Lady Alexandra's Excellent Adventure: A Summersby Tale (27 page)

Michael grinned. “I have no doubt that you will, my lord.”

A string of good wishes followed from the duke and duchess, Alexandra’s aunt and uncle, and finally from Ryan and William. When they eventually decided to go back inside after making Alexandra a bit more presentable, Michael put his arm about her, holding her close. “Now, we just have to find my sisters,” he grinned as his hand slipped down to grip her hand.

“All five of them I suppose?”

“Yes, my dear, you’d better arm yourself with patience because I do fear we’ll be here all night.”

“Michael?” Isabella suddenly asked, holding him and Alex back for a moment.

“You said you wish to marry quickly . . . is there . . . ?” her meaning was unmistakable of course, and Alexandra felt herself blush for the hundredth time that evening.

“We don’t know, Mama, but we thought it best to play it safe,” he replied.

“Yes . . . I see your point,” she murmured though she did not sound the least bit surprised. “Well then, we’d best get started right away.”

With a helpless look of desperation at Michael, Alexandra found herself hauled away by his mother to discuss the very last thing she wished to talk about at that very moment—her wedding dress, the cake, the invitations, the guest list, and just about a thousand other things that seemed to play a vital role in a society wedding. Alexandra could do nothing but take it in stride. She would gladly sit through endless days of fashion plates and fittings if she could only marry the one man who had managed to capture her heart.

E
PILOGUE

Whickham Hall

October 10, 1825

A
lexandra waited anxiously for Michael to return from London. He should have been back three days ago, but there was still no sign of him. Logical reasoning told her that any number of things might have happened to delay his return, yet she could not stop herself from fretting over his safety.

He had gone to see Sir Percy with the sole purpose of discussing his retirement from The Foreign Office. Since their marriage ten years ago, he had engaged in no less than fifteen assignments. Most of those had consisted of nothing more than delivering important messages to foreign dignitaries abroad, but they had still kept him away from home too long for comfort.

Alexandra had been unable to accompany him on a single one of these trips, no matter how much they had both wished it. Eight months after their wedding, she had given birth to their firstborn child—a boy whom they had christened Richard. Three more children had followed after him—a daughter named Claire and then two more boys named Andrew and Henry. Needless to say, Alexandra had enough on her plate to keep her busy with four children vying for her attention.

She loved it though—the joyous sound of their voices ringing throughout the house as they played hide and seek or chased each other around the long dining room table. She understood now what her mother had meant when she’d told her that she’d accomplished everything that she’d ever desired in life. She also knew how empty and meaningless her life would have been without her husband and her children about her, and she was glad that her father had made her see reason.

Still, she could not help but worry as she walked over to the lead paned windows and looked out over the fields once more. Why wasn’t he back yet?

Perhaps, I ought to go and check up on my students
.

It would at least serve to distract her from the long list of tragic incidents that might have befallen her husband and that was presently being compiled at the back of her mind, entirely against her own will. Throwing a heavy woolen shawl over her shoulders, she headed out of the library, just as the front door crashed open with a thunderous bang.

“Where’s my little hoyden?” A loud voice bellowed.

Alexandra squealed with delight as her heart leaped into her mouth, her stomach fluttering with nervous energy as she raced down the corridor and straight into Michael’s open arms. “You scoundrel!” she chided, punching a fist against his chest as she looked up at him with a smile that still told of her troubled state of mind. “What on earth took you so long? I thought something terrible might have happened to you. After all, you only went to London—there’s hardly any reason for you to be late, or at the very least not to send a letter to inform me you’d be arriving later than expected.”

“I know, my dear,” he agreed, lowering his head to kiss her forehead. He drew her against him in an attempt to soothe her, and there was an intimacy about the moment—about knowing that he understood her well enough to realize that she must have driven herself half mad with worry. “I’m so sorry. I was called upon to perform one last task—a matter of some delicacy which required my complete discretion. I remained at Carlton House until the issue was resolved.”

“Would you perhaps be able to tell me why?”

“I’m sworn to secrecy, my dear, but I can tell you a young lady of questionable birth and desperate circumstances was involved. I tell you this not only because you are my wife, and I know I can trust you implicitly, but also because you have that look in your eyes that tells me I’m in a great deal of trouble. Do you think you might forgive me?”

“I do believe I might. If you kiss me.” Alexandra grinned as she looked up into those wonderfully dark eyes of his.

“My dear woman, nothing in the world would give me more pleasure.” Their lips touched and that old familiar heat filled them both as they reveled in each other’s closeness. It was a tender kiss that spoke of all the years in which they’d loved each other and of all the years that they still hoped to share, wrapped in each other’s arms. When they finally pulled apart, the strength of their emotion was deeply etched in their eyes.

“Come,” Alexandra told him as she took his hand in hers. “I was just about to visit with my students when you arrived. Now that you’re here, I thought you might like to join me. They’ve made a lot of progress during your absence.”

Michael grinned. “Yes, I can imagine they would have under your tutelage.”

S
tepping out into the courtyard, they both watched as teams of young girls sparred with one another, some more proficient with their swords than others. Alexandra noted that Michael’s gaze went quickly to his daughter, Claire. His face brightened with a crooked smile. “Oh Alex,” he muttered as he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. “There’s so much of you in her. It’s absolutely remarkable to watch.”

Alexandra followed his line of vision until her gaze settled upon her daughter. “Yes, she’s only eight and yet it seems like this is precisely what she was born to do.”

“Well, of course it is. She’s your daughter. What did you expect? That she’d be a bluestocking?”

Alexandra couldn’t help but laugh. “I suppose not,” she admitted. “I’m so proud of her you know, though she’ll undoubtedly give some unfortunate man a run for his money.”

“Ah, you are mistaken, my dear. He’ll be the most fortunate of men, he who manages to win her heart. I only hope she’ll manage to find a man as handsome and charming as I am. We’re quite rare you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Alexandra replied, unable to help a smile. “But hopefully, she won’t have to join The Foreign Office in order to meet him.”

“Oh? Would you be against that by any chance?”

“Well, of course, I would!” Alexandra exclaimed. “It’s much too dangerous.”

Michael laughed as he draped his arm about her shoulders. “Then I predict we must prepare for open war within these very walls. I tell you, Alex, she won’t allow you to have your way forever. Mark my words.”

“We’ll just have to see about that,” Alexandra smirked as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

They stood quietly for a while in a comfortable silence as they turned their attention to Richard who had happily joined in the lesson, even though his partner did happen to be a young girl of nine years of age. Andrew and Henry were still too young to attend, though Andrew eagerly chased his nurse around the nursery with a wooden sword that his father had once made for him.

“Are you happy?” Michael suddenly asked.

“Absolutely.”

“So you’re glad you gave up spinsterhood in favor of all this?”

Alexandra chuckled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, my lord.”

“Then you admit that I was right and you were wrong?”

Alexandra raised a haughty eyebrow. “Are you trying to goad me into a duel?”

“Never,” Michael gasped with exaggerated horror.

“Well, I fear you’ve managed to do so all the same. And before you get any ideas into that arrogant head of yours, it’s for
you
I fear, not I.”

“That goes without saying,” he quipped.

Holding out his arm for her, he gave her that dazzling smile of his—the very one that always made her heart quicken and her knees weaken. “Shall we show them how it’s done?”

“We certainly shall, my lord. We certainly shall.”

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

A
special thank you to my good friends Monika, Vicky, Laura, and Ida who patiently critiqued my first draft—your advice and insight have been invaluable.

Like last time, my editor Esi excelled—this novel wouldn’t be what it is today without her help.

And to all of my lovely readers out there—thank you!

Loved LADY ALEXANDRA’S EXCELLENT ADVENTURE?

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at the next book in the Summersby series,

available Fall 2012.

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HOW MISS RUTHERFORD GOT HER GROOVE BACK.

An Excerpt from

THE NEXT SUMMERSBY TALE

C
HAPTER
O
NE

London 1816

M
ary stared in disbelief at the thin little man who sat across from her at the heavy mahogany desk. His hair had receded well beyond his ears and his face was pinched. His eyes, lacking any definition due to his pale eyelashes, were set on either side of a nose that would have been perfect, had it not been for a slight bump upon the bridge.

Mary watched quietly as he adjusted his spectacles for the hundredth time. She then posed the only reasonable question that she could think to ask. “Are you quite certain that an error of monumental proportions has not been made, Mr. Browne?”

In response to her question, Mr. Browne nodded so profusely that Mary couldn’t help but envision his head suddenly popping off his neck and bouncing across the Persian carpet that lay stretched out upon the floor. She stifled a smirk to the best of her abilities, but feared that her eyes betrayed her. In any event, Mr. Browne did not look pleased.

“Quite certain, your ladyship. Indeed, your father was very adamant about his wishes, and as you can see for yourself,” he added, handing her the final amendment to John Croyden’s will. “He made certain that there would be no doubt about his intentions. Indeed, it’s really quite plain to see.”

“So it is,” Mary muttered, still unsure of how to respond to the enormity of what her father’s lawyer had just told her. She leafed through the crisp white pages of her father’s last wishes, before pausing at the one that bewildered her the most. There, right before her very eyes, was a petition, made by her father and signed by none other than The Prince Regent himself. Her gloved fingers traced the outline of the royal insignia as she read the request—that John Croyden’s daughter Mary be made his sole heir and a peeress in her own right, inheriting all of her father’s worldly goods, including his title.

His title?

Half an hour ago, Mary hadn’t even known that he had one. She’d grown up in a modest house in Holborn, which had also served as her father’s medical practice until she was old enough to accompany him on his never-ending travels; his constant companion in his thirst for knowledge. Still, they’d kept that two-story house with its much too low ceilings and worm-eaten beams, returning to it whenever they happened to be passing through. It was home to her somehow, and yet, here she was now, sitting in a lawyer’s office, smack in the middle of Mayfair. A part of her wanted to jump up and down with delight, while another, much stronger part, wanted to scream at her father for lying to her all of these years. She let out a deep sigh of frustration before biting down on her lower lip. “You mentioned my father’s title,” she said, rustling the pages of the will as she leafed through them. “But, I don’t see it mentioned anywhere, other than in the petition. Which title did he hold, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Mr. Browne looked momentarily startled. “Why, he was a marquess, my lady—of Steepleton, to be precise.”

Mary gave Mr. Browne a blank stare. “And that would make me what exactly?”

A couple of creases appeared on Mr. Browne’s forehead from out of nowhere. Clearly he wasn’t accustomed to explaining the ranks of nobility to the daughters of his clients. He adjusted his spectacles once more. “It makes you a marchioness, my lady—not quite as prestigious a title as that of duchess perhaps, but more esteemed than that of countess, to be sure.”

“I see,” Mary said, though it was quite obvious she didn’t see at all. She’d never had the slightest interest in the nobility, least of all in understanding what titles outranked others.

Mr. Browne coughed slightly into his fist as if he hoped to somehow fill the silence that followed. “Shall we discuss the financial aspects of the will?” he eventually asked as he leaned forward to rest his folded arms upon the desk.

Mary’s head snapped to attention at that question. “What financial aspects? My father was a man who made an honest living as a physician and later on as a surgeon. He had a respectable income, but he was by no means wealthy. Even so, he did his best to set aside whatever he could for me, and I have legal rights to those funds. If you’re about to suggest otherwise, then I promise you I will contest it in a court of law. Other than that, I don’t quite see what—”

“No, it is becoming increasingly clear to me that you obviously do not,” Mr. Browne blurted out.

Mary’s eyes widened with astonishment. She was momentarily taken aback by his remark, but quickly recovered, noting that he too seemed rather shocked. She said nothing however, but merely watched as he leaned back in his chair and drew a deep breath.

“Lady Steepleton, I am not suggesting that you must forfeit any of the money that your father left you.” He spoke in a measured tone that told of more patience than he truly possessed. “I’m merely trying to inform you, that your inheritance is substantially larger than you believe it to be.”

“How much larger?” Mary asked with a great deal of caution as she shifted uneasily in her seat. Her face was plain beneath her auburn colored hair, which was pulled back into a tight knot—a style she’d stubbornly adopted for the past ten years. Her chestnut colored eyes seemed unusually large for a woman of her size. Not that she was particularly small, but she would quite easily be considered petite. Thankfully, she’d been blessed with a flawless nose, though her lips were much too full for her own liking. However, she wasn’t unpleasant to look at by any means, although her drab mourning clothes didn’t exactly bring out the best in her.

Twisting the coarse graphite colored cotton of her dress between her fingers, she waited solemnly for Mr. Browne to continue.

“Lady Steepleton, your late father has left you with a sum of no less than fifty thousand pounds,” Mr. Browne announced, in a manner that might suggest that he himself was somehow personally responsible for her dramatic increase in wealth. “He has also left you with a very comfortable house on Brook Street, not to mention Steepleton House in Northamptonshire, which I gather is a very large estate indeed. Suffice it to say, you are now a very affluent woman, Lady Steepleton.”

Mary simply gaped at the man as if he’d sprouted a second head, a pair of horns, or perhaps even both. Her mouth had fallen open at the mention of the fifty thousand pounds, but by the time Mr. Browne was finished, her eyes seemed quite compelled to leap out of their sockets at any given moment. “You must be joking,” she stammered, for want of anything better to say.

“I assure you that I am
not
,” Mr. Browne told her in a tone that conveyed just how offended he was by her suggestion that he might actually consider joking about such a thing. “I take this matter quite seriously, and as you can see for yourself, it is really quite plain—”

“To see,” Mary finished with a lengthy sigh as she stared down at the last page in the stack of papers Mr. Browne had given her. Sure enough, there was the indisputable bank statement valuing her father’s assets at just over fifty thousand pounds, including a brief mention of his properties. At the very bottom of the page, was a quickly scrawled note, identifying the members of staff whom were currently employed at the two locations.

Mary shook her head in quiet bewilderment. “Could I perhaps trouble you for a glass of water?” she asked as she sank back against her chair, her mind buzzing with an endless amount of questions that would in all likelihood never be answered. “Or better yet—make that a brandy.”

A
t that exact same moment, a landau rolled past Mr. Browne’s office, swaying gently from side to side before taking a sharp turn onto Duke Street. It continued on to Grosvenor Square where it slowed to a steadier pace before finally coming to a complete halt outside a white brick town house that was separated from the pavement by a black wrought iron fence. The coachman stepped down from his seat, hurrying around to the side to open the carriage door and set down the steps with speedy efficiency. A moment later, Ryan Summersby appeared, his dark blonde hair brightening as the sun cast its rays upon his head. His eyes were as blue as a tropical lagoon; pools sparkling with the promise of boyish mischief. His nose was well defined, set above a pair of lips that edged slightly upward at one corner to form the beginnings of a crooked smile. The jawline was chiseled, the cheekbones solid, and if one were to take a moment to tear one’s eyes away from the beauty of his face, one might be struck breathless by the width of his shoulders. Indeed, Ryan Summersby had an exquisitely masculine body, yet he alighted with remarkable grace and ease for a man of his height. After all, he did measure an astonishing six feet and five inches.

“Welcome home, my lord,” Hutchins remarked as he reached for Ryan’s bags. The aging butler, who’d been with the Summersby’s since Ryan’s older brother William had been born, still maintained a youthful spring to his step.

“Thank you. It’s good to be back,” Ryan said as he started up the front steps of his father’s London home. “Has Papa arrived yet?”

“No, not yet, but he should be here no later than tomorrow evening. He’s just tying up a few loose ends back at Moorland—the usual business when he’s planning on remaining in town for an extended amount of time,” Hutchins replied. “And your brother will most likely be unable to join you before next week at the earliest. He was recently called away on an urgent assignment which I believe has taken him to Scotland. But there’s a guest waiting for you in the drawing room. I won’t say who, as I’ve no desire to spoil the surprise, though I’ll wager you won’t be too disappointed.”

Ryan eyed the butler with a large degree of suspicion as he peeled off his calf-skin gloves and handed them to him together with his hat. “What are you up to, old chap?”

“Oh, nothing but the usual,” Hutchins told him, his face completely lacking any kind of emotion. Still, there was a twinkle in his wise old eyes. “Just keeping you on your toes, my lord.”

“Then by all means, carry on,” Ryan told him cheerfully as he headed for the drawing room door.

It took him only a second to spot the man who was standing by one of the tall bay windows, looking out onto the street as he waited patiently for Ryan to arrive. He was almost as tall as Ryan, though his frame was frailer. His hair, which had turned gray in the space of one week roughly six years earlier, had surprisingly enough retained its thickness. Turning his head away from the window at the sound of the door opening, a pair of light brown eyes came into view, creasing slightly at the corners as they locked onto Ryan.

“Sir Percy!” Ryan exclaimed, unable to hide his enthusiasm as he crossed the floor and reached out to shake the older gentleman’s hand. “It’s so good to see you again. By Jove it’s been far too long.”

“Almost a full year,” Percy agreed, allowing his mouth to widen into a broad smile. “You look well though. Indeed it does appear as if Oxford agrees with you.”

“In some aspects it certainly does,” Ryan agreed with a lopsided smirk.

“And would that be the social aspects by any chance?”

“You know me too well,” Ryan sighed as he made his way across the room to the side table. “Can I perhaps offer you a glass of Claret?”

“Certainly. But only if you’ll join me.”

Ryan curled his fingers around the cool neck of a crystal carafe. “I do believe a drink might serve me well after suffering through all those bumps in the road for hours on end.”

“Whatever excuse works for you,” Percy quipped. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s essential to my good health. In fact, I’m quite convinced it’s what keeps me from knocking at death’s door.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Ryan said with a smile as he handed Percy his glass. He studied the man who’d always been like an uncle to him. Percy was one of his father’s oldest and closest friends and if that wasn’t enough, he was also the permanent secretary for The Foreign Office. It was unlikely that, with Ryan’s father out of town, he would pay a visit for no other reason than to be sociable. Something was afoot—Ryan was certain of it.

“As glad as I am to see you again, Percy, I have the distinct feeling that you’re not here to inquire about my health,” Ryan said as he gestured toward one of two green silk clad armchairs. “Please have a seat and tell me why you’re really here.”

Percy took a brief sip of his brandy. “Nothing gets by you, does it Ryan?”

“Not very often,” Ryan remarked. “But then again, I have you to thank for that. You’ve taught me well.”

Percy paused for a moment while the hint of a smile played upon his lips. He gave Ryan a short nod. “Very well then,” he said as he sat down in the proffered chair and placed his glass on the small round sidetable next to him. “I admit that I have an ulterior motive for coming here today.”

“Well, I am all ears,” Ryan told him with genuine interest as he sat down in the other chair and turned an expectant gaze on Percy.

“A number of years ago,” Percy began. “I made a promise to an old friend of mine, that if anything were to happen to him, I’d keep a watchful eye on his daughter. Apparently, this friend of mine was under the impression that his daughter would be in some sort of terrible danger if anything were to happen to him.” A pensive look came over Percy’s face. He paused, narrowing his eyes on Ryan. “As it happens, he passed away almost a year ago from a gunshot wound he sustained at Waterloo. From what I understand, he was hit by a stray bullet while attending to a wounded soldier—dratted business really. He was a good man and an excellent surgeon—the best I’ve ever seen—such an unfortunate and unnecessary loss.