fine bit of understatement.
“If the situation is grave enough, it might mean Astrid need not return to the Allen household,” Fairly pointed out. “With a suicide in the family, and misfeasance with regard to Astrid’s money, the current viscount might be open to negotiation. Suicide, if proven, is unlikely to result in forfeiture of the title but could cost the family some of Herbert’s personal wealth.”
Except Herbert likely had no personal wealth, if his parsimony with Astrid was any indication.
“Douglas might be amenable to discussions,” Andrew said, “but if Astrid bears a male child, he’ll never entrust the rearing of that child to a young widow who herself was brought up in humble circumstances. The Allens are overwhelmingly impressed with their own consequence.”
And Astrid was overwhelming protective of those she loved. Andrew set his glass down a bit too hard on the mantel.
Gareth collected Andrew’s glass and returned it to the sideboard, a domestic gesture that spoke to Felicity’s civilizing influence. “We do not know how Douglas will treat Astrid. He has certainly been all that’s proper toward her so far, and we have no proof he stole her money. We can only lay such accusations at the feet of his late, increasingly unlamented brother.”
“So which of you will tell Astrid she has no money?” Andrew stared out into the darkness beyond the French windows rather than watch his relations exchange uneasy glances. And well they should be uneasy, when Astrid had no money, no husband, and no honesty from the man she insisted she loved.
“I’m her brother,” Fairly said. “I’ll tell her, though I will also make sure she does, in fact, have money. Enough money in pounds sterling to leave the country if necessary.”
Thank God for wealthy brothers with a sense of honor toward their sisters.
“The money isn’t the issue,” Andrew said, turning to face the other two men.
Gareth rolled his empty glass between his palms. “Being widowed, with child, and destitute isn’t an issue?”
How protective he was, and how Andrew loved him for it.
“To Astrid, certainly,” Andrew said. “We need to focus on the larger picture, however. Herbert’s death has three possible explanations. The first, and the one we are asked to accept, is that an avid and experienced sportsman, familiar with the best equipment, fell victim to an accident. Perhaps his gun was defective or he neglected to clean it. Perhaps he resembled a fourteen-stone grouse to somebody else on the shoot.
“The second possibility,” Andrew continued, “is that a young lord, a pleasant enough man, but more concerned with appearances than with learning how to manage his affairs, became swamped with debt, and seeing no honorable alternative, arranged his suicide to look like an accident. This course makes sense, in keeping with the family’s pride and concern for social consequence.
“Again, however, many titled families are approaching dun territory, and if Herbert had sold off his stable, his art, or even his damned coal mine, he could probably have come ’round in time. Then too, what man kills himself, leaving behind a wife such as Astrid?”
What man could dally with her and then saunter on his way as if she hadn’t taken complete possession of his heart years ago?
“The third possibility,” Andrew said, “is that somebody who stood to gain from Herbert’s death murdered him and spread the tale of suicide brought on by the man’s mismanagement of funds. In addition to gaining from Herbert’s death, this person would also need intimate knowledge of the family’s finances. The suicide is unlikely to cost the family its title, and dear Herbert apparently had no wealth to forfeit to the Crown in any case.”
“What you are implying,” Gareth said, disbelief in every word, “is that we could be turning Astrid, and her child, over to the keeping of a man who would, with cold-blooded premeditation, murder his own brother for the sake of a title.”
“That,” Andrew spat as he hurled his glass straight into the fire, “is exactly what we might be doing.”
“Hence,” Fairly said quietly as the fire momentarily roared higher, “the need for precautions. I would remind you both that so far, all we have are rumors and depleted accounts. Herbert was the one who would have had access to Astrid’s money, and Douglas Allen could simply be a conscientious second son who inherited under unfortunate circumstances.”
“It does happen,” Gareth conceded, his expression reminding Andrew that some second sons could have two titles foisted upon them, regardless that it likely took enormous influence, coin, and conniving.
“It happens rarely,” Andrew growled.
“So what do we do?” Gareth used the hearth broom to sweep shards of broken glass onto a dustpan, then deposited the shrapnel in the ash bucket. “We have no solid evidence against Douglas, but it strikes me as peculiar that Herbert Allen has been gone almost three months, and we’re hearing the rumor of suicide only now. That kind of speculation usually flies around before the grave is dug.”
“You raise a good question,” Fairly said, “and I don’t have an answer. Worse, if we confront Douglas with our accusations, he could easily have Astrid shut up at the family seat, miles from help and in mortal peril. He could have her declared insane, or simply make her disappear before the child is even born.”
Fairly spoke Andrew’s worst fears, and probably Fairly’s as well.
“We have one means of keeping Astrid safe that would also very likely protect her child.” Andrew heard the words coming from his own mouth and knew they presaged something beyond a worst fear.
“Yes,” Fairly said, his mismatched eyes narrowing, “we can find her someone to marry, preferably somebody whose title outranks Douglas’s, and tuck her away in that person’s secure keeping. We could effect this scheme before Douglas even knows she’s expecting.”
Damn Fairly and his nimble mind. “So we marry her to such a one. What will you have left Astrid with if it turns out Douglas bears her no ill will and her husband’s death was an accident?”
Andrew posed a question that in hours of pondering had admitted of no good answer.
Gareth set the little hearth broom aside and lifted the wrought iron poker. “We will have left her in the keeping of a man who cares enough to protect her life with his own.” Again, was left unspoken.
“I won’t inflict myself on her for the sake of rumor and speculation,” Andrew retorted. Not after her fierce declarations that morning. Hopefully, not ever. “She has to be told what we know, and I suspect you will want Felicity told as well.”
“All we know now,” Fairly said, “is that her money is missing, and since it has been missing, Douglas has offered repeatedly to manage it for her. That is what we know, no more, no less. The rumors I picked up were not being circulated anywhere near polite ears, and not loudly.”
Fairly of the endless self-containment was offering Andrew a reprieve. “Saints above, man, you can be scary.”
“And you’ve seen me only when the moon isn’t full.”
“As a matter of fact,” Andrew said, heading for the French doors, “it’s full tonight, so I’ll take myself out for a gallop, gentlemen. If you’ll excuse me?” He bowed and let himself out into the night rather than traverse the house.
A thoughtful silence followed the soft click of the door latch. Gareth considered following his brother and concluded Felicity would be vexed with him if he did.
“Why in the hell won’t he marry her?” Fairly asked. “Astrid’s adorable, she’s long since had a tendresse for him, and by now they’re probably copulating like rabbits.”
Copulating was a medical term, while the consternation in Fairly’s eyes was purely fratern
al.
Gareth drew the curtains over the French doors because the night was nippy. And yet, Andrew had gone into the darkness without an overcoat. The saddle room held a few old riding jackets, but no scarf, no proper winter cloaks, no real protection from the elements. “I understand him, Fairly. He won’t marry her, because he cares for her and doesn’t feel worthy of her.”
Fairly looked as if contradictory symptoms were refusing to add up to a diagnosis. “Much as you had to be convinced to offer for Felicity. What made you change your mind about yourself?”
“I didn’t,” Gareth said with a snort. “I just hurt too goddamned unbearably much to carry on without Felicity, and when our paths crossed again, I grabbed her literally and figuratively with both hands, and I’ve been holding on ever since.”
“And that,” Fairly countered with a half smile, “probably describes most of the happily married men on earth. It does not, however, bode well for Andrew and Astrid’s immediate future.”
“Perhaps not for their immediate future,” Gareth said. “But Andrew is as smitten as I’ve ever seen a man, and he and Astrid, connected by marriage, will have to continue to deal with each other for years to come. I am not abandoning hope yet.”
Not nearly, and neither was Felicity.
“Spoken like an older brother, Heathgate, who doesn’t mind seeing his sibling twist a bit in the breeze. I remind you, though, that my younger sister has already suffered through two years of marriage to a buffoon, and I’ll not tolerate anybody abusing her sensibilities further.”
Unlike Andrew, Fairly was not prone to outbursts of sentiment. He set his glass down very softly and left Gareth alone, standing before the fire and wondering how to present the latest worrisome developments to his exceptionally pregnant marchioness.
***
“I shouldn’t have awakened you,” Andrew said on a sigh, disentangling himself from Astrid long before she was ready to let him go. “I wasn’t going to. I went for a long, hard ride. I bathed and climbed into my own bed…”
Andrew: Lord of Despair (The Lonely Lords) Page 10
