An Affair Downstairs (26 page)

“Logan, no.” She stopped. “A family lives there now. We can't go back.”

“Give me a chance,” he said. “I have an idea.”

When they arrived at the door, he knocked and waited. “Good tidings, new neighbors,” he said when Mr. Higgins answered the door, overlooking the fact that he was no longer a neighbor. “Merry Christmas.”

“And to you,” Higgins said. They'd all met at Mass and at church again in the morning.

“Lord Averford would like to extend an invitation to your family to join his party at the Fairy Pool.” He gestured through the woods to the pond. “It's that small pond through the trees, now frozen over. We've been skating and plan to be there a little while yet.”

“Ice skating?” Higgins's wife joined him at the door. “I love to skate. What fun! I've been wondering if that pond would freeze solid enough.”

“Oh, it's quite solid,” Logan assured them. “We've been out a while now, and it happens that the young woman with me here…”

“Lady Alice.” Mrs. Higgins nodded in her direction. “Merry Christmas to you.”

“And to you.” Alice smiled.

“Lady Alice doesn't do well in the cold, apparently. Might we warm up a minute in front of your fire?”

“Please, come in.” Alice followed Mrs. Higgins to the small sitting room, admiring the way the furniture arrangement made the space look larger. Alice preferred it stripped down to the bare floor. With a tarp and horse blankets. She looked at the fire and back to Logan, his heavy-lidded eyes watching her. She knew he was sharing the same memory. Her toes curled at the thought of it.

“But the babies?” Mrs. Higgins said, as her husband convinced her to get ready to go skating.

“Mother will watch the babies,” he assured her. “She's up napping with them now.”

Too excited at the idea of skating, Mrs. Higgins got ready to go.

“You don't mind if we leave you to see your own way out?” Higgins asked at the door.

“Oh, no. Go on ahead. We'll see you back there in a short while.”

Bundled in their coats, Mr. and Mrs. Higgins left with their skates slung over their shoulders. Not a second after the door closed, Logan took Alice in his arms. “You see? Alone at last.”

“Not quite alone.” She pointed to the stairs. “We have to behave. We could be interrupted at any moment.”

“We won't be, and I do plan to behave. For the most part.” He leaned his head in slowly. Alice's heart began to beat faster. She ached for him, her nerves reacting to his proximity deep down in places that he couldn't touch with them both fully clothed. Her lips parted before his mouth met hers, and she kissed him hungrily.

“My memories of this place,” she said, when he broke the kiss. “I'll never forget.”

“Nor I. That's how I knew that it had to be here.”

“What had to be here?”

He dropped to one knee. “It had to be here that I asked you, and here that I heard your answer. Please don't be afraid to say no. I'm willing to wait. I'm willing to give you anything you ask.”

Her nerves danced with excitement. She'd never thought she wanted to be married, and now she wanted nothing more than to be Logan's wife. “Stop trying to anticipate my answer and ask me, Logan. Just ask.”

He pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket. An envelope? “I've booked passage for two to India, leaving in the spring. It gives you plenty of time to decide if you would rather go on your own, but if you don't mind, I would like to go with you.”

She blinked. “You want to accompany me to India.” No marriage proposal? No ring? She had what she always wanted, and yet…

“Of course I would love to see India with you, Logan. Yes.”

“What a relief,” he said, not getting to his feet. He put the envelope back in his pocket and pulled out a small box. “Then it's not necessary, of course, but I thought it might be easier for traveling purposes if you would consent to go as my wife. Marry me, Alice.”

Her knees went weak. She wobbled and found her footing. “Logan, you want me to marry you? Truly?”

“I believe I've been saying it for about a month now. Yes, Alice. Marry me. Please.”

Hot tears formed in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cold cheeks. “Yes.”

He shook his head. “Not if you're going to cry about it.”

“I'm crying because I'm happy, Logan. I've never been so happy. I had no idea how much I wanted to be your wife until just now.” He stood to take her in his arms, kissing her again. And again. She never wanted him to stop.

At last, he held out the small box. “Once, I told you that I offered my grandmother's moonstone to another woman.”

“You wanted to give her the moon,” Alice said. “But I believe you offered me the entire universe.”

“And you shall have it, at least any part of it that's in my power to give. You're the woman I love.” He opened the box. “And that's why I bought a new ring, something just for you. I saw it, and it reminded me of you. Red, like your hair. You know how I love your red hair.” He stroked a tendril back from her face.

“I do.” It was a solitary ruby, oval, set on a band of tiny diamonds. “Rubies are my favorite, Logan. Put it on me, please. I want to wear it always.” He slipped it on her finger.

“It's a perfect fit. Fate, as Agatha might say. It belongs on your finger.”

“My grandmother's pin.” She'd just remembered. “I traded it in a shop to buy your cuff links, but it's a perfect match for the ring. Grandmother believed it would bring the right man.”

“We'll just have to go to that shop and buy it back again.”

“Fate.” She nodded. “I do love you, Logan. More than I ever thought it possible to love. I want to see the world and have adventures, but it would never suit me to do it alone now that I know what it is to love you. I want to be with you always.”

“It's a good thing. I plan to be with you always, through every adventure for the rest of our lives.”

Back at Thornbrook Park, they all warmed up and refreshed themselves with tea. Alice and Logan exchanged knowing glances but waited to share their news. She kept gloves on to hide the ring until she felt ready to show it off. At the top of the stairs, Alice and Logan shared a warm kiss before anyone caught up to them.

“I can't wait for the day we can share a room,” Alice said. “As husband and wife.”

“Soon enough. But the day's activities have worn me out and I welcome a short nap. I might prove a disappointment if we shared a room.”

“You will never disappoint me, Logan.” She blew him another kiss as he walked off down the hall.

Later, once they were all rested and ready for the evening, they met in the drawing room before dinner. Alice didn't hesitate to wear her ring, without gloves, and she held her breath waiting for someone to notice.

“Where did you get that stunning ring, Alice?” Eve Thorne asked at last.

“Oh my goodness.” Sophia came from across the room to have a look. “I can't believe I didn't notice it at once.”

“It was a gift,” she said, eager to fill them all in, but waiting for Logan to say something. She met his gaze.

Eve and Sophia looked right at Logan before he needed to say a word. Agatha got up and hugged Logan at once. “Welcome to the family! I knew fate would lead you all along.”

“It's an engagement, then?” Sophia's eyes darted back and forth between Alice and Logan. “For certain.”

“It is,” Alice acknowledged with a blush.

Logan came to her side and placed a kiss on her cheek. “I've loved her for too long to risk letting her get away again. And to my great joy, Alice has consented to be my wife.”

“And I realized that I do want to be married after all, to Logan. Someone to share all my adventures.”

“More than you ever dreamed.” He held her close.

The rest of the evening went by in a blur. They ate and returned to the drawing room, and drank and laughed. What had started as a catastrophic holiday had turned into the best Christmas ever. The women admired Alice's ring and planned ahead.

“A spring wedding, to be sure,” Agatha said. “New beginnings.”

They all raised their glasses. “To new beginnings.”

***

It was late in the evening. Agatha and the Thornes had gone to bed. Logan and Alice stayed up as long as they could for the chance to spend more time in each other's arms. Gabriel and Sophia made their excuses to leave the two lovebirds alone.

“It has been such a long day,” Sophia said. “I'm so tired.”

“You go on up to bed, darling,” Gabriel said. “I've got to clear some business downstairs with Finch. Boxing Day. I want to make sure everyone is free and able to have a day off without waiting on us. I'll meet you up in bed shortly.”

“Of course,” Sophia said. “Don't stay up too late, you two. And best wishes again for a wonderful life together. My apologies if I did anything to stand in the way of your happiness. I might have been overzealous in acting for what I believed was in Alice's best interest. I look forward to having you as a brother, Logan. Growing up, I always wanted brothers. Now I'm to have two of them.”

“Thank you, Sophia. It means a lot to me that we have your approval,” Logan said.

“To me, too,” Alice added. “Thank you for coming to see things as they should be. Logan and I belong together.”

“I can see that now.” Sophia flashed a genuine smile. “And I'm very pleased for you. Good night.”

Logan and Alice stayed in front of the fire for some time, kissing and cuddling, not quite ready to part. At last, they decided they had better go in case they were keeping the servants up. With Boxing Day about to begin, they hated to be in the way.

But as they rounded the corner to head up the stairs, they froze in their tracks. Lord Ralston had returned. He stood in the hall, his head bowed in quiet conversation with Sophia. They looked almost like lovers, which Alice began to laugh off as preposterous until he took Sophia in his arms and kissed her passionately. At first, Sophia started to push him away, but slowly she began to give in.

“Sophia,” Alice breathed, unable to believe her eyes. For once, she wished so badly that she had been wrong, so terribly wrong, about Ralston's attraction to Sophia. But she seemed to have been right. Alice leaned on Logan for support.

Logan's arm was around her waist, gently guiding Alice away from the disturbing sight, when the worst of all things happened next. Lord Averford turned the corner and witnessed his wife in the arms of another man. And his face—Alice would never forget the look on Gabriel's face, a look of sheer agony. Alice watched her brother-in-law's heart break into a million pieces right before her eyes.

“Gabriel.” Some sort of awareness dawned on Sophia at last, a minute too late. She looked up to see her husband watching her with Lord Ralston. “Gabriel! It's not what it seems. Please, let me explain.”

Sophia left Lord Ralston standing there in the hall and ran off after her husband.

Alice stepped forward, Logan two steps behind, still holding her hand.

“
You.
” The word held all the venom Alice could muster.

“I love her, Alice. I'm sorry.” Finally humbled, Lord Ralston was ready to confess. “It has always been Sophia. I finally came to admit it to her. I had to take the chance. She said I was being ridiculous, and she begged me to leave. She said she loved her husband, but I didn't believe her. I couldn't. We could be so good together. I took her in my arms and I kissed her so that she would finally understand. Clearly, I was wrong. Maybe she really does love him.”

“Of course she loves him,” Alice said, perhaps a little too loudly. “Are you mad? Or just daft? She loves him, you fool. Get out.” She pointed toward the door. “Get out of this house and don't ever come back, or so help me God, Ralston, I'll shoot you myself.”

He held up his hands, resigned. “I'm leaving. There's nothing here for me now. Good-bye. I wish you all the best.”

“
Out!
” Alice yelled. Once he left, she turned to Logan. “Can you believe his nerve? That man!”

“I would have been glad to punch him again, but you seemed to have it all under control.” Logan pulled Alice into his arms. “I'm sorry we had to see that. But Sophia and Gabriel have a lot of love between them. They will work it out.”

“I certainly hope you're right.” She allowed herself to lean into him, the man she planned to marry. She wasn't sure that he was right about her sister's marriage recovering. She'd never seen Gabriel look so broken. “Whatever the future holds, I'm so glad I have you to face it with me, Logan.”

“Whatever the future holds.” He kissed the top of her head. “I'm here.”

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Sherri Browning writes historical and contemporary romantic fiction, sometimes with a paranormal twist. A graduate of Mount Holyoke College, Sherri has lived in western Massachusetts and Michigan, but is now settled with her family in Connecticut. To learn more, visit
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Read on for an excerpt from

Thornbrook Park

September 1906

Misty fog draped London like a bridal veil, obscuring Eve Kendal's first view of her homeland in six long years. She was left to imagine the tower, the bridge, and the clusters of chimney tops merrily puffing out smoke. A dusk arrival hindered sight of the skyline, fog or no. Better to employ her time in making plans for disembarking rather than idling on deck where a fetid stench rolled off the water. Colonel Adams, who had accompanied her from India, approached her, apparently in the same frame of mind.

“I've arranged for a hansom cab, and I would be pleased to deliver you to your friend's address. No need to tempt the ruffians, a lovely young woman alone. It will be dark before we're finally off the ship.”

“Thank you, Colonel. You're very kind.”
Too
kind.
Colonel Adams and his wife, a doting older couple, had done little else but fret over Eve's welfare in the year and a half since the colonel had delivered the news of her husband Captain Benjamin Kendal's unfortunate demise.

Six years earlier, when she'd eloped with Ben to India against her parents' wishes, making her own way in the world was something that had never crossed her mind. Now that she was on her own, she craved a chance to manage her own affairs. She'd only accepted the colonel's offer to accompany her because he had matters to attend that coincided with her return and it seemed wise to make the passage with a companion.

Her finances necessitated a return to England. Her widow's pension would only stretch so far, and she couldn't find out what had happened to their savings. Ben had spoken of investing them. Her fervent hope was that her late husband's solicitor in London would know where their money was.

That her family had disowned her for marrying Ben, an army captain instead of the earl her mother had hoped for, seemed an unhappy turn, but no crucial setback at the time. They had each other, and together they would conquer all, even life in a strange, new country. But they hadn't accounted for natural disaster. When an earthquake rocked the Kangra Valley in India, where Ben had been sent on a special mission for the magistrate, he was killed in a shower of falling rocks.

Eve had stayed in the safety of Raipur, where they'd made their home among a small community of expatriates. They'd once talked of a quiet retirement in the English countryside, their many children all around them. In six years of marriage, Eve hadn't yet conceived and she'd begun to fear that she couldn't. With Ben—and their savings—gone, it was probably for the best that she didn't have children to support.

Still, how she would have loved a child with Ben's eyes and laugh to be her constant companion. Her memories were all that remained, memories she wouldn't trade for anything, not even to win back her parents' support. Over a year later, she was out of mourning and on to a new life, the dreams she'd shared with Ben behind her.

Her parents and brother never answered her letters. Besides Colonel Adams and his wife, Adela, Eve had one friend in the world, her girlhood companion, Sophia.

All through her absence, Eve and Sophia had kept up correspondence. When Eve had written Sophia about Ben's death, she'd been touched to receive her friend's offer of the Dower House on the grounds of her estate. She was grateful to Sophia for throwing her a lifeline when she needed one most.

Standing next to her on the deck, Colonel Adams suddenly placed his hand over hers on the rail, interrupting her thoughts.

“Time heals all wounds, my dear, as they say. Or someone said. I don't recall who…”

“I believe it was the Greek philosopher Menander, as echoed by Chaucer in
Troilus
and
Criseyde
.”

“Ah.” He stroked his silver mustache. “Very clever, but perhaps best not to demonstrate that so readily. A number of suitors would be discouraged from pursuit of a bookish woman.”

“Suitors, Colonel?” Eve suppressed a smile and shook her head. “Even if I wanted one, I wouldn't accept a man who shied from intelligence. You know me better than that.”

“I do.” He nodded dismissively. “What I mean to say is that time heals, perhaps, but it works all the faster when you're in familiar territory. As much as Adela and I will miss you, I believe being back in England will be restorative for you. A fresh start in—where is this place you go, again?”

“Thornbrook Park, the Earl of Averford's estate in West Yorkshire.”

“Thornbrook Park, indeed. Nothing like the clean air of the English countryside to restore good health and spirits.”

“Yes. A night at Averford House, my friend's house in town, and then the train straight to Thornbrook tomorrow morning.”

“They know you at Averford House?” A bushy brow arched over inquisitive green eyes.

“No, but Sophia, Lady Averford, sent a letter ahead to the butler informing him to expect me. I don't anticipate any problems.”

“Good. I'm in town for a fortnight, don't forget, at the Langham, should you need me.”

“So you've told me. Three times now.” Eve smiled. It was probably more like ten times. “You've no need to worry. As much as I love your company, I hope I won't need to look you up. Lady Averford's brother-in-law, an army captain, currently resides at Averford House. You might know him, Captain Marcus Thorne?”

“I don't know the name.” The colonel shook his head, though his eyes brightened at the news that there was a man in charge at Averford House, an army man.

“I'm sure I will be quite safe. Give my love to Adela when you get home.”

“We will start looking for your novel as soon as I get back.”

She laughed. “I have to write it first. I'm not sure when I'll find time. And then, I'll need a publisher. You won't have to start looking for at least a year, and I'll send plenty of letters in the meantime.”

“We have faith in you, my dear.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” She wished she had as much faith. As she noticed activity picking up around them on the deck, she removed her hand from under the colonel's and reached for her bag. “I believe it's time to disembark.”

***

Captain Marcus Thorne, his hands in his pockets, shouldered his way through the rough crowd gathered in the street outside the Hog and Hound.

“A fighter!” one of the lads said, gesturing to him. The boy was too young to be out late in such a neighborhood. Marcus stifled the urge to reprimand the boy, but kept his head down and kept walking.

“No, 'e's a gentleman,” said a toothless old hen. “Come to watch and wager like the rest of 'em.”

No one could accuse him of dressing impeccably, but he supposed his clothes stood out as fine, more befitting a gentleman than a fighter: dark frock coat concealing broad shoulders, black trousers, and black hat low over his eyes covering wheat blond hair, close cropped to be suitable for fighting, nothing for an opponent to grab.
Onward. No sense in correcting her.

The black rage was upon him, taking him over, becoming more impossible to control by the minute. After the war, he suffered many black rages, pounding at the back of his brain like a time bomb ticking toward explosion. And when it went off, God help those around him. The only thing he'd discovered that could dismantle the rage, as he had disabled box mines in South Africa, was to hit something, someone, anyone.

During the war, he'd had steady hands, a sharp mind, and nerves of steel. Now, his nerves were shot to hell, and the rest of him was on the way there, too.

After he'd spent too many nights to count in holding cells for starting brawls, a friend had suggested Marcus put his fists to better, or at least more profitable, use and take up prizefighting. He spied the friend, Thomas Reilly, a private detective, at the bar as he entered the room.

The dim lighting and haze of smoke in the air could not disguise that the pub had seen better days. Perhaps the worn state only served to make him, and all the other miscreants, feel more at home, though the gentlemen among them seemed equally undaunted by the divots in the wood-paneled walls between prints of racehorses and pugilists, or the occasional dots of rodent droppings on the sanded floor.

Marcus acknowledged Tom with a nod and kept walking to a table in back occupied by a slim young man in a suit cut two sizes too large, perhaps to add the impression of size. Without a word, Marcus placed a note stating his intentions on the table and waited for a response.

The man did not answer, but raised his brows in surprise, jumped up, and ran through the faded red velvet curtains to the ring in back.

“Gentlemen.” Marcus could hear the man, his voice sturdier than his build. “We have a newcomer waiting. He demands a fight to the finish with the best man in the room.”

The announcement was followed by silence and then hoots of laughter. The champions of all weight classes had undoubtedly been decided and declared by the time of Marcus's arrival. A challenge to take on the best, without specification of age or weight class, would be considered either a fool's mission or an outright joke.

Marcus had served in the Second Boer War, the biggest fool's mission of them all in his mind, and there could be no more ridiculous joke than sending him, a gentleman's son, off to war. Commissioned officers weren't often sent to war, and being directly involved in bloodshed hadn't been what he'd expected when he'd purchased his commission. He'd only meant to impress his father and show his brother that he, the bookish one, could pursue an active life of adventure, while his brother, the sportsman, was destined to a custodial life in charge of a house, grand though it was. Perhaps the real joke was that he had returned when so many had not; that he, a pampered mother's favorite, had faced every challenge thrown his way and survived.

He was not the same man upon his return. Memories haunted him, his conscience nagged him, and the black rages took him over on occasion, but no longer as frequently as they had when he'd got back, before he'd first stepped into the ring.

Tonight's rage had been initiated by the carriage driver who swerved and nearly killed the little urchin selling flowers at the roadside before continuing on his way without pause.
Tick
. And the lady in the bird-ornamented bonnet walking right on by, stepping over the child without a moment's hesitation to ask if she were hurt.
Tick
. And when Marcus stopped to help the girl up and gather her flowers, he could see that her eyes had the same gray-green hue as another child he'd known. His mind flew back to the South African concentration camps and a mother and daughter separated from the rest of their family by force and held against their will.

“For your own safety,” Marcus had been instructed to reassure them. “Wouldn't want innocents to get caught up in the fighting.” For the safety of the troops, Marcus knew. Wouldn't want opposition to grow and spread like wildfire among the civilians.

Tick
. The rage had fallen upon him, ready to blow, pounding behind his eyes, throbbing in his ears, and he'd dropped his evening plans and come straight to the Hog and Hound to have a go.

Win or lose, it didn't matter as long as he got to pummel something hard and fast, someone there with the full intention of being hit and of hitting back in return. It wasn't the safest of diversions, but the money was good when he won, and even better when he had the sense to stay out of the ring and wager on the right fighters. When the rage took over, though, there was no help for it.

The slim young man returned, taking a good look at Marcus as if sizing him up. He shook his head, a gesture Marcus interpreted to mean that he'd be fighting a heavyweight, probably the biggest of them all. Marcus, six feet of solid muscle, was a match for anyone under sixteen stone, but over that he had to be fast on his feet and dodge all blows. “Come with me.”

Marcus followed, any sense of impending doom deadened by the incessant throbbing at the base of his brain. Instinctively, his hands curled into fists. Without a thought to the throng of gentlemen and commoners alike assembled around the ring, Marcus forged through the crowd, climbed up, stepped into the ropes, found his corner, and began to strip down. He felt all eyes on him and let them look. If his size and the shrapnel scars dotting his muscle-bound chest made him any more intimidating, so much the better.

“Seconds?” a craggy old man with cauliflower ears known to Marcus simply as Jameson called from the ringside.

“Here.” Tom Reilly appeared, the crowd parting to allow him to make his way to the ring, where he hopped up and took his place beside Marcus. Tom looked like a fighter in his own right. He stood only an inch shorter than Marcus's six feet, all of him lean muscle. His hair was short and brown with a natural curl that he couldn't seem to tame. His Irish blue eyes had an occasional twinkle that lent him an air of joviality, but they could just as often turn dark and threatening like clouds rolling in for a storm.

“Here.” Another man waved from across the ring. He was as short as he was wide and swarthy enough to resemble a storybook troll. Augustus Hantz. Which meant that Marcus's opponent was none other than Smithy Harris, a formidable giant to whom Hantz might have been physically attached since they were so often together.

Harris appeared in the ring seconds later. He came by his nickname honestly, as he'd been a blacksmith by profession. His arms—thick like sides of beef from wielding his heavy hammer—bore the hallmarks of the trade, and he stood half a foot taller than Marcus, if not more. Some men might think this spelled trouble for Marcus, and no doubt the betting was fast and furious against him. But Marcus had watched Smithy Harris before and knew that his size, though unnerving, was a hindrance to easy movement and that he could tire the giant out in minutes as long as he kept bobbing and weaving around the ring.