The King of Threadneedle Street (28 page)

Andrew left the desk and headed for the back entrance. He whisked off his shirt, and his feet carried him to the excavation project at the stream. He needed some mindless occupation to keep himself sane.

The men digging in the trench greeted him heartily, and one tossed him a shovel without stopping to harangue him. Before long his muscles pulled and burned as he shoveled mud hour after hour. Dig, turn, toss; a blessedly simple task. His mind wandered.

His workers had even quit pestering him for daydreaming, once he proved he could work as hard and as long as the rest of them. They had also tired of teasing him, postulating how “bonny” his lass must be if she drove him to such extremes. He let them wonder.

After lunch Christian joined him. He was a good worker too, which made Andrew proud. He understood the age-old appeal of working one’s own land. It felt good. The work made it easier to imagine sharing this place with Alysia.

“Tell me, Lord Preston,” said a tinkling, pampered soprano voice. “What would the society papers say to the King of Threadneedle Street tramping about in the mud?”

He didn’t give Lady Langton the satisfaction of a startled reaction. He even failed to acknowledge her with a bow — the minimum requirement for a gentleman. Today he was a field laborer.

“The same rubbish as always, I suppose. And I would pay it the same heed as always.”

“I am not entirely certain
I
approve,” Lady Langton complained, undaunted.

Andrew ignored her and turned to shout instructions across the trench to the wheelbarrow brigade, then resumed his work.

He could feel her eyes boring into his back. “You are quite a sight, Preston.” She ogled him, sans shirt and hat, bronzed from the sun and dirty. “I don’t exactly object to
that
.” She raked her eyes up and down his form. “But why must you engage in manual labor? It seems highly inelegant.”

Christian turned to shoot her a disdainful look he had mastered quite well for his age.

“I like it,” Andrew answered with a grunt as he lifted a load on his shovel. “A welcome distraction.”

Lady Langton leaned on the fence post, the profusion of lace on her hat draping forward. She intentionally displayed her exposed and lifted décolleté, so Andrew purposefully looked elsewhere. It drew the attention of the other men in the trench momentarily before they checked themselves.

She said darkly, “I could be of assistance, Preston. Distractions are my specialty.” That earned a few calls and whistles from the men.

Disgusting harlot.
“No, manipulation is your specialty.”

She winked. “And yours, true? Although a different kind. We are the same, you and me.”

“If that were true, I assure you, I would waste no time hanging myself.” What had he ever found attractive in her before? He must have been a first-rate idiot three years ago.

She scoffed through her nose, an irritating sound.

It made him lose his temper. “You are demon spawn in my estimation. Does that make it clear?” Christian snorted at his use of Alysia’s pet term. Andrew felt no remorse at Lady Langton’s shocked expression. “If you are here, my mother can’t be far behind.”

“At one time you held a very different opinion of me,” she purred. “I remember clearly — in fact I haven’t forgotten a single night of it.”

“That was so long ago, I can’t remember a thing about it. Must not have been so spectacular.”

“Oh, but it was. Any chance I might refresh your memory?”

“I have an aversion to claws and fangs. Go back to London, Lady Langton.”

“If I do, you’ll run to your little mistress.” She twirled the feather in her hat with her fingers. “No. I think I shall stay here.”

Andrew dug the shovel into the mud, feeling unaccountably wary. “This grows old. Why do you bother? It is over, don’t you understand? You gambled and lost.”

“You are a challenge. I find it stimulating.” She said
stimulating
as though it was a dirty word. “And because I have publicly laid claim on you. I will not be denied.” Strange how quickly her voice turned from menacing to provocative, and back again. Was she lunatic?

“And also because you are the most gorgeous creature I have ever laid eyes on.” She seemed to relish the guffaws from the workers, many of whom had stopped to lean on their shovels and observe the exchange.

Andrew turned his back and resumed shoveling, determined to ignore anything else she said. If she had any comprehension of all she had spoiled, of the loss and grief he had suffered because of her little game¯

“You
need
me Preston. I don’t see why you make yourself ridiculous over that little whore—”

He was out of the muddy trench and towering over her in an instant. “If I
ever
…” He paused to inhale, struggling valiantly against the urge to slap her hard. “If I hear you refer to Lady Alysia, my future
wife
and Lady Preston, in such a manner again, I will break your nose, lady or not.”

His voice sounded low, a false calm belied by his irate gestures spattering mud on her white clothes. “Have a care, using that word, Lady Langton. Hypocrisy wears poorly on you.”

He spat on the ground, narrowly missing her skirts. He didn’t know a worse insult he could pay a lady without actually breaking her nose. “Now get off of my land.”

The swift retreat of pink lace was the only welcome sight since before her arrival. Now he had to deal with his interfering mother.

****

Andrew soaked in the tub long after the water cooled. He felt terrible, physically, and in every other way. Perhaps he had overworked himself. He couldn’t relieve the feverish ache in his muscles. It had been ugly with his mother, and that accounted for the pounding ache in his head. She thought him unruly and ungrateful, as well as destined to bring the entire house of Tilmore to ruin. At least she had gone back to London, and was so offended she had threatened to go abroad and never speak to him again. The distance was welcome, in his estimation. But just the same, it left him feeling guilty; he didn’t like treating his mother in such a way.

Her parting words had been a threat. As soon as Lord Courtenay returned from his own journey abroad, she would see to it that he flayed his son alive. It was in sharp contrast to the motherly kiss on the cheek and shoulder squeeze Lady Devon gave him when he last saw her — strange that the two women were great friends. Andrew supposed a good number of people might fight like badgers with their family yet be perfectly delightful to their friends.

He now had the unenviable task of getting rid of Lady Langton, that odious shrew who had entrenched herself in his guest house. The mere thought of her made his headache flare and throb.

He had put his heart and soul into this old castle, and it was finally taking shape. The smooth stone walls seemed to welcome him, inviting him to grow old there with his own family. Three long, intense years he had labored, and it was nearly ready to present to his bride, right on schedule. Dunsbury needed a woman’s touch, he knew.

The only problem remaining was his missing bride. Lady Devon had assured him Alysia was safe. If it had been anyone other than Lady Devon who withheld information he needed, he would have wrung it from them, but second only to God, Andrew answered to Lord Devon. Andrew had no choice but to trust his friends and slowly go out of his mind.

Alysia visited him in his dreams, where they conversed lazily or made passionate half-crazed love in their secluded cave back home at Ashton. More often than not, he woke frustrated and aroused and spent most of the day attacking a field, upending an unsuspecting hill, or digging out a bog to make a lake. He thought he had enough nervous energy to finish it single-handedly.

Andrew took a brush to his fingernails again in a half-hearted attempt to dislodge months’ worth of dirt. If anyone had ever accused him of being a dandy before, they certainly wouldn’t now. He knew he hardly even looked a gentleman, but it mattered little. His mind idle, the sudden rush of a long-forgotten memory made him still as he replayed it. It was an old memory, but powerful.

He remembered lounging behind a local farmer’s barn with a young Henry Westwood, who had sneaked two cheroots from his father’s study for them to try. They clipped the ends with a knife, lit the cheroots, then both took a long drag as they had seen their fathers do. They erupted into hacking coughs and wiped the water from their burning eyes. Such was their first attempt at smoking, Andrew at age sixteen and Henry seventeen, just months before he inherited his title and became Lord Graham.

In a guilty panic they hid the evidence of their experiment when Christian rounded the corner of the barn, calling their names and waving his arms. The older boys ran after Christian, who sprinted toward the schoolhouse. The sound of muffled shouting became Alysia’s voice, and Andrew dashed ahead to find her, imagining terrible misfortunes of every variety¯

He found the source of the commotion at the rear of the schoolhouse. At first he saw only Alysia screaming, pulling on the arm of an older boy who was throwing rocks at a wood-paneled tool shed. Black anger poured over his head, darkening his vision.

Then he took in the sight of three other boys, aged between fourteen and eighteen, also hurling rocks at the shed and shouting. Alysia scrambled to get their attention while they either ignored or taunted her. Andrew heard pounding on the door and terrified wails coming from inside the shed.

“Stop! Stop that now, Bert Carter!” Alysia shouted, tears streaming down her face. “
Please
! Stop that!”

Andrew had nearly reached the scene when Bert grabbed a stick and banged on the shed. The cruel words he shouted, and the cursing from the other boys were branded in Andrew’s mind. The victim locked in the shed wailed and pleaded. Alysia tried to wrestle the stick away from Bert Carter, who shoved her down, sending her sprawling on the ground.

The next moment, Bert Carter also fell flat on the ground, his nose pouring blood. Andrew smiled to recall that Bert Carter’s nose was still crooked the last time Andrew had seen him. He hadn’t minded the satisfying sharp ache in his knuckles afterward.

He knelt and gathered Alysia in his arms, but she fought her way out. “Andrew! Help Lindy. They trapped her in there. Stop them!” She scrambled to her feet. “Please!”

Henry Westwood and Christian ran into the yard in time to see the other three boys frozen, staring at a miserable and gory Bert Carter.

“What is all this?” Andrew thundered at the boys, who stared at the ground. Henry and Christian moved to flank Andrew on either side, marking the line foe for foe. “Explain yourselves!”

“Pretty little lord in shortcoats come to throw his weight about?” taunted the eldest boy, at a height with Andrew but three stone heavier — Penhurst, the illegitimate son of a local baronet. He spat in Andrew’s direction then pitched a melon-sized rock at the shed; it cracked the wood and made the girl inside shriek then break into more sobbing. Alysia answered with the same desolate sound, and Andrew erupted. He sprang on Penhurst and rammed a fist into his jaw. Penhurst stumbled backward and yelped in pain, clutching his face.

Andrew grabbed the nearest boy by the back of his collar and shoved him toward the door of the tool shed. “Now!” he thundered. “Let her out, now!” It took two boys and a claw hammer to pry away the strip of wood they had nailed over the door. Alysia pushed them aside and retrieved a bawling, hysterical girl who clutched her arms around Alysia’s neck.

Indeed it was Lindy Chandler from the village; her father worked the harvest at Ashton’s home farm. Others called Lindy
mongoloid
, and Andrew had little idea what that meant, except that she was small for her age and childlike. Seeing her weep in fright, grime streaked on her tiny, sweet face, made him want to smash something. His fists clenched so tightly his tendons burned, and he could barely breathe.

“Carter! Hayward, Hayward.” Andrew glowered at the brothers and their bloodied cousin then looked to the oldest boy with an already swollen jaw. “Penhurst.” He ordered, “You will kneel before Lindy and beg her forgiveness.”

They gaped, and before any could protest, he roared, “
Now!
” They looked wide-eyed at Andrew, trembling with barely contained anger, then one by one did as he commanded.

Poor Lindy Chandler cowered in fright, but Alysia held her firm with an arm around her shoulders, glaring with sincere hatred at the four boys.

They had the good sense to duck their heads in shame and mumble their apologies to her as well. Those same boys would be groveling at her feet not a year and a half later, when Alysia grew out of her pixie looks and into her present form of a goddess.

Andrew, Henry, and Christian stood with their arms crossed over their chests and watched while the four boys walked away down the road. Andrew clearly recalled the throbbing burn radiating from his fingers to elbow and the realization that diplomacy and temperance were lacking in his character.

When Andrew returned, he found Alysia sitting on the steps of the schoolhouse with Lindy tucked in her lap. The little girl was much smaller than she should have been, by cause of her condition, and fit as a small child should in a mother’s lap.

He watched, entranced as Alysia murmured soothing words and brushed disheveled hair out of the little girl’s face. She took out her handkerchief and wiped her nose, and when Lindy admired the embroidery, Alysia gave it to her to keep.

“No, no, that isn’t true. Your papa is a fine, good man. He makes beautiful, straight candles that burn with almost no smoke at all. Lord Courtenay himself said so. There is no shame in that, is there?” Alysia rocked Lindy in her lap and stroked her back, and soon Lindy’s tears dried.

Andrew heard next, “Of course not. You are lovely, Lindy. A beautiful princess.” He couldn’t make out Lindy’s soft protest, but he heard Alysia’s answer, “Those boys have something ugly inside of them, and they need to grow up. You have beauty inside you, Lindy. I can see it when you smile. Your papa sees it too.”