“Don’t,” Alexandra said automatically. “It isn’t fitting to speak ill of the dead.”
“In my opinion,” Penrose announced with lofty dislike, “it’s a pity you saved Hawthorne’s life. Instead of shooting his assailant, you should have shot him.”
“And afterward,” Filbert spat, “you should’ve drove a stake through his heart, so the vampire couldn’t come back from the dead like this and haunt yer life!”
That bloodthirsty speech made Alexandra shudder and laugh at the same time. Then she sobered, drew a long breath, and said to Penrose in a resolute voice that brooked no argument, “My grandfather’s gold watch is in the drawer beside my bed. I want you to take it to Bond Street and sell it to whichever jeweler will pay the most for it.”
Penrose opened his mouth to protest, saw the stubborn set of her small chin, and reluctantly nodded.
“Do it now, Penrose,” she said in a pain-edged voice, “before I can change my mind.”
When Penrose left, Filbert reached across the table and covered her hand with his blue-veined one. “Penrose and I got a tiny sum we’ve set aside over the last twenty years. It ain’t much—seventeen pounds and two shillings atween us.”
“No. Absolutely not,” Alexandra said with great firmness. “You must keep your—”
The sound of Higgins’ stately marching stride echoed in the hall, coming toward the breakfast room, and Filbert leapt with surprising agility to his feet. “Higgins goes purple every time he sees us talking friendlylike,” Filbert explained unnecessarily as he snatched Alexandra’s yellow linen napkin from beside her saucer and began energetically flicking it at nonexistent crumbs on the table. And that was the scene Higgins approvingly beheld when he entered the morning room to convey the news that Sir Roderick Carstairs wished to be announced to her grace.
A few minutes later, Roddy strode in, sat down at the table, beckoned to Filbert with a lofty nod of his head to pour him some tea, and then began cheerfully regaling her with the “delicious details” of his visit to Hawk last night.
Halfway through his astounding recitation, Alexandra half rose from her chair and cried in an accusing whisper, “You told him all those things about me? You?”
“Stop looking at me as if I just slithered out from beneath a rock, Alex,” Roddy said with bored nonchalance, adding milk to his tea. “I told him all that to ensure he knows you’ve been the hit of the Season, so that when he discovers —which I assure you he will—that you made a complete cake of yourself over him when you first came to town, he will not be nearly so complacent. Melanie called last night to suggest I do exactly that, but I’d already come up with the idea on my own and gone to Hawk’s.”
Ignoring her stricken expression, he continued blithely: “I also did it because I wanted to see his face when he heard the news, although this was not my primary reason for going there, as I just explained. Actually,” he added after taking a delicate sip of his tea and replacing the Sèvres cup in its saucer, “haring over to Mount Street to see him last night was the first truly noble gesture of my life—an indication, I fear, that I have developed a character weakness, for which I blame you.”
“Me?” Alexandra repeated, so distraught and distracted she was beginning to feel dazed. “What character weakness is that?”
“Nobility, my dear. When you look at me with those big, beautiful eyes of yours, I often have the terrifying feeling you see something better and finer in me than I see when I look in the mirror. Last night, I suddenly felt impelled to do something better and finer, so I hustled over to Hawk’s filled with noble intent to save your pride. It was quite revolting of me, now that I repine on it.” He looked so disgusted with himself that Alexandra hastily hid her smile behind her own teacup as he went on: “Unfortunately, my magnificent gesture may have been for naught. I couldn’t be certain Hawk was paying me any heed, despite the fact that I rattled on quite abominably for the better part of an hour.”
“He heard you, all right,” Alexandra said wryly. “This morning he presented me with a written list of those very same transgressions and demanded I either confess or deny.”
Roddy’s eyes widened with delight. “Did he, indeed? I thought I was getting under his skin last night but, with Hawk, one can never tell. Did you admit to the list or deny it?”
Too tense and worried to remain seated another moment, Alexandra put her cup down and with an apologetic look, she stood up, restlessly walking over to the little settee by the windows and needlessly plumping its yellow flowered pillows. “I admitted it, of course.”
Roddy swiveled in his chair, studying her profile with great interest. “I gather, then, that all is not honey and roses here between the reunited couple?” When Alexandra absently shook her head, he grinned with pleasure. “You realize, I suppose, that Society is already on tenterhooks, waiting to see if you succumb to Hawk’s legendary charm again? The odds, at the moment, are four to one that you’ll be his adoring wife by the day of the Queen’s Race.”
Alexandra whirled around, staring at him in angry horror. “What?” she breathed in disgust, unable to believe her ears. “What are you talking about?”
“Wagers,” Roddy said succinctly. “The odds are four to one in favor of you putting your ribbon on Hawk’s arm and cheering for him at the Queen’s Race. Very domestic.”
Alexandra didn’t know it was possible to feel such revulsion for people she had begun to like. “People are betting on a thing like that?” she burst out.
“Naturally. On Queen’s Race day, it’s traditional for a lady to show her favor to a gentleman who is riding in the race by removing the ribbon from her bonnet and tying it on his arm herself, for good luck and encouragement. It is one of the few public displays of affection which we of the ton encourage—mostly, I believe, because the discussion of who ultimately wore whose colors provides us with titillating gossip and conjecture for the long winter months that follow. At this point, the odds are four to one in favor of you tying your ribbon on Hawk’s arm.”
Momentarily diverted from her major problems by a minor detail, Alexandra looked suspiciously at Roddy. “Who are you betting on?”
“I haven’t placed my wager yet. I thought I’d stop here first—to test the atmosphere—before I dropped in at White’s.” Daintily wiping his mouth on a napkin, Roddy stood up, kissed her hand, and said in a challenging voice, “Well, my dear, what’s it to be? Will you be showing your affection for your spouse by giving him your colors to wear on September seventh?”
“Of course not!” Alexandra said, inwardly shuddering at the thought of making such a public spectacle of herself over a man everyone knew didn’t care a jot about her.
“You’re quite certain? I’d hate to loose £1,000.”
“Your money is very safe,” Alexandra said bitterly, sinking down on the flowered settee and staring at her hands. He was halfway across the room when Alexandra jubilantly shouted his name and shot to her feet as if the cushions beneath her had burst into flames. Laughing with joy, she advanced upon the startled aristocrat. “Roddy, you’re wonderful! You’re brilliant! If I didn’t already have a husband, I’d propose to you!”
Roddy said nothing to that flattering proclamation, but regarded her in wary amusement, one brow arched in inquiry.
“Please, please, say you’ll do one little favor for me?” she pleaded prettily.
“What is it?”
Alexandra drew a steadying breath, unable to believe fate had just presented her with a perfect solution to what had seemed a hopeless dilemma. “Could you—possibly—place a wager for me?”
His look of comical shock was instantly replaced by one of dawning understanding, and then of irrepressible glee. “I suppose I could do that. Can you cover your bet if you lose?”
“I can’t lose!” she said joyously. “If I understood what you said, in order to win, all I have to do is go to the Queen’s Race and not tie my ribbon on Hawk’s arm?”
“That’s all you have to do.�
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Scarcely able to contain her excitement, Alexandra clasped his hand, her eyes eagerly searching his. “Do say you’ll do it for me, Roddy—it’s even more important to me than you realize.”
A smile of sardonic delight crossed his features. “Naturally, I’ll do it,” he said, looking her over with new respect and approval. “There’s never been any love lost between your husband and me, as you’ve undoubtedly guessed.” He saw her puzzled smile and heaved an exaggerated sigh at her naiveté. “If your husband had done me the kindness to stay ‘dead’ and if Tony had cocked up his toes without a male heir, I—or my heirs—would be the next Hawthorne. You’ve seen Tony’s brother, Bertie—he’s a frail boy who’s been hovering at the brink of eternity for all of his twenty years. Something went wrong at his birth, I’m told.”
Alexandra, who had no idea Roddy was so high on the list of ascendant heirs, slowly shook her head. “I knew you were related to us—to the Townsendes, I mean—but I thought it was only a distant kinship, fourth or fifth cousins.”
“It is. But with the exception of Jordan and Tony’s fathers, the rest of the Townsendes have had the amazing bad luck to continually produce daughters, not sons, and not many of those either. The males in our family seem to die quite young, and we are not very prolific in the production of heirs, although,” he added, deliberately attempting to shock her, “it is certainly not for want of trying.”
“Too much inbreeding, I fear,” Alexandra quipped, managing to keep her face from reflecting her acute embarrassment at Roddy’s bald reference to lovemaking. “You see it in collies, too. The entire ton is in need of new blood or they’ll soon be scratching behind their ears and losing their hair.”
Roddy threw back his head and laughed. “Irreverent chit!” he said, grinning. “You’ve learned to look quite bland when you’re shocked, but you can’t fool me yet Keep practicing.” Then, briskly, “Back to business. How much do you wish to wager?”
Alexandra bit her lip, afraid to offend Dame Fortune, who was finally smiling upon her, by being too greedy. “Two thousand pounds,” she began, but broke off as Filbert, who was at attention behind Roddy, suddenly coughed loudly, then cleared his throat with a meaningful “Ahem.”
Her eyes dancing with merriment, Alexandra glanced at Filbert, then at Roddy, and quickly amended, “Two thousand and seventeen pound—”
“Ahem!” said Filbert again. “Ahem.”
“Two thousand,” Alexandra obediently amended again, “seventeen pounds, and two shillings.”
Roddy, who was no fool, slowly turned around and cast his appraising eye over the footman, whom Alexandra had told him weeks ago had been with her since she was a child. “And your name is?” he drawled, regarding Filbert with lofty amusement.
“Filbert, my lord.”
“You, I presume, are the owner of the seventeen pounds, two shillings?”
“Aye, my lord. Me ’n’ Penrose.”
“And Penrose is who?”
“The under-butler,” Filbert replied, and then forgetting himself he added wrathfully, “or he were, ’til his noble highness strolled in here this morning and demoted him.”
Roddy’s expression took on a faraway look. “How utterly delicious,” he murmured, then he recalled himself and bowed formally to Alexandra. “I don’t suppose you’ll be at the Lindworthy ball tonight?”
Alexandra hesitated a scant second before declaring with a mischievous little smile, “Since my husband is already engaged tonight, I can’t see why not.” Unbelievably, miraculously, she would soon have enough money to live cozily in Morsham for a decade. For the first time in her entire life, she was experiencing a taste of independence, of freedom, and freedom was bliss. It was sweet, it was divine. It tasted headier than wine. It made her daring. Her eyes positively shining with exuberant delight, she said, “And Roddy, if you still wish to test your skill with the rapier against me, I think tomorrow morning would be an excellent time. Invite anyone you’d like to watch. Invite the whole world!”
For the first time, Roddy looked uneasy. “Even our dear Tony, who let you have your own head, refused to let you fence with any of us. It’s not quite the thing, my dear, and your husband is likely to turn nasty when he hears of it.”
“I’m sorry, Roddy,” she said, instantly contrite. “I wouldn’t want to do anything which might cause you difficulty with—”
“I was concerned for you, my sweet child, not myself. I’m in no danger. Hawk won’t call me out—He and I are much too civilized to stoop to a public display of unconstrained tempers, which is what dueling actually is. On the other hand,” Roddy added bluntly, “I feel sure he will soon be looking for any opportunity to privately rearrange my face for me. Never fear,” he added with supreme nonchalance, “I can handle myself with my fists. Contrary to what you may have thought, there’s a man beneath these fine clothes I wear.” Pressing a gallant kiss to the back of her hand, he said dryly, “I shall search you out at the Lindworthy ball tonight.”
When Roddy left, Alexandra wrapped her arms around her middle, laughing as she looked heavenward. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she called to God, to fate, and to the ornate ceiling. Roddy had answered the first part of her problem by showing her a source of money, and now she had hit upon the solution to the second half: Jordan Townsende, she had observed during the last two days, was a man who was accustomed to, and demanded, unquestioning, instant obedience from everyone around him, including his wife. He was not a man who was accustomed to being defied by man, woman, or servant.
Therefore, Alexandra gleefully decided, defiance was obviously the key to her freedom. Several immediate and flagrant defiances were called for—ones that would cut up his peace, laugh at his dictatorship, and, most important, illustrate to him in the clearest possible way that he would be far more comfortable with Alexandra out of his way and out of his life.
“His majesty,” Filbert disrespectfully declared, “ain’t goin’ to like yer betting against him or goin’ out tonight.” With a worried little frown, he said, “I was eavesdroppin’ and I heard him say you couldn’t.”
Alexandra burst out laughing and hugged the concerned old man. “He’ll never know about the bet,” she cheerfully declared. “And if he doesn’t like my going out, I suppose he can”—heading for the door she announced jubilantly— “send me back to Morsham! Or give me a divorce!” Humming a gay, lilting tune, she strolled jauntily down the hall and up the long staircase. In two months’ time, when she collected her winnings, she would be able to simply walk away from Jordan Townsende as a wealthy woman by Morsham standards. Equally delightful was the knowledge that she had made the money using her own wit—and that Jordan would never know how she got the funds. In the doorway of his study, where he was about to bid his visitors goodbye, Jordan paused and turned, watching her as she walked jauntily up the stairs, a faint smile touching his lips. Alexandra, he realized, had a very pretty voice. A beautiful voice. Also an inviting sway to her hips. Very inviting.
* * *
The confidence that had buoyed her up all afternoon was higher than ever as Alexandra stood before her dressing table, her head turned toward the clock on the mantel. An hour and a half ago, when Jordan had entered the master bedchamber which adjoined hers, she had heard him tell his valet he was going to White’s tonight. Twenty-five minutes ago, he had left.
White’s was only a short distance from the Lindworthy mansion, and rather than risk the slightest possibility that Jordan might have lingered downstairs, or that she might encounter him en route, she thought it best to give him plenty of time to arrive at his destination before she left for hers.
By now, he surely ought to be there, she decided, and turned to the middle-aged French maid whom the duchess had hired for her. “Will I do, Marie?” she asked brightly, but Alexandra knew she had never looked better.
“You will leave them speechless, your grace,” Marie declared with smiling certainty.
“That’s what I’m afra
id of,” Alexandra chuckled ruefully as she glanced in the mirror at the breathtakingly gorgeous lemon chiffon gown that was gathered at the shoulders into tiny pleats that crossed her bodice on a diagonal and emphasized the enticing swell of her breasts and plunged at the neckline into a daringly low V. A wide band of horizontal pleats hugged her narrow waist, then fell into an airy drift of swirling chiffon skirts.
Long matching gloves encased her arms to well above the elbows, and diamonds flashed at her throat and peeped from beneath the soft tendrils at her ears. Her shining hair was twisted into an elegant chignon at her crown, with a rope of diamonds artfully woven into the wide coil.
The stark simplicity of her coiffure set off her finely sculpted features, giving her a more sophisticated appearance to offset her youth and complement her dramatic gown to perfection.
Picking up her little beaded reticule, Alexandra said gaily, “Don’t wait up for me, Marie. I’m spending the night at the home of a friend.” It was not quite the truth, but Alexandra had no intention of letting Jordan Townsende make love to her again, and for tonight at least she had a plan to prevent it.
* * *
White’s, the most exclusive private gentlemen’s club in England, looked exactly as it had when Jordan had last walked past its wide bow windows more than a year ago. And yet, the moment he walked into its hallowed confines, he was aware that something was subtly different tonight.
It was different, yet everything was the same: Comfortable chairs were still grouped around low tables so a man could lean back and relax while casually losing or acquiring a fortune on the turn of a card. The large book where bets were recorded—a book as sacrosanct to the gamblers of White’s as the Bible to a Methodist—was still in its usual place. Except tonight there was a much larger crowd than normal gathered around it, Jordan noted as he strode forward.
“Hawthorne!” a hearty voice exclaimed—too heartily, and the group of men at the betting book lurched erect, then hastily started forward in a group. “Good to have you back, Hawk,” Lord Hurly said, shaking Jordan’s hand. “Wonderful to see you, Hawk,” someone else said as his friends and acquaintances pressed around him, all eager to welcome him back. A little too desperately eager, Jordan thought . . .
Something Wonderful Page 31
