Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea

by Sophia Nash

  “Or she might just try to murder me in my sleep if she is as insane as I believe.”

  “Yes, I find that the best ones do try that on occasion.”

  Lawrence’s eyes bounced around in his head with worry. “Look, I just have one more thing—”

  “Something more?” Alex wore his best put-upon expression. “Isn’t one ghost story enough? And . . . yes, I hear my tummy now. Must see to those rare baby lettuces I had beheaded this afternoon.”

  Lawrence blanched to the color of baby lettuce. “You—you asked me some nonsense about killing my wife this morning. I hope this does not mean she came to you in her altered state and suggested . . .”

  “Suggested what?” Alex’s innocent face was one he had perfected in childhood.

  “I don’t know. I just started piecing together a few things. And you have her dog.”

  “I rather think the dog has me,” Alex sighed heavily. “Or had me.”

  “That’s odd . . . Uh, did you just say, ‘had me’? Is Edward no longer here?”

  “Truly, it was the strangest thing, Lawrie. A woman appeared at my door this morning and the Cossack couldn’t get rid of her. Edward went wild when he saw her. She said something about living on St. Clement’s Isle for the last month.”

  The earl’s face became as gray as ancient parchment. “You gave her the dog?”

  “Yes, well, I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t get the mutt away from her. I think Edward was looking for a new owner. Was tiring of the vegetable diet, I suppose.”

  Lawrence’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “If it helps, Lawrie, the lady said she had relatives in Gwennap. Then she said something about visiting someone named Dickie Jones, who would put her up so she could get a proper night’s rest before visiting some mine. What was it called? Yes, I’m certain she said the Wheal Bissoe mine would solve all her problems.”

  His eyes grew to the size of a cow’s before a butcher. “What was her name?”

  “Tatiana. Or was it Harriet?” He turned toward the two ladies. “Antoinette and Josephine, do you remember which?”

  The two women drew near and quickly raised and lowered their shoulders in a uniquely French style that indicated they knew not what he asked.

  Alex continued. “The only thing that gave me pause was her gown. It was completely in tatters.”

  Mémé’s vacant eyes took on a gleam. “I would not say her dress was in tatters,” she harrumphed. “It was ruched in blue silk, with the most divine little matching half-shawl lined in French satin. Indeed, it looked very much like one I once—”

  “How would you know, Antoinette, since you cannot see?” Alex interrupted. He adored when Mémé became contrary to confuse visitors she did not like. Hell, she had probably invented the game of cross-purpose.

  “Josephine tells me everything,” Mémé said with her usual nonchalance.

  Lawrence wrung his hands. “Does it really matter what she was wearing when—”

  “Of course, it matters,” Mémé interrupted. “Her name was Tatiana. Such a common name on the Mount these days. She appeared very French to me, don’t you think, Josephine?”

  “Yes,” Mary said, a single giggle marring the farce. “Although more than anything she appeared like a ghost out of the morning mist, except she was angrier than one would imagine a ghost could be.”

  “I will admit,” Alex added, “she seemed a bit touched in the head.” He assumed a theatrical pose. “Why, do you think it might have been your beloved wife, Paxton?” Could the earl be as stupid as he hoped?

  Paxton immediately put his hands behind his back. “You have been so very kind and I cannot disturb you any longer. I thank you so very much for your time. I think I shall go and ponder all you’ve told me.”

  Good boy, Alex thought. “Is your finger all right, old man? It looks a bit swollen.” He reached out his hand, demanding to see the other man’s hands.

  “It’s nothing really. It’s just a ruby ring I found this morning.”

  “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

  Lawrence Vanderhaven reluctantly stuck out his swollen pinkie. The small ring had restricted the circulation and the finger was now three times its size and resembled a beet.

  “How very fetching,” Alex uttered. “And it fits perfectly. I say, ‘finders keepers.’ ”

  “Actually, it’s mine. Or rather, it was Mother’s.”

  “Really? Hmmm, I admire a man who wears his mother’s ring. Antoinette,” he continued, “fancy lending me that opal and pearl ring great-uncle gave you? You can’t even see it anyway.”

  Lawrence was just about nearing the end of his last shred of sanity. His upper lip was beaded with sweat, and his face had taken on a nervous tic. “Have you all gone about the bend? I’m sorry to disturb, but really I must take my leave of you. Must go to—”

  “My dear Lord Paxton,” Alex interrupted, “I regret to inform you that we have two witnesses present, and they might be willing to testify to the local magistrate that it is you who have gone a bit around the bend. I fear that fall you took has caused your brain to swell. Ghosts? Your irrational thoughts this morning and now that ring? Why, I would be willing to swear on a bible that I’ve seen that ring before today.”

  “I—I am the magistrate.”

  “Really? Hmmm. Doesn’t seem quite right that a duke answers to an earl, does it? I shall have to talk to Georgie about it.”

  “Georgie?”

  “Yes, my dearest friend in the world, the Prince Regent. I shall present you when we go up to London.”

  “I’m not able to leave Cornwall at present. But, thank you kindly. ’Tis the height of the growing season and—”

  “But your gardens are all a-jumble. And this further proves my point. I fail to understand why a famed horticulturalist such as yourself would ever allow his grounds to fall to ruin.”

  “I am not to blame,” sputtered Paxton. “I fear someone is plotting to damage my estate, my reputation. Indeed, my very person is at stake.” The sheen of perspiration was not attractive on his upper lip.

  Alex cocked a brow. “Paranoia is the first symptom of madness. Have you fallen into a decline since killing your beloved countess? Lawrie? Perhaps I should call on a skilled physician to diagnose you. What was the name of that asylum you mentioned?”

  The two ladies had moved closer to surround the earl. At that moment, the unmistakable high whine of Eddie pierced the air.

  An unseen hand opened the door, and the mutt raced into the room carrying something in his mouth.

  Chapter 16

  Roxanne had the most irresistible urge to run into the chamber behind Eddie. But for once, she resisted. Perhaps it had something to do with the death grip Isabelle had on her arm.

  Asylum? He was going to try and put her in an asylum if he found her? She clenched her hands.

  “Don’t you dare,” hissed Isabelle. “Don’t ruin it for Alexander.”

  “For him? I was the one hanging off the cliff.”

  “Just give him another minute,” Isabelle begged. “What’s in your dog’s mouth?”

  “A coin purse.”

  Isabelle quickly turned her face toward her. “Whose coin purse?”

  “Yours,” Roxanne said with true regret. “But I promise Eddie will return it. He has the softest mouth. He will not ruin it.”

  “Roxanne Vanderhaven, did you steal my purse from my reticule?”

  “Um. No, I just borrowed it, since it is identical to the one I used to have and Lawrence will recognize it. And by the way,” she hurried on, “I accept that position you offered.”

  “Oh, so now I’m expected to take on a confirmed thief for a companion?”

  “Is that not expected of an impoverished servant?”

  “You might as well tell me more about Mr. Jones and your new plan, because I’ll find it out. I’m much better at following you than Alexander will ever be.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I can s
leep in the same suite of chambers as you without ruining your reputation.”

  “My reputation? I’m dead. At the very least that means I don’t have to worry about my reputation any longer.”

  “Oh!” Isabelle whispered. “Shush. We’re missing the best part, I’m certain. I hear them all coming. Must hide . . .” Isabelle was already tugging her out of sight, behind the curved staircase outside of the drawing room.

  “No need to rush off, Paxton,” Alexander said as he and Lawrence exited the salon. “The evening is young.”

  Lawrence mumbled something incomprehensible.

  “Very well, suit yourself,” the duke replied. “Take your leave if you must. Our paths shall cross ere long. Yes, I suggest you prepare for Town straight away. What say you to the day after tomorrow? Georgie will be so pleased to make your acquaintance and I’m certain he will want to hear all about this business with your beloved wife or her ghost.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Paxton suddenly sneered and, like a mad dog, went on the offense. “His Majesty will undoubtedly be very interested to hear all about the truths circulating Cornwall. We know a French loyalist when we see one. And you’ve done nothing to fortify the Mount.”

  “Oh, by all means, don’t let me stop you, Lawrie,” Alex drawled. “That is one of His Majesty’s favorite subjects. And you might help your cause if you gift Prinny with a few bottles of his favorite brew: absinthe.”

  Roxanne wished she could see her damned husband’s expression, but Isabelle blocked her with a force that surprised Roxanne.

  She could hear but one pair of quickly retreating footfalls. Isabelle relaxed her hold and they fell into view of the others who stood on the black-and-white-checked floor of the wide hall.

  Several pairs of eyes looked in her direction. It felt more like twenty-four pairs since two columns of Greek philosophers carved of gray marble also stood in judgment of her.

  Someone finally spoke—Mémé, of course. “Roxanne?”

  “Yes . . .” She hesitated. “Antoinette?”

  “How ridiculous,” Mémé said. “Everyone knows my name is Jacqueline.”

  “Of course it is,” Roxanne replied softly.

  “And how long do you suppose it was before I knew your name was Roxanne Vanderhaven, daughter of famed copper and tin miner Cormick Newton, and wife to a fool?”

  “Here we go,” muttered Alexander.

  Mémé did not wait for an answer. “Less than a day.”

  Roxanne looked away.

  “Do you know how lucky you are, Countess?” Mémé harrumphed. “If a blind woman could discern your secret in a day, how long did you intend to try and keep it from the rest of the world? Your death has been reported to death in this area of England.”

  “It was foolish, I agree,” Roxanne said quickly. “And I will leave early on the morrow. I am very sorry—”

  “Not sorry enough,” growled Alexander.

  “Hush,” said Mary steadily. “Let her speak.”

  “I’m sorry for not confiding in you earlier,” Roxanne said. “Please understand I did it for one reason alone. It was bad enough that Alex had to be involved. I did not want the rest of you drawn into this sordid affair as well.”

  “Too little too late, my dear,” Mémé said sourly. “And I would have you know that I enjoy watching sordid affairs unfold as much as my great-nephew. Runs in the blood, I suppose. It’s the reason I allowed you to steal that chisel from the armory and let you flounder on your own until now. But this has gone on far too long. Alexandre, what are you going to do? You’re not really going to London, are you? Prinny will have your head.”

  He looked at Roxanne, his dark eyes curiously blank.

  Isabelle nudged her, and nodded toward Alexander. “Go on, tell him.”

  “I would be indebted to you if you would escort me to see my father’s dearest friend, Dickie Jones.” She looked at Isabelle who silently urged her to continue. She reverted her gaze to Alexander. “Mr. Jones will arrange for my safe passage to Scotland, and help me begin again there, I am certain. You will not have any reason to worry about me after I see my father’s friend. And I am so sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused, and the risk you are taking.”

  He murmured gruffly, “Delighted to help you.”

  “So it’s settled,” Isabelle said as perky as usual. “And”—she continued with a ‘I am not to be disobeyed on this’ tone, “Roxanne has agreed to stay at my estate up north for a bit before continuing on her journey to Scotland.”

  “Of course, Isabelle. I would not disappoint you for the world.”

  “Perfect,” the duchess replied. “Now what was that nonsense about beets and lettuce? Ladies do not live on beets alone. And Mémé, I am certain your delightful chef prepared the most intoxicating menu.”

  “Mémé’s chef is anything but delightful,” Alex muttered.

  “And by the by, did you recover my favorite coin purse, Alexander Barclay?” Isabelle held out her small palm.

  “Your purse?” He scratched his head. “The way Paxton stared at it, I was certain it was Roxanne’s. But it’s Edward’s now. He dashed through the French doors before the earl could wrest it from his crocodile-like jaws.”

  Isabelle condescended to give Roxanne a look. Roxanne attempted an apology before being cut off by Mémé.

  “But what is to be done about that toad, Paxton?” Mémé fluffed out the skirts of her gown.

  It was the question that was on every person’s mind in the hallway. It was the question no one had an answer for save one.

  “I shouldn’t waste too much more time thinking about the Earl of Plants,” Alexander murmured.

  “Really? Why?” Isabelle’s expression grew worried. “You’re not suggesting that you will . . .”

  “No. I’ve grown weary of his uninspired villainy. If he cannot provide more sport, how long must I continue playing with a mouse who is already dead?”

  “I agree. I think he’ll die of greed in that hellish mine,” Isabelle murmured.

  “Let’s give him the meager remnants of the next day or so to dig himself deeper,” he said, while his expression spoke of something withheld.

  Roxanne studied Alexander’s bored air closely. It was impossible to tell if he told the truth. She just wasn’t sure if he would take it upon himself to actually kill her blackguard husband or not. She prayed he would keep a cool head, but feared very much that today had been the tipping point.

  She glanced at Mary, who was looking at Alexander, indecision radiating from her cool, unguarded expression.

  The two of them made for a most beautiful couple. Yes, Roxanne thought, she was looking at the future Duke and Duchess of Kress, who would produce the most beautiful heirs together and thereby allow Alexander to follow his dream to return to London in His Majesty’s good graces once more.

  And now it was her turn to keep an eye on him. She was slightly worried he might actually do something they would all regret—all in the name of the innate chivalry he refused to show the world.

  The long day’s events had left everyone exhausted to the bone. Isabelle had insisted that Roxanne move to the chamber that connected to hers. And Roxanne had slept like the dead, despite her worry over Alexander’s potential revenge. She had had a long word with the silent Cossack, who had agreed with a single nod of his head to keep Alexander from leaving the Mount.

  So much for waking at dawn. It was more like nine o’clock when she yawned and opened one eye. Roxanne stopped in midstretch, her arms aching from the splinters. Beyond the open connecting door, Isabelle conversed with her lady’s maid.

  A knock at the door leading to the hall explained why Roxanne had finally woken. A maid poked her head in and announced an apothecary had arrived to wait upon her.

  More than anything, Roxanne wanted to scramble down to the sideboard for she suddenly realized she was starving just like yesterday, when she and Isabelle had stopped for the pasty. Roxanne had lost her appetite nearly a month ago
on Kynance Cliff and finally, thankfully, she had regained it. No one but she had noticed the growing gauntness to her already thin frame. That would change from this day on. She was not going to waste another moment of her precious days worrying about the future and wishing for justice. She was finally prepared to forget the past and forge the next chapter of her life.

  Isabelle must have read her mind for within a half hour, they were both dressed, coifed, and finished with two breakfast trays that had been sent up. A very young apothecary from Penzance examined her arms and applied a licorice-smelling poultice while Roxanne finished her tea and ate the last morsel of toast and poached eggs.

  The man looked at her above his spectacles while he closed his black bag. “His Grace asked me to inform that he awaits you in his study.”

  “Go,” Isabelle said, making a waving motion with her hands.

  “But my affairs are not packed.”

  The man looked between the two ladies and shook his head before departing.

  Isabelle rolled her eyes. “Do you really think Alexander wants you to leave today? Surely you will settle everything with this Mr. Jones fellow and then you will return for at least one final evening. You must give Alexander . . . and the rest of us,” she added, “a little time to get accustomed to the idea of you leaving.”

  “He wants me to go.”

  “Of course he thinks he wants you to go, but he does not. I’m certain of it.”

  “Well, I think he only says what he means. He’s rare in that way, Isabelle. And nothing can come of it but pain. You don’t know him as I do.”

  Her friend’s eyes grew wide. “You know him? As in, he knows you?”

  Roxanne bit her lip. “No. He knows me as I know you, for example.”

  “Well, I know you very well,” Isabelle retorted. “You slept nearly in the same chamber as I last night. And I know that you snore and that you—”

  “I do not snore,” Roxanne insisted.

  “Yes, you do. I even heard Alexander tell you in that mine that you snore, which only proves—”

  “I cannot be blamed for what I do in my sleep. And by the by, you talk in your sleep.”

  “I do no such thing!”