Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3) (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

              Broadmoore’s drawing room boasted more people than he would have liked, but not as many as he’d expected. In a revelation, Spencer realized it wasn’t
company
that he minded. Bennet had throngs of loud, obnoxious young bucks in for cards and drink nearly every night outside of the Season, and it hardly figured on his daily existence. He had guests of his own and no qualms being a guest elsewhere as long as the lodgings and company were good.

No, it wasn't the company, it was the
questions
. Eager and bright eyed, desperately patriotic and painfully misguided, men and women hounded him at tea, at dinner.
Tell us about your infantry charge
.
How many French did you kill during the siege? How many times were you wounded? What did the Prince Regent serve you for dinner?

              Bland enough, and he didn’t fault them for their curiosity, just for the memories that it stirred. There was no recalling an allegedly brilliant charge without also remembering the dead and mangled, their frozen screams and wide blank stares. Explaining that the siege had cost him Leighton Powell and nearly John, his two closest friends. He’d mourned in a foot of mud and shite, grief dulled by whiskey and a stomach full of moldy biscuits, certain of bleeding to death from a musket hole in his side.

              It would be impolitic to say that the prince was a pompous bore, rumpled and a bit undignified, with a mind nearly as scrambled as his father's. No one wanted to hear the bloody or the embarrassing details, and he was a saner man for not having to recount them.

              Spencer claimed a lone ribbon-back mahogany chair by the fireplace, watchful for anyone who recognized him with the telltale gleam of an unanswered question in their eyes. As he sat, he winced at a lack of stuffing in its fine blue silk cushion, and without warning felt
old
. Old and tired and cantankerous. Knees which had led the uphill charge at Toulouse protested an hour of standing in London company. In winter or poor weather, the wounds which had made him famous throbbed with the price of victory. His hearing, which had somehow survived the best efforts of his riflemen and heavy artillery, was grated on by the drone of gossiping voices. No, fame was not for him. Glory hoarding was for the younger, more brash among the army.
For
Bennet
.

              John appeared, handing him a glass of port without asking and without needing to. “Knock it back quick,” warned John, “before the ladies take notice.”

              “Here’s to the rules,” whispered Spencer, briefly raising his drink in salute to a social convention they’d broken on more than one occasion. Imbibing in the company of ladies was only bad form if you were
caught
; he and John had shaken hands on it.

              Down went the port, warm and sweet, coating his throat like pungent honey. John snatched the glass almost before it was clear of his lips, hurrying back to the cabinet in order to conceal their evidence. Spencer fought a smile, leaning into the chair’s sturdy frame to survey the room, letting the wine go to work.

John’s lovely wife Laurel, small and willowy with a mound of auburn hair, flitted along the horseshoe arrangement of her guests. Chas Paton, seated near the center, held a decent resemblance to his cousin John, with the same shade of blond to his hair and same upturned nose, neither of them particularly tall but both fit and with a lot of bearing. Chas’s wife, Paulina held court beside him, narrowed gaze weighing those around her. Taller than her husband by a finger or two, her ashen locks and dark eyes might have been exotic, framed by the sharp and invading European angles of her face and limbs. A sniff when she found his eyes on her and something withheld in their flat brown depths heightened his distaste for the woman.

              Mrs. Paton had already managed to make a poor impression on Laurel, and that had made a poor impression on
him
. Laurel was a mutual responsibility of sorts, and his own responsibility should his friend be killed. She filled the role of hostess at his estate now and then, saw to his domestic staff, and nattered about his health, his exercise, and his love life with equal concern. Someone had to, he supposed, and bless her for it. She was altogether lovely and Spencer treasured her almost as much as John. Anyone who treated her poorly was suspect, as far as he was concerned.

              Finishing a study of the room, he frowned. His raven was nowhere in sight, a revelation which was more disappointing than he had expected. At least a good look at her, with no mask and in daylight, would assure him that she was not as tempting as he remembered. This thought occupied him while John muttered introductions, most of which were not necessary, and everyone casually took each other's measure.

              “Mrs. Rowan.” Spencer had thought the words, but didn't realize he had spoken them aloud until several sets of eyes snapped his way.

              John leaned in. “What's that, Reed?”

              He met their gazes, swallowing to recover. “Mrs. Rowan. Is she not also visiting today?”

              “She’s in the small parlor,” offered Laurel with a meaningful glance at Mrs. Paton. “Writing a letter. Would you like me to introduce you?”

“Here I am. Forgive my tardiness.”

              The voice startled him. He sat up quick enough to bounce the chair legs and turned in his seat.

              For a long moment he stared, nearly certain she could not be the same woman from the garden. She was taller than he remembered, and older. Thirty at least, though it was her carriage rather than looks which gave her age away. A modestly cut pale mint gown hugged long arms and draped longer legs, still managing to hide a body he
thought
he remembered well. Her hair was the right shade of silky ink, but its mass was harnessed into a tight knot at her crown. She was not dowdy or plain. She was lovely, in fact, but entirely different from his recollection.

              He relaxed against the chair, deflating with relief. Then, he stood up, bowing to Mrs. Rowan at John's introduction. “Alexandra, this is Major-General Lord Spencer Reed.” John waved a hand. “Reed, this is my cousin, Mrs. Alexandra Rowan.”

              Alexandra dared closer, eyeing him, and for a breath Spencer was certain she had recognized him. Then she curtsied, a small gesture that brushed him with a hint of her perfume. That was the same; he knew it and his
body
certainly knew it. Without thinking, he pressed a hand over her glove tucked inside his pocket.

              “Lord Reed. It's very kind of you to make some time to visit here with us. As John explains it, you have a great many obligations.” Her
r'
s were firm, syllables full on an American tongue, voice rich and sweet. That part at least was meeting his expectations. He wished she would say more, give him more than polite asides.

              “Not as busy as I'd like,” he muttered, awkward. “Or as much as is good for everyone else.”

              Easy, a spring breeze; her laughter came naturally at his jest, checking his breath for a beat.

              Then he waited for the questions, the stilted adulation.

              Instead, she cocked her head and smiled. “We've all been warned, then.”

              His heart skipped. Spencer struggled to follow his comment, to keep her there, but silence broke the thread between them and Alexandra moved off.

              She folded onto a hulking floral brocade sofa beneath the window, slipped a book from the ledge, and seemed to forget that she was not alone. Absorbed as he was in studying her, he didn’t miss Paulina's sour frown at her sister-in-law.

              “Hastings, what's our order of the day?” asked Chas, a strange contrast of desperate affability against his scowling wife.

              “Well.” John glanced to Laurel, who smiled over a hard swallow. “Well,” she began, then faltered. Spencer didn’t have to guess why; John had grumbled over their struggle for weeks now. John's army pay was in arrears, going back to well before the Battle of Paris. He’d dumped a small fortune into Broadmoore just to make it livable and then the Crown had left him out to dry. Now John had a baby on the way and an unexpected house full of guests to entertain. “Well,” she repeated, “John has arranged us a lovely picnic today out on the heath --”

              “The weather is cold,” sniffed Paulina.

              “The weather is
English
,” retorted Alexandra, piercing the other woman with a glance over her book. A silent, pointed exchange hung between the women for long enough that Spencer anticipated more barbs. Finally, Alexandra dropped her gaze, cutting the tension.

              Laurel’s shoulders relaxed a measure at being defended. “And tomorrow, we'll –”

              He sat forward, interjecting himself into the group. “Tomorrow you will all come over to Oakvale. I have entertainments planned for Saturday and Sunday so that Lady Hastings may have a respite to enjoy your company.”

              Laurel's smile was absolute gratitude, and John nodded.

              John needed his cousins, and Laurel could not risk alienating them by saying what truly ought to be said to Paulina Paton. But he would, and could. Let her cut a swath with her tongue under his roof and see how she fared.

              “That is very kind of you, Lord Reed.” Alexandra was watching him without blinking, book forgotten in her lap.

              His intent in bringing the group to Oakvale was to do Laurel a favor. Now it occurred to him that he would be under the same roof with Mrs. Rowan, in her company as much as he wished. A thrill shivered up his back, his eyes holding a moment too long on her mouth.

              He returned her stare a moment and something hung between them, something tantalizing, for just a moment.

Then Laurel cut the thread, scooting her chair until it separated their respective perches. “Mrs. Rowan, your brother mentioned that you paint. Do you instruct, also?”

There was a hopeful note in Laurel's voice that Spencer imagined only he would recognize, but Alexandra seemed to pick it out, too. “I have not a bit of formal instruction, but I'm happy to share what I know. I don't do portraits, ever. But the natural world…” she nodded slowly. “Perhaps I could show you a thing or two.”

              “Oakvale has some noteworthy landscapes,” he offered, eager for Alexandra’s notice.

              “It's true!” Laurel clasped her hands. “Oh, Mrs. Rowan, you have never seen anything quite like it. More of the Highlands than here, full of stone cliffs and low peaks. And, at the same time, green and rolling. A natural lake below the lawn catches the sunrise. It’s breathtaking.”

              Laurel’s praise warmed him, but it was Alexandra’s reaction which interested him.

              “Breathtaking. That’s high praise. I can hardly wait,” agreed Alexandra, meeting his eyes and then glancing away. “I saw humbling country some years ago, when we trekked west as far as the Missouri. Chas sent some men to take stock of an outpost, for a fur venture. The country, the people...” Her smile was radiant. “I struggle imagining its equal anywhere on earth.”

              Spencer looked her over, mind aching at her growing enigma. “You went west, just the three of you?”

              Alexandra's blue eyes narrowed. “I traveled with Chas’s foreman Mister Mattingly, his sons and his wife. Chas was
occupied
and Paulina does not travel
au provincial
.” She spit the accusations half under her breath, dodging Paulina’s cocked ear. “Three scouts, two white guides and our native guide. Some of his people traveled with us, coming and going. At harvest time, there is a great deal of trading and communicating between the tribes.”

              “Goodness,” breathed Laurel. “Were you not overwhelmed the whole time? I have heard the frontier can be very savage.”

              Shrugging, Alexandra chewed her lip. “Anywhere can be, it seems. But those are often the places to find adventure.”

              Spencer shifted in his chair, frustration growing by the moment. It was her. Alexandra was the same woman he had taken to the garden, playful and willing, adventurous. He had kissed the lips smiling at him now. The pieces just didn't fit. The woman before him was soft spoken if frank, a little demure and perfectly sweet to their hostess with not a hint of passion. He stared at her, puzzled.

Lost in his confusion, he drifted away, only catching himself when her brows lifted in question. “Something troubles you, Lord Reed?”

              “It does.”

              Her brows rose higher, and for just a breath Spencer swore something spilled into her gaze, something she'd kept bottled up, more which lurked just below the surface. Just as quickly as it came, the cork was stuck back in and Alexandra claimed her forgotten book, not a ripple to her expression.

              Looking from her to the others, he caught Paulina's narrowed eye, first on Alexandra and then on him. Understanding dawned at last. His lady from the garden was in there somewhere, hidden as much from her family as from him. What hold did Paulina have over her sister-in-law?