by Sophia Nash
“Two score of house guests. Arriving within ten days.” Candover’s express had been very clear on those two points. The new, earlier arrival date was clearly a testament to Prinny’s ire.
Well, at least Alex had a hideout if the going got rough. That young hermit’s earthen hut was big enough for two. And he would bet there would be books inside, if a reprieve from females was required.
The armory proved vastly entertaining. Swords, pikes and chain, mixed with pistols and shot, warmed Roxanne’s heart. And the comtesse knew all the names and uses of each despite her blindness. She also had the uncanny ability to sail about the rooms of the castle with merely the slightest touch of her long fingers resting on the top of Roxanne’s hand.
If the ninth Duke of Kress thought he could keep a weapon out of Roxanne’s grasp now, well, he was mistaken. It wasn’t so much that she wanted to kill her odious, handsome husband, as much as she wanted to be prepared if she ever faced him. All right, perhaps she just wanted to scare him. A little. Or perhaps quite a lot. Tears sprang into her eyes and she quickly wiped them away with her free hand. She was being completely ridiculous.
“Are you crying?” the comtesse demanded.
Before she could stop herself, Roxanne blurted, “Are you truly blind?”
“Of course. But I have a highly developed sense of smell.”
“You can smell tears?”
“Of course I can. They smell of the sea, and a little bit of the earth—of copper.”
For someone as practical as Roxanne, this made absolutely no sense whatsoever.
“And why the tears, mademoiselle?”
Words failed her when she needed them most. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“Ah, those are the best sort of tears,” the comtesse insisted.
“There are different sorts?”
“Of course. Tears of joy. Boring. No one should cry with joy. One should shout with it. Tears of pain and suffering. Justifiable, but not very courageous, non? Tears of remembering the past. Waste of time. Ah, but tears without reason? Usually a sign that things are about to change . . . for the better.”
“And tears of anger?”
“Only females do that sort of nonsense.”
“Right,” Roxanne muttered.
“Alexandre has never shed a tear in his entire life.” His great-aunt always used the French version of the duke’s Christian name.
“You spent much time together?” Roxanne knew the answer already, but needed to make conversation if she was to find what she wanted.
“Yes, of course. Although I’m certain Alexandre would give a different version.”
Roxanne gave a sidelong glance toward the comtesse.
“Surely you know the story?” The older woman smoothed one side of her hair in a reflexive gesture. “Our entire family lived on Mont-Saint-Michel on the coast of France. Before the revolution, of course.”
Roxanne went still. “Of course,” she echoed.
“Everyone knows this small Mount is a replica of the much grander Mont-Saint-Michel.” The comtesse’s eyes glazed over with memories. “Yes, Alexandre’s parents’ marriage was considered the most brilliant match ever unplanned in both countries.”
“How did his parents meet?” She quickly tacked on, “I never heard that part.”
The comtesse’s gaze softened. “My niece was so beautiful. Her hair—cheveux marron—chestnut, non? Her eyes a lovely brown. No one appreciates the beauty of brown eyes, do they? Alexandre’s English father did, however. He came to see Mont-Saint-Michel. He said he wanted to see with his own eyes if it was very like the Mount here—where he had been raised with his cousins and the former Duke of Kress.”
“And they fell in love,” Roxanne coaxed the story forward.
“As only young fools will do. Ah, it was a beautiful wedding, even more lovely than King Louis’s, I daresay. And they choose to reside at Mont-Saint-Michel, because, of course, even Alexandre’s father could see it was the more important of the two landmarks.”
“Of course,” Roxanne murmured again, hoping that the comtesse would continue the story.
“But all stories must have their darkest moments, and ours came during the revolution’s Reign of Terror, when aristocrats were persecuted by frenzied commoners wielding torches and pitchforks.” The comtesse looked away. “While all of us refused to leave le Mont, Alexandre’s father had at least the presence of mind to suggest that I take Alexandre away along with his younger brother, William, and the precious family jewels. We escaped the very night the castle was besieged. Our last sight was from a fishing boat. Le Mont was in flames and all those within its hallowed walls—all those we loved—perished. I think that was when Alexandre finally learned the truth about life.”
“Yes?”
“That it is better not to form deep attachments to anyone or anything for it can all be taken away in an instant.”
“But you don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Of course not. That is his belief not mine. But I was not a boy of fifteen when everything was taken from me. I was, ahem, a woman of a certain age. I already knew life was about change. But, of course, you already know this, too.”
Roxanne swallowed back the emotion filling her throat—all for the boy of fifteen who had lost everything. “Of course,” she whispered.
“But don’t think for a moment that he was not up for the challenge. When Alex and William’s rich English relatives refused to have anything to do with their ‘froggish distant relations,’ Alexandre sold the jewels. Two years later, when the money became thin, he sent me and William to England, while he stayed behind to support us by joining the Hussars. He even arranged to send William to Eton’s spartan colleger program.”
Roxanne swallowed. She had had no idea he had suffered so much.
“What color are your eyes, my dear?”
“Blue.”
“Pity.” The Comtesse de Chatelier sighed.
Roxanne straightened. “Yours are blue, too.”
“So everyone tries to convince me. Well, you obviously take after Alexandre’s father’s side of the family. Almost all Barclay eyes are blue. Alexandre inherited that deep velvety chocolate from his mother.”
Roxanne shook her head. The comtesse had the oddest habit of turning the conversation whenever it became too serious.
Roxanne tried to open a nearby glass case, but a small creak had the comtesse whirling about. Roxanne froze.
“The housekeeper tells me you arrived without a valise.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Lost in the carriage wreck, too?” Those owlish eyes of the comtesse might not see anything, but they knew everything.
“Yes.” Roxanne quickly palmed a small, intricate chisel and stuck it into the side of her boot.
“Celine, my maid, suggested we are almost of the same size, even if you are rather too tall. I shall have her add a ruffle to several of my cast-offs, then.”
“I cannot accept such generosity, Mémé.”
“I detest informality. You may not call me Mémé. But, I suppose, since we are in some thin fashion related, you may call me Antoinette.”
“I would be honored to do so.”
The older lady harrumphed.
It wasn’t until the evening meal that Roxanne learned that the comtesse’s true given name was Jacqueline.
It was three days before a convoy of servants arrived from town along with Jack Farquhar, his audacious valet. Jack and Mémé should not have gotten on so well, for Alex’s valet was as English as a crumpet, except that due to some peculiar, unexplainable reason their various quirks of nature seemed to mesh in the oddest, most perfect fashion.
Alex would have been more grateful to see the man if Jack wasn’t the reason he was stuck in the wilds of nowhere to begin with. At least the valet brought news from Town even if none of it was good.
Apparently, small mobs of peasants were routinely shouting obscenities in front of the Prince Regent’s Carlton Ho
use. And someone had had the audacity to throw a rotten piece of fruit at His Majesty in the royal theater. The newspapers decried daily the excesses of the royal class; and Prinny was as furious as ever at all the dukes present during the infamous evening of debauchery.
And still worse, Alex’s one true friend, Roman Montagu, the Duke of Norwich was still missing. All of Jack’s efforts to track him down were for naught. Alex tried not to think of it. Roman, the first gentleman to befriend him when Alex had arrived from France all those years ago, might very well be dead in a ditch, or drowned, or . . . Alex halted the painful train of thought with ruthless efficiency borne of years of experience.
Silently, Jack handed the local newspaper to Alex, and settled to the task of unpacking all the trunks that had arrived. Alex scanned the contents of the news sheet and sighed.
Of course there was mention of the Countess of Paxton gone missing, even her dog. Well, at least she was who she said she was. The column made no mention of her husband being with her when she fell from the cliff. Instead, he was quoted as suggesting his wife had been inconsolable since the disappearance of her beloved dog. While it stopped short of the notion of suicide, which would have gravely tainted the entire family, it was noted that only a blue sodden hat had been found on the rocky beachhead. A moderate reward was offered for the recovery of anything relating to the Countess of Paxton.
He exhaled.
Alex had avoided spending very much time with Roxanne the last three days, except during the afternoon and evening meals. She made him nervous with her steadfast gaze and her mind, which obviously churned with a host of very bad ideas. And he had far too many unpleasant tasks to face, such as interviewing the two foremen Jack had brought from London.
Oh, what the hell. He knew he had just been putting off contending with her.
Alex rocked to his feet and stalked into the huge library, where the housekeeper had directed him. The room was inspiring even if it did make his gut tighten in remembrance of another such room, far larger. The one in which he had spent so many hours as he grew of age in France.
He spotted Roxanne’s even profile leaning over an enormous atlas covering a large portion of the main reading desk. A single dark blond curl had escaped from its pins and now rested on her cheek.
He placed the local newspaper over a map of Scotland. “Planning your departure already?”
“Yes, now that you ask.”
“Well, it appears your dear husband is ahead of you on that score.”
Her startled blue eyes swung up to meet his gaze. And not for the first time, he was pleasantly surprised by her appearance. She was tall, and spare to be sure. Her large eyes dominated her oval, determined visage. A long, straight nose sloped to lips with a prominent bow shape. And a single freckle rested an inch below the outer corner of her left eye. The aspects of her open countenance somehow came together to make for a fascinating face.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Your funeral is set for a week from today.”
She snatched the newspaper and quickly scanned the page. “The devil. The absolute wretch of a man. And what will he bury?”
“It’s on page two. I think he means to bury your hat, unless one of the fishermen, who he has implored to search for your remains, can find you.”
“My hat? Oh, that is rich. Well, I am going to witness this. I shall scare the living daylights out of him.”
“Really? Is that how you want to play it, Roxanne?”
She sank into the embroidered cushion of the stool underneath her. “No. Of course not. But I will attend. I want to see who is there and I must hear what he dares to say.”
“I have a better idea,” he suggested. “I shall go instead. I’ve managed to avoid all the visits of the local peerage and gentry this week, but I might as well give over, make my bow, and allow the others to scrape and then depart at my leisure. And think how much your husband will wonder why I made the effort to pay my respects to a woman with whom I was unacquainted.”
“You do not know him. He will decide you came as a sign of respect to offer condolence to a fellow nobleman.”
“Well, I should like to see the fellow. Say a few words. Assess his performance, and look for weakness. And perhaps something a little more.”
“A little more?” Her expression perked up. “I have an idea.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Chapter 4
The morning of the Countess of Paxton’s funeral was as blue and cloudless as the day she had died. At least that was what her husband had to say as tears poured in unrelenting rivulets down his ashen cheeks. He told everyone who would listen—and that was all eighty mourners—gathered at the cemetery overlooking St. Ives, that he would never be able to be happy again on a sunny day. Amazingly, not one of them laughed.
Alex had to give Roxanne credit. Her husband was every bit as good an actor as she had insisted. And he cut as dashing a figure as she had claimed, too. Dark hair, light eyes, muscular of frame, and not one, but three ostentatious white orchids attached to his lapel. Roxanne had not been funning him when she’d suggested the man had a partiality to flowers.
Alex had not failed to notice that more than half of the mourners were young females of the neighboring families. They were rather like sleek black buzzards circling for the kill. The only problem was that half the time these same birds of prey were looking in his direction too, curiosity and interest lacing their brows.
Alex had taken care to stand far back from the proceedings. He was only close enough to hear the earl’s words.
All of it unfolded with the utmost decorum. Everything and everyone was proper in all respects.
Except for one tiny thing. One tiny, little detail.
He spied the edge of a granite headstone propped against a tree far from the gathering crowd. He slowly sauntered over to take a gander as the vicar began the recitation of the final words.
Alex knew little about funerals. In fact, he avoided them on every occasion. But he did know that it would take quite a while for a stone carver to produce the gaudy, flowery wording on this monument to Roxanne’s life. The Earl of Paxton had obviously not spared a day before ordering this travesty of clichés.
Roxanne Vanderhaven née Newton
Countess of Paxton
1784 – 1818
Beloved wife of the
Sixth Earl of Paxton
Taken all too soon from
his grand lordship’s side,
leaving him broken-hearted.
She died a noble, courageous
death and she will
be missed by all who knew her.
Forever may she
rest in peace.
A shadow appeared at his side, and Alex supposed he had known all along what would happen. He glanced sideways only to find Roxanne Tatiana Harriet, standing next to him glaring at the headstone. Oh, no one else would guess it was she, for she looked like a he. Like a thin man, who dug graves at the cemetery. Her hair was completely covered by a large woolen cap, and her dingy pantaloons were belted too high, the frayed hems an inch too short.
“Oh, I’ll rest in peace, all right,” she whispered furiously, one side of her false moustache slightly unglued. It looked very like the one his damned valet sported on occasion. “I’ll rest in peace so loudly, he will be happy to see the sun shine again!”
“I’ll not ask where you managed to find that fetching ensemble,” he replied. He paused before continuing. “I knew I could count on you to keep to our bargain.”
“What bargain?”
“You know, the one where you stay on the Mount and I go to the funeral.”
“That was but a Faustian bargain—a suggestion I chose to ignore. A person should be allowed to come to their own funeral if they can.”
“Absolutely,” he said, to diffuse her.
“Well,” she said, running out of steam. “Now what?”
“You were the one who said you had an idea.”
“I do,” she said lightly. “But that comes later. Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“They’re coming to get you,” Roxanne said cheerfully.
“Who?”
“The mothers.”
“Pardon?”
“And the daughters. Looks like the widows are going to make a play for you too. Bye-bye.”
Alex gave himself over to the process. The process of being plucked over by a group of hens and chicks. The former clucked, and the latter preened. Then the roosters strutted by to take stock of the proceedings. The last of them was the Earl of Paxton, who was careful not to remove the traces of glistening tears on his pretty face.
“Your Grace, I presume,” the earl said, with a proper amount of sadness radiating from a small smile. “You do me a great honor in coming today. My dear, dear Roxanne would be in awe that you graced us with your presence. I am only sorry it had to be on this saddest of days that we finally meet.”
“I always liked the name Roxanne,” Alex said. “Almost as much as Tatiana. Although I think Harriet would suit a countess better, don’t you?”
That silenced the crowd. All the better for them to think him destined for an asylum. It might thin the ranks of the matrimonially inclined.
“Tell me about your dear countess, sir. Was she a docile sort or a hoyden?”
The Earl of Paxton pursed his mouth. He recovered nicely. “Indeed. She was the best of wives. Kindhearted, beautiful, always inclined to think of others before herself. A perfect countess. All the other wives and daughters of our acquaintances cherished her friendship.”
Not a single sound of agreement echoed. One lady coughed into her lace handkerchief.
Alex smiled. “I was given to understand that she was an excellent boot polisher.”
“The best . . .” the earl said before halting abruptly and standing back on his heels. “I can’t imagine who would have told you that.”
“Why, your footman, my dear man. When I came to call.”
