Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea

by Sophia Nash

  Really.

  After throwing back a shot of that abominable malted whiskey his forbearers had stacked in the cellars as if preparing for the last siege on earth, Alex decided he would march to Roxanne’s far-flung chamber and he would calmly, coolly, coax her through a vast maze of vague suggestions, which would lead her to her own decision—that she would prefer to leave the Mount as soon as possible. Tonight even. She kept saying she was going to leave, but had she?

  He threw back another shot and stared into space, examining the dust moats floating in the late afternoon light streaming through his study’s window. An uproar of noises filtered past his doors every now and again as the minutes ticked by.

  He drank another shot. The malted whiskey was not as bad as he’d previously thought. The frequency of scurrying feet slowed as did the number of times people knocked on his locked door to obviously take their leave.

  He couldn’t seem to muster an ounce of politesse. He refused to acknowledge it was unusual for him to behave thusly. Why, there was no more courteous a people on Earth than the French when it came to manners. The English might think they had the corner on silent grit, but they had nothing when it came to etiquette.

  He finally dragged himself to his feet, without a single inch of swagger. He was stone cold sober despite it all. He rather thought it would take, in his current state of mind, a barrel of malted whiskey to settle his anger.

  A few minutes later found him staring at the door to her small apartment. Hmmm . . . He might just trespass the other, darker road. Alex cleared his throat and opened the door without a single polite knock.

  Her head bobbed up from her task near a basin. She sat in profile, her arm extended with a trickle of blood dripping down.

  He exhaled roughly and went to her. “What happened?” He examined her limb.

  “Just a few splinters. Remember? I got them when the ladder collapsed.”

  “I don’t remember anything,” he lied.

  “All the better for you,” she replied.

  “You’re doing it wrong.”

  “It’s hard to see underneath,” she replied, attempting to twist her arm.

  With a mind of its own, his hand flipped up and opened its palm.

  She placed the needle in it. “What was all that commotion earlier? Is everyone gone to tour Penzance?”

  He dabbed at the blood with linen and then positioned her arm higher. “No. They’re for London.” He silently dared her to say one bloody word.

  She said not a syllable.

  He stopped short of cringing. She had dozens of splinters embedded in her tender flesh. “Is the other side the same?” He could not stem his annoyance.

  “Perhaps a few more.” She didn’t meet his eye, instead she held up the other arm for his inspection.

  He inhaled. “I shall arrange for a doctor tomorrow.”

  “I don’t need a doctor. And besides, I know all the doctors in Cornwall. It would be too much of a risk.”

  “A risk,” he murmured, before raising his voice. “A risk to see a doctor? You’re killing me, Roxanne. A risk is what you took this morning—not the doctor I will arrange to see you.”

  “May I have the needle back?”

  “No, you may not have the bloody needle back.”

  “For someone who does not like the Duke of Candover, you are suddenly acting remarkably like him.”

  “Familiarity breeds familiarity.”

  She pursed her lips, and it infuriated him that he could not tell if it was from contempt or to keep from laughing.

  It would not do. He could not go on like this.

  He concentrated on extracting the worst of the splinters first. “Hold still.”

  Wordlessly, she obeyed him. She flinched not a muscle as he quickly plucked out most of them in silence. He reviewed his work and satisfied, took up her other arm, and completed the task.

  “I’m leaving at first light,” she murmured.

  He inadvertently stabbed her. “Yes, you keep mentioning that.”

  She barely moved and made not a sound.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “You may leave after the doctor sees you.”

  “Alexander?”

  “Yes?” He dabbed at her red flesh after pulling the last splinter from her arm.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” His voice was deep and low. “For nearly killing yourself and me? For ranting about some bloody note I left for you? For causing nothing but trouble since the moment you got here?”

  A flush rose from the bodice of her modest gown. “Yes. And . . .”

  “And?”

  “And for never taking the time to properly thank you for all you’ve done. That’s what I’m trying to do, very inelegantly, I agree. But I do realize the best way to thank you is to just depart straightaway so you can begin your new life as required by His Majesty.”

  “Really,” he said, dryly. “So you propose to just skip along the sand flats to Penzance and then walk to Scotland, where you will eke out a living doing what exactly? Harvest blighted potatoes? Start up a henhouse with filched birds?”

  Her chin rose a notch. “You do not need to worry about me any longer. Besides, I have a plan.”

  “Oh, you have a plan? Mon Dieu. How many damned times do I have to tell you that plans never work? Life mangles every well-laid plan. Nothing goes according to sodding plans. Oh, but you, the scrappy tin miner’s daughter, have a fail-safe plan. Let’s hear it.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No,” she replied. “I might owe you my life, among many other things, but I do not owe you an explanation since I’m leaving.”

  “Oh, you owe me, all right. You promised to pay me for your upkeep, remember?” What was he saying? He wanted her to go. For the first time in his life, he could not keep his lips from flapping.

  “And I shall repay you. I might not be able to right now, but I shall repay you. I think you know I will not rest until I do.”

  “I don’t want your bloody money.”

  She sighed heavily. “Well, then, what do you want?”

  He paused. He had no bloody idea what he wanted. He had no idea why he was so furious with her. He had meant to lead her to the door—to make her think it her own idea. And she had already decided without his leave.

  He was glad. He should be glad.

  She had learned the answer to the question she had sought, she had had her revenge, and now she must find her own way. Just like he had had to do time after time throughout his life. And yet, here and now, with the opportunity to be rid of her handed to him on a silver platter by the woman herself, he was being as contrary as a sodding adolescent. He wanted her to go, hang it all. She wanted to go. And so he would let her.

  He opened his mouth and then shut it. Alex placed the needle on the table, turned on his heel, and crossed to the door before he did something stupid like kiss her senseless.

  Before he could open it, a soft tap filtered through the door. “What?” he shouted.

  “It’s me, Isabelle.”

  He opened the door and the duchess stared back at him, disapproval brimming in the depths of her golden eyes. “Everyone is gone, just as you ordered. I cannot believe you actually—”

  “Not another damned word,” he interrupted, irritated beyond measure.

  “Don’t you dare bark at me, Alexander Barclay,” she said tartly. “You know, you sound and look just like Candover right now.”

  “If I hear one sound minutely resembling a laugh from the person behind me there will be hell to pay,” he retorted. He turned to look at Roxanne only to find her flushed face downcast.

  Roxanne finally met his glare with compassion. “Isabelle, would you give us a moment?”

  “Of course, but it will need to be quick for I have something important to impart.” Isabelle exited and closed the door behind her.

  “Alex . . . I think it right to tell you before I go that I finally figured out the part of you that you
don’t like.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do,” she whispered as she loosely wrapped her arms with clean linen. “Just last night you mentioned that everyone was embarrassed about something regarding their physical selves.”

  “I told you that to make you feel better about yourself. You have nothing to hide. Your physique is perfect just the way it is. Women are uniformly obsessed about insignificant things that men never notice. We’re too happy to have captured you in a bed, you see. We’re nothing but dogs.”

  She stared back at him, not giving an inch. “It might have taken me a while to figure it out, but I know.” She waited for him to ask her to reveal it, but Alex refused to say another word.

  The silence in the room was deafening.

  “Well,” she continued, “since you obviously don’t want to know, I won’t force it on you, as I have done everything else. But I shall share a woman’s perspective on love, since you just gave me a man’s view on sexual congress,” she said quietly and then paused before continuing. “Most women would rather live with half a heart and have loved than to live with a whole heart that has never been touched. Most gentlemen, on the other hand, never allow their hearts to be breeched. They find it easier to say goodbye and leave unscathed before the messiness of sensibilities sets in. But, I’m beginning to believe, men have the right of it.”

  “Are you suggesting—”

  Isabelle knocked on the door with more force than a miner striking a vein of gold.

  “Do not come in,” Alex shouted without taking his eyes off Roxanne.

  Isabelle opened the door. “Alexander, the Earl of Paxton is pacing the hall downstairs and insists he will come searching for you himself unless you come down spit spot. Something about ghosts and kidney vetch, whatever that is.”

  “I shall be gone by dawn,” Roxanne murmured. “I’m sorry you must face Lawrence yet again.”

  He was at his limit. “Enough. We’ll continue this after I see to bloody Lord Kidney of Vetch.”

  She wanted to follow him, but knew it would be too much for either of them to bear. Isabelle came forward and took her in her arms.

  “I know I’m supposed to pretend that I didn’t hear anything, Roxanne, but I cannot,” the duchess murmured.

  “I suspected you did,” Roxanne choked.

  “I have a favor to ask you,” Isabelle said.

  “I’ll do it,” Roxanne replied instantly.

  “Really? But you haven’t even heard what I was about to propose.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You are my friend and I would do anything you asked. Especially after this awful day.”

  “I know you want to leave. And we both know you love him. And that he must marry someone else since you are already married. We also know it’s not going to be me.”

  “Mary,” Roxanne said, standing straighter.

  “That’s my guess too,” Isabelle said, not able to meet her eye. “Look, you must put aside your pride and allow me to help you. And really, you would be helping me even if you would never admit it. I need a lady experienced with running an estate whom I can trust to advise me and live with me. My father’s old steward hates having to answer to me. My idea was to find a new one, who would train under the ancient crone, and then at a certain point, I would put both myself and my father’s steward out of our misery by giving him a generous pension. This is just one of the innumerable tasks I must address and—”

  “Isabelle,” Roxanne squeezed her friend’s two hands. “I refuse to be a burden to anyone. I’m just not capable of it. I’ve never had to rely on anyone’s generosity and I’m too old to learn how now.”

  “But you would be helping me. I’m so very alone on my estate. It’s a huge burden. And you know so much about . . . Oh, I see you are too stubborn to listen. If you refuse to stay with me then you must allow me to lend you the money to go to Scotland to find a suitable living, or something.” Isabelle was out of breath.

  “Or something,” Roxanne murmured. “Oh, Isabelle, I had to wait a very long time to find a true friend. But now the wait was worth it because I found you. I thank you so much for your kind offers, but I have a plan.”

  “A plan?” Isabelle looked stunned. “It doesn’t involve going down another mine does it? Because if it does I’m afraid I—”

  “No,” Roxanne laughed. “It involves a man by the name of Dickie Jones. You would like him very much.”

  “Forgive me, Roxanne, but you must take Kress with you when you go to see this man. He will never tell you he wants to go. But it is the kind thing to do. He will not rest easy until he sees you off safely. And if this Mr. Jones cannot help you, then you must show Kress the gold guineas I will force you to borrow from me before you go—whether it be to my estate or Scotland.”

  Lady Mary Haverty was the sort of female Alex Barclay knew very well. Assured, beautiful, accomplished, rich, and certain of her elegant charms. Every man on earth typically fell to his proverbial knees in awe of her.

  Lawrence Vanderhaven was no exception. The earl was transfixed and didn’t even seem to be aware of Mémé, who hovered near both of them, hampering any chance of flirtation.

  This was how Alex found Lord Paxton in the gold-and-white-striped drawing room. The familiar fish-emblazoned coat of arms for both the French and English Mount was prominent in the center of the room.

  “Good evening, sir,” Alex said with not an ounce of good in his manner.

  Paxton reluctantly turned away from Mary the Vixen. “I’ve come to have a word, if I may be so bold.”

  “One can hope this is of some importance, Lawrence. I was given to understand that you were in such a state of apoplexy that you were near to death. How goes the head?”

  “About that fall—”

  “Still seeing ghosts?”

  “Your Grace . . . I mean, Peter, or—”

  “Why is he calling you Peter?” Mémé interrupted.

  “That’s what he once asked me to do,” said the earl defensively.

  “Mon Dieu,” Mémé said with hauteur dripping from her rigid posture. “Well, I suppose that means I must allow you to address me as Antoinette.”

  Alex sighed.

  “I would be honored, madam.”

  “I said to call me Antoinette,” she said peevishly.

  “As we are all to be so informal, please address me as Josephine,” Mary Haverty purred. “Mary is such a common name, and Josephine is the pet name I allow my true friends to use.”

  The earl’s head bounced from one person to the next and so on. He could not seem to form any retort.

  Alex decided that was how he liked the earl best. “So?”

  The earl stammered. “Uh, may I beg a word alone . . . ?”

  “ . . . Peter.” Alex helped him along. “Or Harry, if you prefer.”

  “Yes, blast it all. May I beg a word alone, Peter Harry?”

  “No,” he said, studying his fingernails. “Whatever you have to say can be said in front of Antoinette and Josephine.”

  “You are all uniformly mad,” the earl whispered.

  Alex raised his eyebrows. “Really? That says something coming from you.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” The earl’s voice ascended an octave.

  “It means, get to the point of your call. I have a table full of wilted lettuces, braised beets, roasted asparagus, tender baby corn and carrots, and an apple and apricot tart waiting,” Alex said. “Actually, perhaps it might be best if you join me at table to discuss what you are so hell-bent on saying. Antoinette? Do be so kind as to inform the chef of our additional guest.”

  “He will not like it,” Mémé said, shaking her head. “He does not like changes.”

  The Earl of Paxton was dumbfounded.

  “Oh, do join us,” Mary purred. “I will sit at the other end of the very long table with Antoinette. My hearing is very bad, and—”

  “And I can’t see,” Mémé inserted.
/>   “So, we will leave you to your privacy,” insisted Mary Josephine.

  Lawrence Vanderhaven appeared to wish he had not come. “Uh, you are all very kind, but I must insist . . . or rather”—he said weakly, mopping his brow—“I would very much appreciate if I could just have ten minutes of the duke’s time . . . uh, Harry Peter’s time.”

  Alex glared at him. “You may stay until my stomach growls. What is it?”

  The other man desperately tried to put a few steps between himself and the ladies. After a long sigh, Alex finally complied.

  “Yes, Paxton?”

  “I know something is afoot.”

  “Really? Is it about Sydney Vetch or some other ridiculous person or flower you mentioned this morning? You know, I have no time for this nonsense. Plants are for eating, not revering.”

  Paxton staggered back, then tried to collect himself. “It’s Kidney Vetch, but no, that was just an excuse for your overly large footman . . . No, I’m here to inform you that I saw my wife just before I slipped in my haste to reach her. You were gone before I could tell you.”

  “You mean your beloved wife. Or rather your not so beloved wife according to the headstone.”

  “Yes, yes, whatever you say, Peter Harry. Did you see her as you left my estate, perchance?”

  “I saw no one. I saw only a few dozen moles taking tea under a chestnut tree,” he said with as much detached disdain as he could muster. “But in your delirium before I left you in the care of your servants, you kept muttering something about Roxy. Your beloved wife I presume?”

  Lawrence paled. “I’ve come to ask your help in locating her. I’m afraid she has gone mad. She must have injured her head in the fall from the cliff, and perhaps she does not even know who she is. I fear she might even need to be in an asylum.”

  “Well, Paxton, you might very well be right. A man knows his wife better than anyone, and I would take your word for it if we ever find her. But what made you draw this conclusion?”

  “She left. She must have seen me fall trying to reach her, and yet she was not there when I was revived.”

  “Forget the countess, man. She’ll come around when she gets hungry. Most females are funny that way, don’t you think?”