Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3) (31 page)

              With both pistols ahead now, Ethan opened a path through the crowd. Spencer grabbed a fistful of Chas's coat as they passed, dragging him along the scaffold until they reached the Bailey Gate.

Magistrate Arindale, peering between the iron bars, shooed them in quickly. His eyes darted from Ethan to a limp Chas, looking urgent.

A wide hand pressed Spencer’s shoulder in the dark passage, Arindale jostling him with a pat. “Well lad, it's done.”

              Spencer only nodded, no words left for this day.

             
It was done
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Broadmoore
-
- October 5th, 1814

              Alix gained the yard at the foot of the pond just in time. The sun was brilliant overhead, but fall was fall and a sudden breeze worked itself inside the plush lining of her amber velvet pelisse. She would be just the right amount of frozen by the time she reached the gate.

              Broadmoore was a burden on John, but it
was
magnificent, framed by the rust and crimson leaves clinging to its ancient oaks. She had come to appreciate that on her daily walks. Laurel had cautioned her against the exertion, but Doctor Ashby was in Scotland, too far away to agree with her friend, and Alix couldn’t bear to sit inside every day. She had been surprised to discover that her time outside was the only time she felt well. Just over a week of long walks, light meals, and Bennet’s company had left her renewed.

Turning up the drive, she noticed a sturdy black carriage in front of the house. At first, she mistook it for John's, and felt exhausted on his behalf that he was called away so often. She was nearly at the top of the pond now, and she squinted, realizing her mistake. The embossed arms on its door were all wrong; a rampant argent lion stood silver against a black and white shield. The carriage’s wheels were narrower, finely crafted and more expensive than what John and Laurel could afford.

Her heart stopped, skipped, and Alix began to run. Through the gate and across the drive, nearly spilling herself on the steps. She sped into the hall and halfway up the steps before she reined herself in, panting and struggling with where she should look first.

“Alexandra.”

              Alix froze, closed her eyes and enjoyed the small thrill which ran up her back at his voice. She turned slowly and made herself wait until she ached, before laying eyes on.

He stood inside the front door, looking up at her unblinking.

Spencer had changed along with the season. His bronze skin had faded to a bare olive. His chestnut hair, clipped short, barely peeked from beneath his polished beaver hat. A neat cravat, tailored great coat, heavy boots, and thick kid gloves transformed him into a polished London gentleman. Her breath caught just as it had on seeing him at Haywood, and suddenly the empty space between then and now collapsed.

              Spencer lifted his hat and bowed. Three gallant strides brought him to the foot of the stairs, and there he stopped. His face said what his words did not; he was waiting for permission, an invitation. She grasped the banister against her swimming head and started down. On the last stair, when they were nearly eye to eye, she held. His body heat drew her in; a wave of cedar and bergamot tipped her over the top, memories flooding back. For a moment Alix forced her breath to come slowly.

              Spencer peeled a glove from one stout hand. He ran bare knuckles across hers, achingly slow before fitting their fingers together. His hazel eyes met hers.

              Alix appreciated that she should not have thrown herself from the step with such force when his knees buckled. Thank goodness for his athletic grace. His lips pressed to hers with a hesitant pressure, desire held in check. Her arms around his neck elicited a groan which could have been pleasure or pain. Perhaps a bit of both; it certainly was for her.

              There was something visceral about the small border of bare neck between his hairline and collar. She pressed it with her fingers and felt a part of herself revive.

              Spencer pulled away first, a matter of a few inches which left a physical ache around her heart. Eyes closed, he was still, holding on to her with a stiff grip while the rise and fall of his chest calmed. Then he reached inside his greatcoat and produced two similar-sized letters. They were written on fine paper, she noticed as he held them out, not cheap foolscap. “My second and third most valuable possessions,” he whispered. “I put
all
of my time in London to good use.”

              Alix claimed them with uncertain fingers and studied a bold but illegible signature on the first. “I felt you were there a lifetime,” she murmured.             

              “I hope you'll forgive me, particularly when you've read these.”

              She pried open the first, crumbling off bits of its already broken red seal. The words were long and slanted, but more legible than the exterior. Alix skimmed its three brief lines:
             
'In response to your letter of October one, Field Marshal the Duke of Wellington grants leave to wed and habitate. Maj. General Lord Spencer Reed and Miss Paton may choose a day of their own convenience. Felicitations to the pair on this most happy occasion.'

             
Tears pricked her eyes, and she dared only a quick glance at Spencer's anxious gaze, afraid the dam would break. The second letter was much longer, and more important if one judged it solely on the number of finely scrolled capital letters. But she didn't have to read the entire body; its heading was enough:

              '
Charles, by Divine Providence the Archbishop of Canterbury...',
followed by both their names halfway down the page. A special marriage license.

             
“Any day we choose,” he added, taking the papers back from her trembling fingers. “If you've not changed your mind.”

              Alix grabbed his face in both hands and brought her mouth to his. It was chaste, as kisses went, between a man and woman with so much ardent history.

              That was how Laurel and John found them. Alix wasn’t sure how long they’d been like that before a feminine and masculine clearing of throats from near the drawing room door pulled them back into the moment. Alix startled, but Spencer made it clear with a hand at her nape that he would not be rushed.

              “Alix, Doctor Erroll has come in Doctor Ashby's stead. He's waiting upstairs to speak with you,” said Laurel, a suspicious pull at the corners of her mouth and eyes averted.

              Spencer's eyes snapped to hers. “Why, what is the matter?”

              Neither the doctor’s arrival nor her worry would douse this moment. “It's nothing now.” She smiled and brushed his cheek, touching him again just for the pleasure of it. “Absolutely nothing.”

*              *              *

             
It was something
.

              Despite Alix’s assurances, he could not suppress the fear that had held his heart at the mention of the doctor. Spencer gripped his chair's smooth arm, stilling an urge to pace, shout, to shake something or someone.

Instead, he got up, settled beside Alix on the bed, and took her cold fingers. She was still staring, shaking her head with a slow repetition as though she could shake off Doctor Erroll's words. “I still do not understand. It was a matter of weeks.”

              Erroll's thin lips pursed tighter. “Substance, not duration,” he snapped, smacking a white crock labeled 'Leeches' back into his leather valise. Spencer watched them go, convinced the breakdown in the doctor-patient relationship could be traced to Alix's refusing to allow their use. It was common practice, but he wouldn’t insist she bow to the whims of a man like Erroll.

              “You were administered all manner of substances. They react with food, with drink. Miasmas encourage their potency.” He snapped his bag shut, signaling an end to the discussion. “Miss Paton, you are a mature woman. It is likely this malignancy has been increasing for years. This alleged poisoning only helped matters along.”

              'Alleged' brought Spencer from the bed in one motion. He took Erroll's bony arm in one hand, throwing open the door with his other. Out went the man, out went the bag, and Spencer slammed the door behind him, drowning out his irate sputtering.

              Alix had turned on her side and was buried now beneath her quilts. For a moment he watched her, clenching his fists, entirely helpless. Then he lay down and pulled her against him, nuzzling into the sweet smell of her hair. He pressed a hand over her belly. “He doesn't know that it's cancer, Alexandra. He doesn't know his arse from a boot-jack.”

              “What do we do?” she cried softly. “
We
don't know either. That's the hardest part.”

              “I'll get a second opinion. Ashby or someone else. A third, if it comes to it.” He squeezed her tighter. “A doctor who can do his damned job.”

*              *              *

              A rumble of carriage wheels on the drive brought Spencer to the hall, where he paced until the Hastings' ancient twig of a butler appeared and opened the door.

              Bennet's account had influenced him, but Spencer acknowledged it had not been a detailed one. They had mostly barked and stomped over her experience, her skill, her sex. Not how young she was. How dangerously comely for a woman entrenched with eight hundred red-blooded, malefactor, foul-mouthed Englishmen.

              The moment that thought had passed, Spencer knew what had saved her.

              Everything about Kate Foster's
appearance
was sensible. She wore a plain, blue wool coat over a blue and white calico dress and smart white apron. There were no capelets or embroidery, no bare arms or teasing neckline. Even the brown grosgrain ribbon on her chipped straw bonnet shrugged off any attention, plainly announcing it was only there out of necessity. She was
sensible
, save for rebellious chestnut curls sweeping her cheeks and a perpetual lift to the left side of her mouth hinting at mischief.

              Spencer got the impression there was a good deal more than 'sensible' humming beneath the surface when he took her hand and shook it. She didn't curtsy and didn't duck her eyes from his. Skeptical as he was of her abilities, he already admired her frankness.

              “Lord Reed.” Her voice was rich, American, with a long New York drawl to her words that reminded him of Alix.

              “Miss Foster. A pleasure.” He was about to offer tea, bring her to Laurel and make the usual trying few minutes of small talk.

Kate swept a hand at the staircase, taking command. “Let's go up.”

              He gathered her bag and filed up behind her. “You are very prompt, Miss Foster.”

              “The enemy doesn't break for tea.” Hands clapped. “Forward march.”

              Spencer chuckled in spite of himself and caused Kate to stop before the landing and turn around. One brow formed a cheeky arch above her dancing blue eyes. “Your brother accounts you no sense of humor. I'm delighted that he misled me.”

              Reserving adjectives on his brother's character, Spencer nodded. “Where the army is concerned, one must learn to laugh.”

              Kate paused again at the door, and cocked her head. “Reed. You were at Badajoz in 1812.”

              The information startled him speechless a moment. “I was. Over the 95th Rifles.”

              She made an X with her finger, low on the left side of his coat. “You have a very nasty scar there.”

              He stared, dumbfounded, unable for even a second to recall a thing about
her
. Though, when he considered it, that was no surprise. The weather that spring was shite, nothing but cold and mud, sometimes sporting torrential rain that lasted for days. A French garrison blasting away. Entering the town itself – Spencer shuddered, willing himself to forget the way his boots had pressed on his fallen brothers, tripping him, a landslide of dead men tumbling out from the walls. He closed his eyes, blotting it out. “You were at Badajoz too, then.”

              “I was,” Kate answered, somber. “That is where
I
learned to laugh.”

              Laugh, or go mad. He knew the feeling well. “You have an impressive memory, Miss Foster.”

              The shake of her head was almost imperceptible. “It's not a difficult task, recalling the ones who
live
.”

              He stared back at her a moment, something in her gaze speaking to him in a way civilians did not understand. Then he nodded, remembering their purpose, and opened the door.

              Alix scooted up the bed at their entrance. Her eyes were shadowed by faint bruises under them, and she was dreadfully pale, her color more of a contrast when framed by the little pink roses embroidered on her quilt.

“Miss Foster.” Alix was smiling, but Spencer knew her well. Her eyes were measuring, calculating, taking Kate in. The misdiagnosis and ineptitude she’d suffered after Paulina's torment had filled her with a healthy distrust of doctors in general.

              “Miss Paton.” Kate claimed her bag from him and settled it on the foot of the bed.

              “It was very kind of you, coming all the way up to see me.”
              Kate swatted away the thanks. “The army's in camps, and I detest London. The moment Major Burrell and Major Ford conclude their business there, I will board the first ship bound for Paris. Or swim the channel, if they tarry too long.”