Salt Bride (56 page)

Lord Cavendish made a noise in his throat that greatly resembled the sound of a startled pheasant. He coughed into his fist politely to find his voice.

“The—um—beauty who has aroused your lust is the Duke’s—Lord! I can’t
believe
the first female to heat your blood since your return to England is the Duke’s—”

“—cousin? Sister, distant third cousin, poor relation—”

“Antonia, Duchess of Roxton. The cantankerous old widow as you so amusingly put it.”

Jonathon swallowed hard.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered in utter disbelief.

“And so you will be if you go near her.”

Jonathon cleared his raw throat.

“She’s not old enough, Tommy. Roxton must be my age if he’s a day.”

“We were at Eton together. He’s turned thirty. His grizzled locks and the fact his mother is cursed with being absurdly youthful for her years don’t help.”

Jonathon frowned with distaste. “Child-bride?”

“Do you doubt it? She was snatched from the schoolroom. The fifth Duke was a notorious rake who reformed for her. They were devoted to one another until his death. Enough said.” Lord Cavendish waved to a gentleman across the room who was making exaggerated head movements in direction of the refreshment room. “Time to move on, Strang. Cards, conversation and comfits await us through those archways, and I for one intend to enjoy what’s on offer.”

Jonathon stayed him; gaze still very much riveted to the Duchess. “Tell me you’re hoodwinking me, Tommy. Tell me the truth. Tell me that such an extraordinarily beautiful woman has no blood connection to Roxton. Tell me, Tommy.”

Lord Cavendish let out a heavy sigh. “I wish I could. I cannot.”

“Then tell me what you do know.”

“Will you have done staring openly at her,” Lord Cavendish hissed, pulling at Jonathon’s velvet cuff. “Roxton’s glanced at us twice already, and no wonder with your eyes glued covetously to his mother. He’s damned protective of her, and who can blame him? The old Duke’s death signaled open season on his much younger wife. Her incredible beauty is matched only by her personal wealth, an inheritance left her by the old Duke to do with as she sees fit; the Strang-Leven inheritance amongst those riches, old dear. Roxton’s hands are tied while she is alive. So you see why he keeps her in a gilded cage. Well, that’s the line…”

“And the unauthorized version?” When this was met with silence, Jonathon forced himself to look away from the Duchess, down at Lord Cavendish’s frowning countenance. “Oh, come on, Tommy! Tell me and then you’re free to stuff yourself from the buffet tables with abandon.”

His lordship sighed. “You’re doggedly persistent.”

He again took up his quizzing glass to pretend an interest in the dancing, for not only was the Duke regarding them under heavy brows but those who milled about on the edge of the dance floor were beginning to turn heads in their direction and whisper behind fluttering fans and perfumed lace handkerchiefs.

“The old Duke died almost three years ago. He was three score years and ten and had been ill for a number of years, so his death was not unexpected. Except, that is, by his Duchess, who still mourns his passing as if it was yesterday. She is a divinely beautiful, sweet-natured creature who is to be pitied. Rumour has it sorrow has unhinged her. Sir Titus Foley, a dandified physician who’s made a name for himself in the study and treatment of female
melancholia
, has been summonsed to Treat by the Duke, and for the second time in as many years. It begs the question about the balance of Her Grace’s mind, does it not? And you didn’t hear this from me, old dear, for Kitty would surely have me trussed and spit-roasted.”

Jonathon pulled a face of disgust.

“The poor woman has lost her husband, who was the love of her life, her home and her exalted position in society, and her son keeps her under lock and key? Is it any wonder she’s suffering from
melancholia
? She has no life at all; bullied and badgered and totally misunderstood is my guess. She don’t need the peculiar attentions of a supercilious quack. What she needs is someone to talk to and a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.”

Lord Cavendish’s burst of high-pitched incredulous laughter was heard across the ballroom.

“
T-T-Talk to
? Oh,
S-S-Strang
! You are my bowl of chicken broth; so necessary to my comfort. Your remedy? So appealingly uncomplicated that you have me almost convinced. I take it you’re going to do the manly thing and offer Antonia Roxton your own broad shoulder to cry on?” He wiped his watery eye on the lace covering the back of a shaking hand. “And for your efforts she’ll be eternally grateful and not only sign over the Strang-Leven inheritance to you, but vacate Crecy Hall forthwith, for you to do with as you wish?” He shook his powdered head in disbelief. “May I live to see the day!”

Jonathon grinned. “Just watch me.”

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Alec Halsey strode into the cool of the wide marble hall of St. Neots House, home of his godmother the Duchess of Romney-St. Neots, and hastily struggled out of greatcoat, leather riding gloves, sash and sword. He pressed these on an attending footman and then went up the curved marble staircase two steps at a time. On the first landing he paused, as if remembering his manners, and leaned over the mahogany balustrade. “Neave?” he called out to the butler, “Tell the Duchess I’ll be with her shortly!”

“Her Grace has guests to nuncheon, sir!” Neave called up into the dome of the cavernous entrance foyer. “And Miss Emily is—” Alec Halsey’s head of black curls disappeared from view and the butler spun around, saw two footmen juggling the visitor’s belongings between them and pointed a finger at the youngest, a freckle-faced youth with a mop of red-hair. “Go after him! He’s not to disturb Miss Emily. Your job on it, boy.”

Alec was in the passageway that led to the rooms occupied by the Duchess’s granddaughter when quick breathing at his back made him turn. A young footman came scrambling towards him much in the fashion of a puppy not grown into its long legs.

From behind a set of double doors came the sounds of female chatter and laughter.

“Sir? Please, sir. No!” the young footman pleaded, coming to a dead stop in front of the tall, loose-limbed gentleman. “You can’t go in there! Mr. Neave will have m’job if you do!”

Alec paused, long fingers curled about the door handle, and stared down at the freckle-faced youth who respectfully lowered his eyes and shuffled his feet. Something about the boy was oddly familiar and made him pause. “What’s your name?”

The footman gave a start. The pleasant drawling voice wasn’t angry, just curious and it made him glance up warily to wonder what was the intent behind the gentleman’s question. But there was no hint of insolence in the kind, friendly blue eyes that crinkled at the corners; no fancy airs and affected voice like so many of the visitors to St. Neots House. Even the clothes this gentleman wore were not out of the ordinary; no silver lacings, no frothy lace at his wrists, no diamond buckles in the tongues of his leather shoes; just good dark cloth, a plain linen cravat and shoes without high heels. Perhaps he could reason with him and not have his ears boxed for doing his job. He swallowed hard and let his gaze wander to the door, “Beggin’ pardon, sir. Thomas Fisher was what I was christened but most call me Tam, sir.”

“Thomas Fisher,” stated Alec, racking his brain for a memory; he made no immediate connection. He followed the boy’s gaze to the double doors. “Well, Thomas Fisher: Tam, I’m going in there with or without your approval. Think me presentable enough to announce?”

Tam wondered if he was being roasted. There was a look in those blue eyes he could not make out. If Neave discovered him in conversation with a visitor, he’d be out on the streets again. And gentlemen callers, if they were gentlemen, did not enter a lady’s private apartments; they certainly didn’t canvass the opinions of footmen. He set his jaw hard and put just enough insolence into his voice to make the gentleman know his place. “Presentable, sir?”

Alec lifted a hand. “I’m not fragile. Out with it. It’s the hair, isn’t it?” he said, gathering the shoulder length hair tidily at the nape of his neck and retying the ribbon that held it in place. “Not enough wax and no powder. Can’t abide either.”

In spite of himself, Tam grinned. “It’s just as you say, sir. Your shoes will pass inspection. Females don’t care a whisker for dust on y’shoes, yet they like a gentleman to be
neat
. Least that’s what Jenny says. She can’t abide an ill-fitting wig or one with not enough powder. Says it ain’t right. But your hair—”

“—is my own. Yes. It’s my one concession to vanity,” said Alec with a wink and slipped behind the door before the footman could stop him.

Tam cursed under his breath and dashed after him, saying as he crossed into the decidedly feminine sitting room, “Please, sir! Miss Emily is with her dressmaker. She ain’t receiving visitors and I doubt—”

“Don’t worry, Tam, I’ll vouch for you with Neave.”

“—she’ll notice your boots or your hair on account of the celebrations.”

This brought Alec Halsey up short and he turned and stared at him, puzzled. “Celebrations?”

Tam stepped up to him. “The engagement celebrations, sir. There’s to be a weekend party here. Here at St. Neots House.”

“Engagement celebrations?
Here?
”

Tam saw the gentleman’s look of total confusion. It was clear these tidings were new to him. “Yes, sir. Haven’t you been told, sir?”

“I returned yesterday from the Continent. I’ve been away eight months. An engagement celebration you say. Whose?”

“Miss Emily’s, sir.”

“No!”

“Yes, sir. Miss Emily is engaged to be married.”

“
When
?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“When.
When
did this happen?”

“Jenny, she’s Miss Emily’s maid—”

“I know who Jenny is!”

Tam lowered his eyes. He’d never seen a face turn as white as a sheet. He’d heard the expression. The housekeeper used it quite a bit. He was witness to it now. Alec Halsey’s angular face had not only drained of natural color, but under his linen cravat his throat had constricted. He suddenly looked ill. Tam wondered if he should fetch up a brandy.

Alec swallowed. “I didn’t mean… It’s just—”

“No need to explain, sir,” Tam said quickly, averting his gaze and shuffling his feet, feeling the gentleman’s embarrassment. He wished he could help him in some way. He didn’t care for Miss Emily’s betrothed, despite Jenny’s opinion that the Earl of Delvin was the handsomest nobleman in the kingdom. Lord Delvin certainly presented well dressed in the latest fashionable powdered wig, tight-shouldered frockcoat of elaborately embroidered silk, diamonds in his shoe-buckles and yards of frothy lace gathered up at his wrists and throat, but there was something about the nobleman that would not wash. Tam wished he had tangible evidence for this feeling, particularly when Jenny continually sung the Earl’s praises. “Jenny told me, sir,” he said glumly. “Miss Emily became engaged three days ago.”

“
Three days
…”

Tam winced at the wretchedness in the deep voice. “I’m—I’m sorry, sir.”

There was a long silence. It was broken by Jenny who rushed out of her mistress’s bedchamber, saying something over her shoulder, and ran straight into Tam. She fell back a pace and put a hand to her hair. “Tam? What are you doing—Oh!” She saw Alec and dropped a respectful curtsy. “Mr.—Mr. Halsey? Sir!” Her eyes went very round and she glanced at Tam, who kept his eyes lowered and his hands behind his back.

There was a rush of silk petticoats behind her, one or two voices raised in protest, and then Emily stood there in all her fair loveliness, straw-blonde curls caught up off her shoulders with a couple of long pins. She had on a new gown of patterned silk that was held together with tacking and needed alteration at the bodice, for it was cut far too low for the Duchess’s liking.

Madame the French dressmaker was at her elbow, urging her to come back into the room so she could continue with her work. Catching sight of a gentleman she gave a French squeak of alarm. Jenny spun about to shield her mistress from prying eyes but when Emily saw who it was she forgot Madame’s pins and threw herself at Alec’s inanimate form.