Laura Matthews (11 page)

“At eight in the morning?” Vanessa didn’t bother to suppress her gurgle of laughter. “She’s a determined woman.”

“So I noticed.”

“Louisa . . . well, there’s no vice in her. Any untoward conduct is entirely at her mother’s instigation, I assure you. Louisa is actually rather sweet, except when her brother provokes her.”

Sweet, simple, and musically talented, Alvescot summed up mentally. How could her mother possibly think I would be interested in the woman? But it was far from the first time some totally ineligible female had been urged on his notice and he said nothing.

“Have you had a chance to look at the ledgers?” Vanessa asked.

“I’ve started going over them. It will take me some time.”

“There’s no hurry.” Vanessa watched a goldfinch flutter from a thistle at the side of the lane, the flash of its yellow wingbars bright in the noontime sun. “If I’ve seemed inhospitable, I’m sorry. I can’t entertain any suspicions of Paul Burford, but you have the right to make any investigations which seem appropriate to you. And I’m grateful for your attention to the children.”

He regarded her with a slightly raised brow. “Even if you do think I’m hard on them.”

“I was thinking about that on the way to the stables. Not about how you handle them, actually,” she confessed, “but how important it was for them to learn to be considerate of people. I’ve seen too many adults who aren’t.”

Alvescot sternly instructed himself not to take the remark personally. She could as easily be referring to her household. More easily, he decided. The thoughtful expression had returned to her face and he studied her without her awareness. The breeze tossed her black curls against the wide-brimmed bonnet and her eyes looked suddenly sad. Her clear skin was a shade too pale and her lips, in repose, turned slightly down, enhancing the impression of sadness. And yet he could visualize the change a smile wrought on her features, giving them animation and a subtle beauty. Alvescot felt a strong urge to make her smile, to remove the burdens she carried, at least for the moment, but before he could choose a subject to lighten her mood, she turned to him and said, “I’ve never known exactly how Frederick died. Would you tell me?”

The question startled him. For a moment he was silent, debating the wisdom of relating so unhappy a tale. Finally, slowly, he spoke. “Wellington had lost most of his officers by dusk. For hours, things had looked hopeless, but Colborne had taken a risk and moved his battalion out of the line, taking the Imperial Guard by surprise. There were heavy casualties for the Imperial Guard and they broke and fled. While the French army’s units recoiled, the British Light Infantry inclined to the right toward La Belle Alliance. Around them, scattered units of British and French cavalry charged and countercharged in heavy smoke. Frederick was one of them. His horse was shot out from under him but he was only slightly injured. It was while he was trying to capture a loose horse that he was cut down. I wasn’t there. One of his men later relayed the information. I arranged for his body to be brought here, but I was injured and it was some time before I was strong enough to leave Brussels.”

“I see. Thank you, Lord Alvescot. I had a letter from Wellington himself, but it only expressed his regret and not the circumstances. You must think it perverse of me to want to know.”

“Not at all,” he assured her, his voice gentle. “I would have written more myself if I had known your desire.”

“I don’t think, at the time, that I did want to know. But one day John will ask, perhaps even Catherine. Wellington was very clear about Frederick’s courage and resourcefulness.”

“No one could have asked for a braver officer.” Alvescot tried to draw on some memory that would please her. “He sought me out the night of the Richmond ball to announce his daughter’s birth. We drank to your health and Catherine’s.”

Vanessa nodded in acknowledgment but showed no desire to continue the conversation. Ahead of them, John’s pony had slowed to an ambling pace and their horses soon came up with the boy. At the crossroads John looked up in some confusion, admitting that he didn’t remember which road to take. Vanessa laughed and tousled his hair. “Some guide you are, dear boy. What landmark do we look for at this crossroad?”

Allowing his gaze to wander down the two lanes, John caught sight of a barn in the distance. “The barn with the red door! I forgot.”

As they made their way toward the canal, one adult on either side of the boy, Alvescot kept up a running dialogue with John, including Vanessa from time to time, but her distraction had returned and she seemed content merely to listen to them talking. When they reached the bank of the canal near where it entered the tunnel, Vanessa took charge of spreading out their picnic while the earl and John floated twigs on the water in miniature boat races. Their laughter and groans drifted back to her and she turned to watch them, John running along the bank while Alvescot crouched down, one hand shielding his eyes from the glint of sunlight off the water.

Vanessa hadn’t really looked at Alvescot before. Not as a man. To her he had been only her husband’s cousin, a nuisance at best when added to her other burdens. And she wasn’t in the habit of considering a man in quite the way she found herself doing now. Not for years, at any rate. Perhaps it was his kindness to her son that sparked this sudden interest, she rationalized as she found herself unable to withdraw her eyes. But, it was an unacceptable solution. Paul Burford was good with John, too, and she had never felt this stirring of her senses with him. She had never had the slightest desire to feel the texture of his hair or touch the curve of his cheek. Never once had she wondered what it would be like to kiss him, to be held in his arms.

Good Lord, she brought herself up abruptly, I’m losing my mind. Still, she sat for some time watching him, troubled by her reaction but unable to deny herself the intriguing sensations of physical attraction. His laughter, for instance, had such a deep timbre that she could almost feel it within herself. And his eyes. Even from this distance she was captivated by the way they crinkled with amusement. What color were they? Brown? No, hazel, she remembered, a vague impression returning that they had those remarkable green highlights which seemed so prominent when they narrowed with annoyance.

That was something to hold onto. They often narrowed with annoyance. And with suspicion, and a sort of remoteness, and with a haughty disdain. This was a man of far more complexity than the kindly godfather to her son she was now witnessing. He was a determined man, an opinionated man, and a man who would shortly disappear from her life as swiftly as he had entered it. Well, she told herself as she rose to join them, undoubtedly that was all to the good.

Alvescot was not unaware of her observation, but he could read nothing into it. That in itself he found unusual. Most women in his experience had little control over their emotions, and none over their facial expressions. Vanessa Damery apparently had both. Even when he carefully studied her as he told her of Frederick’s death he could detect no change in her countenance. Which might well mean she was simply a cold, indifferent woman, of course, but somehow he doubted that. And it was not that she’d never shown happiness or sorrow, because she had. But when she wished to conceal her thoughts or feelings, she was perfectly capable of doing so. Alvescot had the sudden realization that this might be something eminently important to understand about Vanessa.

“Our picnic is ready,” she announced when she came up to them. “And there’s a barge coming, John. We can watch it while we eat.”

For the rest of their excursion she forced all thought of child-rearing, Frederick, and this unacceptable attraction to Lord Alvescot from her mind. She was accustomed to playing the role of hostess, to entertaining her guests with intelligent and amusing discourse, and she had no difficulty reverting to that role now. Alvescot was somewhat puzzled by her change of mood but quickly adapted himself to it. He was no stranger to playing roles.

Chapter Eight

Mabel Curtiss was nothing if not persistent. For the next two days she dragged Louisa to breakfast at the same early hour, hounding Alvescot to take her daughter riding, walking, picnicking, driving, and any other activity that happened to come to her mind. The earl politely agreed to some of these activities, but he had no intention of falling into some murky plot designed to place him in a position where Mabel could accuse him of leading her daughter on. Louisa reluctantly followed her mother’s direction, but Alvescot could see that her heart wasn’t in it. When she spoke, which was rarely, it was usually of her erstwhile suitor—his likes and dislikes, his delicate constitution, his estate in Suffolk which she and her mother had visited on no less than four occasions over the last twelve years.

“I liked it there,” she said simply one afternoon as they drove through the countryside around Cutsdean in Alvescot’s newly repaired curricle. “It’s very peaceful and his sister is a dear girl. She’s rather ugly, I suppose, and is not expected to marry, and I think she must be very lonely living there alone while William is so often with us. I should like to be her friend; we go on very well when we’re together.”

Envisioning some poor ugly duckling of a schoolgirl, Alvescot asked, “How old is she?”

“Meredith? Why, something older than William, I would imagine. Perhaps thirty-eight or thirty-nine. She does a great deal of good in the village, for the poor people, you know.” Louisa sighed and regarded her hands which lay lightly clasped in her lap. “I would do something for the poor people, too, if Mama did not insist that my share of the allowance go to Edward.”

The blackmail still occupied Alvescot’s mind, but he had not as yet devised a plan of attack and he thought Louisa unlikely to be of any assistance in the matter. Still, it could do no harm to sound her out on Captain Lawrence, and when he did, she said, “Oh, he’s a rather crotchety old man, isn’t he? He treats little John like a cabin boy, barking orders and snapping about everything the poor lad does. And the boy is only four! I do think retired sailors are the worst of the military, don’t you?”

“I hadn’t actually thought about it,” Alvescot admitted.

“Yes, well, we had one in our neighborhood, where we used to live,” she said sadly. “His name was Beningbrough and he did nothing but talk of ships and naval actions and rascally powder boys who were rapped on the sconce—whatever that may be. Captain Lawrence only talks of the diseases his sailors got and prides himself on never having had them himself. Which was only because he didn’t have to suffer their horrid conditions, you may be sure! He’s not a very sympathetic man, Captain Lawrence. I don’t think he likes anyone at Cutsdean. I can’t think why he stays!”

Alvescot felt sure he knew, and it didn’t make his feelings toward the captain any more kindly. Someone of the captain’s age should have laid by for his later years, and certainly could have done so with the prize money he frequently mentioned having received. The self-righteous old stick should have practiced what he preached about economy and ordering one’s life. But the earl merely nodded gravely to this extraordinarily long speech of Louisa’s and said nothing except, “He must have had a rather distinguished career.”

His companion frowned slightly. “I suppose so. One day Edward was teasing him—about publishing his memoirs, you know—and the captain got all white and stomped out of the room. People do that, though—publish their memoirs—don’t they?”

“Frequently.”

“Well, I haven’t read anything of that sort myself, but I was sure they did. I can’t imagine why it upset Captain Lawrence. Perhaps he doesn’t approve of that sort of thing.”

Directing his pair back toward the estate, Alvescot looked thoughtful. “Perhaps not.”

Louisa fell silent for the duration of their drive. What she was thinking, the earl couldn’t tell, as her face became blank when she wasn’t being directly addressed. That it had something to do with William Oldcastle he felt reasonably confident.

Mr. Oldcastle had become rather a problem. The more time Louisa spent with the earl, the more sulky William became. If Louisa made any effort to conciliate him, her mother was always there to scotch the attempt. Now, Alvescot wanted Oldcastle's bedroom, feeling more and more confined each day he spent in his miniature chamber, but he owned to a certain fastidiousness about acquiring it in such a way, especially since he had no interest in Louisa.

There were times, when William happened to mention the hangings of Chinese painting on silk or the mirror paintings, when Alvescot was almost tempted to overlook his principles, but he resisted the temptation, steadfastly refusing to precipitate an out and out quarrel between the pair. If Oldcastle had the perseverance to remain in view of Mabel Curtiss’s obvious attempts to rid Cutsdean of him, more power to the man.

Alvescot had observed the famous squabbles during the first two days he spent at Cutsdean, but since Mabel had made her strategy clear, William was saying very little. He sat in a corner and glowered at Louisa, and at Alvescot if he happened to be speaking with her, but he spoke only when spoken to. Vanessa had taken pity on him, seating him next to her at meals and engaging his attention in the evenings. In turn, he treated her with a rigid formality, though there were occasional bursts of heavy-handed flirtation tossed in at random, as though he had some intention of making Louisa jealous.

From her sour and stately vantage point, Hortense Damery watched the farce develop with disgusted eyes. Alvescot had heard her berate Vanessa about the conduct of her guests, an attack which the younger woman gracefully ignored. It was difficult to tell whether Frederick’s mother had any interest in the conclusion of the various stratagems. If she sided with Mabel in wishing to see Edward win Vanessa’s hand, it was impossible to tell by her consistently cold aspect. The earl had finally come to the conclusion that Cutsdean was a hotbed of partially hidden problems and worrisome emotions, but as he readied himself for bed that night he decided he was wasting his time in not acting on the most apparent to him: that of Edward’s blackmailing Captain Lawrence.