Alex's Angel (31 page)

“But why would Green lie for me?”

“He is not a wholly disagreeable sort. He can be very considerate, sweet even. But more than that, he’s just so afraid…you know, afraid of Alex.”

Emily left off caressing the fur and turned to Nancy. “Afraid? But why?”

“I don’t know. It’s something from their privateering days. They served on the
Pollyanna
, starting during the war against the King. Alex was just thirteen, Richard in his twenties. The
Pollyanna
was lost at sea in 1782—”

Emily gasped. “Their ship was wrecked?”

Nancy nodded. “Exactly where or how, I can’t say. Somewhere in the Caribbean. Only Alex and Richard know and they were as united in silence as divided otherwise. Green returned in eighty-five. By his account, Alex was dead. It devastated Uncle William.”

“Alex’s father?”

“Yes. Then one day in eighty-seven Alex showed up in Boston, raised from the dead.” Nancy waved her hand and made a popping sound with her mouth. “It was like a miracle.”

“But what about those years in between? Where was Alex?”

Nancy rolled her shoulders. “Alex says he was in France. We have distant relatives there who are shipbuilders. I am given to understand he spent much time with them.”

“But you said everyone thought he was dead…didn’t he write in all that time?

“Ah, well, Alex and Uncle William had a falling out, shortly after Alex’s mother died. That was when he ran away to sea and what they said to each other must have been ghastly, for Alex never wrote.” She smiled. “Likely he was there doing his girling and studying his cartography, the only two things he seems to have a genuine interest in.”

Frustration gripped Emily, spurring her to ask, “And Green? Did he ever say anything that shed light on what really happened between them?”

“Richard would never say. As I said, he was truly terrified of Alex. It’s something complicated. Some weighty secret. And it will do you no good to ask. Alex will not speak of it. But Richard is not Alex’s worst enemy. He’s nothing—a fly, humming about, irritating Alex. No, for Alex it’s whatever haunts him that is his worst enemy.”

Suddenly uneasy under the other woman’s steady gaze, Emily turned back to the mirror and pretended to examine herself in the beautiful pelisse. How could Alex have turned his back on his family like that? What could a father possibly say that would be so terrible a son would rather pretend to be dead than to write home even occasionally? What had happened between Alex and Green to cause such discord between them?

Nancy related a neat, tidy story.

But Emily couldn’t forget the pain etched into Alex’s face.

Algeria
…Yes, something about Algeria. Alex hadn’t been in Paris, at least not the entire time. He’d been in captivity. Tortured. Forced to endure—no, she wouldn’t think about that. She couldn’t bear to…

“You seem like a kind-hearted person,” Nancy said in a tone that told how certain she was of the validity of her own opinions. “You should know that Alex is, uh…very fickle in his romantic attachments.”

Emily drew herself up with as much dignity as she could muster. “I don’t cherish any romantic attachment to him but I thank you for the warning all the same.”

She didn’t have to force the chill into her tone. She wanted nothing more than to be left alone to ponder this new information. But Nancy didn’t seem likely to leave any time soon.

She glanced over at Emily’s night table and picked up the little box that sat there. She plucked the lid off, then looked up at Emily over her spectacles and arched a coal black brow. “French plums?”

Before Emily could respond, Nancy popped one into her mouth. “Umm.” Chewing then swallowing, she narrowed her eyes speculatively. “No—it’s candied apricots.” She chewed for a few more moments. “Turkish, no less, if I am not mistaken. A present from my dear cousin, I presume?”

“He sent those simply to thank me for the dinner party.” Emily struggled to keep the snappishness out of her voice. Was she on trial or something?

Nancy rolled her eyes, tossing the box back onto the night table. The she appeared to freeze. She gasped loudly.

Oh, damn. Why didn’t I hide that necklace?

Nancy picked up the necklace and jumped to her feet. She danced excitedly over to the window, holding the pendant up to the light. It glittered with fiery light.

“Goodness,” Nancy breathed. She turned to Emily, her sapphire eyes wide. “A pigeon’s blood ruby. Perfect clarity.”

Her voice sounded almost accusing.

“It’s merely paste—surely it’s paste,” Emily said shakily, suddenly dumb with disbelief.

“No—it’s real and of the highest quality. My dearest friend’s father is a jeweller. He taught us all about precious stones.” She laid it back down on the night table with reverence.

Emily wanted to just die.

Nancy stared severely over her spectacles. “Into the lion’s maw, my dear girl, into the lion’s maw.” With that, she flounced out.

* * * *

As Emily entered Alex’s study, she blinked hard against the glare of so many candles illuminating the room. She was getting tired of being called from her bed at all hours of the night. He’d sent instruction for her to bring her notebook with her.

“You took your sweet time getting here,” he said from where he was sprawled lazily upon one of a pair new, dark blue settees. His banyan was untied and draped carelessly over his clothes. Several papers were scattered over his chest. He brushed the papers aside and stood.

Two weeks had passed since she’d last spoken with him alone. He’d been leaving early in the mornings and coming home late at night. She had missed him—terribly—and he had appeared not even to think of her. She was determined not to show how much this bothered her. “I was asleep. It’s two in the morning.”

“So? You’ll simply sleep later tomorrow.” He extended his hand. “Your drafts.”

She frowned. “What?”

“The written parts. Come on, hand them over,” he replied impatiently.

Shrugging, she handed him the stack of papers. “Why do you want them?”

“I want to know what I am endorsing.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “You already saw it at Mr Jefferson’s office.”

“Well, maybe I want to know it bit more intimately. Take a seat.” He motioned to the other settee.

She sat down. His business-like demeanour made her uneasy and she fidgeted with the belt of her wrapper, uncertain what to say or do. She glanced about and noticed the stack of papers on the side table. “What were you working on?”

“An article admonishing those who allow party politics to divide them, especially when neither the French nor the English can be trusted.” He began reading her pages, absently chewing on his quill as he did so.

After a while she decided to bring up something that had been weighing on her mind. “Alex?”

“Mmm?” he asked distractedly.

“I know a former sailor. He’s disabled. Being illiterate, he’s had it very hard.”

He looked up and sharply at her. “You’re asking if I have a job for this man?”

She nodded.

His face grew pained. “Emily, I can’t hire everyone you know who is in dire straits.”

“I am not asking you to—I simply wonder if you have a position for this man. His wife was a good friend to me in the boarding house.”

He lifted his glass to his lips, took a drink, then paused. “Oh, what the hell—I suppose I could ask the Sexton manager if he can find a place in his warehouses. However, this is something I’ve made it a rule not to do.”

“Hiring a disabled man?”

He looked at her archly. “No—mixing my private life with my business.”

“There’s something I don’t understand.”

“Oh, yes? What’s that?”

“You’re wealthy, right?”

“Aye, I am wealthy but you knew that, so let’s have it. Out with what’s really on your mind.”

“You could afford to ransom many men from Algeria?”

He winced. “Oh, Emily. I know the situation seems so simple to you, but it’s not. If men like me were to step in and ransom those men held captive, it would only encourage the pirates to become bolder. And paying endless tributes to those greedy blood-leeches is not the answer either.”

She couldn’t believe he could be so cool about the issue. “But something must be done.”

“Yes—we need to go to war and beat them down to their knees so that they will quake in fear at the mere mention of the United States.”

“But everyone says that cannot be done. That we’re too small.”

“Though we’ve limited resources and a burgeoning population, we’re only as small as we allow ourselves to be. But we need a navy to go to war with a country half the world away.”

“It’s only a handful of men. Surely they could be ransomed and then later our country could worry about all of this navy and war business?”

“Not having a national navy threatens to place our country in a crisis. Fairly soon, either the British or the French are going to do something so atrocious we’ll be forced to either fight them or capitulate.”

She could see that he was sincere in his belief but she didn’t really believe it herself. He was worried about the larger effects and forgetting the individual human lives involved.

“And you want to use my book, my art, to further the cause of this national navy?”

“Aye, I do.” He studied her for a moment. “But you don’t trust me, do you? I mean, not on this.”

“No, I don’t,” she admitted.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“So this is just automatic resistance against anyone using your work for something you didn’t originally intend?”

“I suppose.”

“Well, if you let me use your work, you get to have your work printed and maybe you’ll even get things settled your way. It might move people to raise ransom money for those men.”

“But you don’t believe that’s the proper way to solve the issue.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then I don’t understand why you’d take a chance on backing my work, if it might convince others to ransom them.”

“Others have to work according to their own consciences, just as I must work according to mine. That’s part of a free Republic—we have to accept it.” He resumed reading, flipping through the pages one by one, scanning intently. For some reason, her heart stayed lodged in her throat in a way it hadn’t done when the printers had looked over her work.

And it wasn’t just because she and Alex were lovers. It was because he took her work seriously, whereas the printers had not. Now he seemed to want to try to find fault with it. Was that because he now found fault with her? Nervous energy surged through her legs, making her want to get up and pace. She pulled the skirt of her wrapper tight over her knees and forced herself to sit still. She began to feel a bit ill.

But why? There was nothing wrong with her work.

Was there?

Finally, he glanced up. “It’s very good, but it contains far too many errors and it lacks structure. I’ll edit it.”

“Edit?” The word wrapped like a cold, iron fist around her heart. “I don’t want anyone interfering with my work.” She reached out and snatched her journal book from his hands.

“Now, don’t be offended. In truth it’s far better than I expected. It’s good, but it lacks a certain uniformity”

“I don’t want or need your editorial help, thank you very much.”

“I am not asking.” His voice was firm. “I am telling you this work must be edited or you won’t see a penny from me to have it printed. You may be stubborn-headed and suffering from a severe case of emotional myopia as regards your work, but I won’t let you short-change your own work and I sure as hell won’t put my name behind something that is less than it could be.”

Anger at his presumption boiled in her blood. “I knew you’d feel entitled—”

His golden brows rose and the whites of his eyes seemed to widen. “Sweetheart, I don’t
feel
entitled. I
know
I’m entitled, by my own vested interest in your book.”

“But you’ll take my vision and change it into something it isn’t supposed to be.”

She sounded petulant but she couldn’t help it. He didn’t know what he was asking of her. It was as if he was reaching into her soul and rearranging all the particles of the foundation of her being. No one had ever invaded her creative vision like that. Her creative vision was the only place in her life where she had all the power of choice, the final say. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow him to take that away from her.

“How can you trust me so little?” He actually had the audacity to look hurt when she was the wounded party.

“How can I trust you when you are determined to corrupt my vision?”

His face contorted with concern. “Sweetheart, you’re just too close to your own vision to see it clearly.”

He rose from his settee and came to sit beside her. He touched her shoulders.

Now she understood. The jewellery, fine clothes, sumptuous food and expensive wine—even the sensual pleasures he gave her—they were all designed to bend her to his will. Bend her so he could use her work for the sake of his own cause. And she was allowing such luxury to sway her. To tie her closer to this man who wanted to prostitute her art.