What a Lady Craves (11 page)

She headed the parade down the corridor to her chamber. Her wardrobe, a brooding piece of massive walnut, stood across from the door beyond the narrow bed. And on the matching night table—that blasted box. Once again, she’d forgotten to tell Alexander about it, and she
needed to. Something about what he’d said to Tilly had tripped her memory, but she’d missed her chance to say anything.

She wouldn’t let herself forget another time. “Girls, I’m having a terrible time recalling things lately.” More like a problem with their father distracting her, but she couldn’t say that. “Do you think you can help me remember something?”

“When Nipa wanted to remember something she’d set out a glass and put a spoon in it,” Helena said.

“How interesting.” Lord help her, she’d nearly said
odd,
but she oughtn’t criticize the poor nanny over a small habit. That was too much like something Lady Epperley would do.

“And she’d carry the glass from room to room with her, but then she’d always forget why she had it.”

“Well, that won’t do.” Henrietta moved over to the night table. “But look here and tell me if you’ve ever seen a box like this.”

Francesca let out a squeak. “That’s Mummy’s secret box.”

Helena looked at it with sober, round eyes. “How did you get it?”

Blast. How, indeed, had she come by it? She didn’t think she ought to tell the girls their papa had been shipwrecked when he hadn’t volunteered the information himself. “I think your papa might have dropped it or lost it somehow. I found it on the beach the other day. That’s what I wanted you to help me remember. I need to give it back.”

The girls traded a look during which an entire conversation seemed to pass between them. Henrietta recalled similar exchanges with her sister, usually after she’d done something forbidden, and she needed to convince Catherine to keep quiet. Francesca studied the floorboards.

“Am I going to get into trouble for having this?” Henrietta asked.

“We’re not supposed to touch,” Helena whispered. “Even if it is pretty.”

“Yes, it is pretty,” Henrietta agreed. “Do you think your papa will be vexed with me for touching it?”

“He’ll want it back. It was Mummy’s. And Mummy’s gone now.” Such stark, matter-of-fact words. A child so young shouldn’t have had to utter them.

Whatever Henrietta might think about the relationship between Alexander and the girls’ mother, she couldn’t help the twinge in the vicinity of her heart. “You must miss her very much.”

Helena nodded, while Francesca continued to inspect the floor. Her chin trembled.

This would never do. Henrietta set the box on the bed and cast about for a distraction.
Her poor collection of morning gowns seemed to pale next to the loss of a mother. Still, she went to the wardrobe. Somewhere in here, she had a few rough bits of paper and charcoal, adequate for sketching. If she could locate enough to occupy both girls, they might pass the time making their own pictures. Or learning to write their names.

“I think I may have the very thing.” She thrust her head between swaths of muslin, groping for the back shelf. Her fingers landed on something long and thin and hard. “Ah, here we are.”

“Francesca, you’re not supposed to touch!”

At Helena’s cry, Henrietta whirled. Francesca had taken the box in hand. Ignoring her sister, she traced a finger along the elephant’s trunk, and did—something. Henrietta didn’t have time to spot what. Whatever the child had done, she’d tripped some sort of hidden catch. The lid swung back on invisible hinges.

Henrietta gasped as a veritable treasure trove of gold and pearls spilled onto her coverlet.

The village pub was a dingy place. Alexander ought to have remembered that much. Smoke from a fitful blaze hovered about the rafters, while sunlight made a valiant effort at penetrating a heavy layer of soot on the high windows. Once his eyes adjusted, he peered into the corners. Not a leather-skinned sailor in sight, foreign or English.

“Damn.”

How would he find out who had rattled Tilly in such a manner? His glance alit on the owner, who was holding up the bar with his sizeable belly. Perhaps the man knew something, perhaps not—but Alexander would only find out by asking.

Working his way between empty tables to the back of the room, he ordered an ale. The owner pulled a pint and set it on the bar. Alexander would be buggered before he’d even touch the greasy-looking mug.

Instead, he slid a guinea across the counter. “I’m looking for someone. Perhaps you can help me.”

The owner sent him a gap-toothed grin before swiping at the bar with a grayish rag. “See lots of someones in my line of work, I does.”

“This is a specific person. Dark-skinned, possibly from India. May have come through not too long ago. He may have disembarked from a ship called the
Marianne.
”

“Only ship through here lately sank.”

“I’m aware, as it was mine.” He pressed his lips together for a moment. If anyone else had survived the wreck, he’d have turned up by now. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen anybody from
Sanford’s Hope.
”

“That the name of the one that went down?” The owner sounded mildly interested at best. The frequent storms along this stretch of coast had likely seasoned him against the tragedy of a shipwreck. “Heard talk of a few bodies washing ashore. Haven’t seen no survivors.”

Damn, but the news hardly came as a surprise. Alexander had seen enough of the wreckage on his first trip to the village. Survival was a slim hope at best with the ship reduced to splinters.

“Anyone fortunate to swim ashore might’ve made it t’ Falmouth if not farther. As for foreigners”—the man spat on the floor—“I don’t stand for such in my establishment. Had one th’ other morning. Turned him out, I did.”

Alexander narrowed his eyes at the man. “No, I don’t suppose you want such dirtying up the place.”

The owner nodded. “They don’t hold the same standards as proper Englishmen, and that’s a fact.”

Clearly sarcasm, not to mention irony, was lost on the man, but there was no sense in trying to educate a yokel so set in his ways. “If by chance you see another such man, you might send him along to the manor. I’d like to talk to him. For that matter, if you happen on any sailors from the
Marianne,
you can send a message.”

The owner left off his wiping. “I might welcome th’ business, but I don’t see why they’d come all this way. Likely miles away still sleeping off last night’s entertainment. Or still doing th’ entertaining.”

“Right.” This conversation was leading nowhere. With the safe arrival of his daughters, he could assume the East India Company’s cargo on the
Marianne
was secure, but he might well head to Falmouth to question the captain on his choice of sailors. Not that the man would necessarily pay heed to any disreputable dealings among his crew.

Alexander pushed away from the bar, and a twinge of pain shot through his chest. Blast it all. Falmouth was still out. Even if he was feeling better, his ribs would not stand a couple of hours jouncing in a carriage. Nor would the journey on horseback serve him well.

Leaving the swill on the bar, Alexander scowled as he headed for the door. He’d bloody well have to send for the captain now. Damnable notes and summons to all and sundry. He could not wait to recover from these infernal injuries.

He made it as far as the threshold when a newcomer blocked his path.

“Pardon me,” Alexander grumbled.

“Pardon?” the man said. “Aren’t you the polite one?”

At the cultured tones, Alexander looked up sharply. That accent was just as out of place in a rough village pub as his show of manners. What was more, he recognized that voice, although he hadn’t heard it in years.

“Lindenhurst? By God, it is you.”

Richard Blakewell, Viscount Lindenhurst clapped him on the shoulder. “Ha! I heard you were back. Although I can’t imagine why. Might have known I’d find you here. Are you hiding from that dragon you call an aunt?”

Alexander ignored the jibe. “How could you have heard anything? I only just arrived, and I haven’t got around to sending you a note.”

“Word of the shipwreck’s gone as far as Falmouth, and seeing how I live in the area …”

“And you’ve come to see for yourself?” Alexander eyed his old friend warily. If Lind somehow knew of the lost ship’s connection to his investment, he might well demand compensation on the spot. Compensation Alexander was in no position to provide. “Yes, well about that …”

“It was a risk we took.”

Such a simple statement, but it removed a weight from Alexander’s neck. “I thank you for that. But how did you find out so quickly?”

“Another ship limped into Falmouth the day before yesterday. The
Marianne.
You must know I recognized the name.”

Of course he had. From Alexander’s letters. He let his lips tighten into a semblance of a smile. “So you know all is not lost, then. There’d be even more to salvage if I’d found insurance on the cargo.”

Lind waved his free hand. “Understandable. It’s rare enough the insurer who will take on an untried captain.”

Thank God the man had decided to take the news well. Still, they had business to discuss—Alexander and Lind and Battencliffe. “At any rate, I meant to send for you.”

“I’d say we’ve quite a bit to catch up on.” Such a declaration ought to have been articulated far more lightly. Any delight in his voice had vanished, like a sudden cold wind snuffing out a candle.

Alexander studied his friend’s expression for a clue. Lind retained the rigid bearing of one who had spent time in the military. Years of campaigning had left subtle marks on his dark features, in the twin furrows above his hawkish nose and the deepening lines about his haunted green eyes. The evidence of deep-seated pain, whether from his wounds or the horrors he’d witnessed, was clearly etched on the man’s face, but Alexander had never learned the specifics. Lind’s letters had trickled to a halt at some point after the war. What Alexander had lived in the Orient, Lind had no doubt experienced on the battlefield several times over.

Lind turned away. His hand clenched about the metal cap of his walking stick.

“What say I buy you a drink and you can tell me of your adventures?” Lind added once the moment had drawn itself to the point of awkwardness.

“I’d be happy to take you up on that offer, but I don’t think you want to chance anything here. Why don’t you come with me, and I’ll offer you some of my aunt’s brandy?” Lind was likely to want the drink once Alexander told him what had precipitated his return from India. “I
daresay, she’s got some of the good stuff spirited away, for her own personal use, naturally.”

“Ah, yes, naturally.” Lind gestured to a carriage standing in the midst of the main thoroughfare. “I might even give you a ride.”

The few steps toward the conveyance proved Lind would never have made the journey up the hill. His lopsided gait would have slowed them considerably. He leaned heavily on his walking stick and dragged his left foot behind him on every step, a reminder of why he’d sold his commission. Napoleon’s defeat had nearly cost Lind his life.

“Have you brought your family back with you?” Lind asked casually once they were seated, as if the past eight years and half the world hadn’t separated them. Naturally, he’d have heard of Alexander’s marriage. When Alexander first arrived in India he wrote regular letters home. In Lind’s case, he’d wanted to keep an investor—and friend—informed of his doings.

He studied his friend from the corner of his eye. “My daughters arrived today. Thankfully, they were on the second ship.”

Lind nodded, confirming Alexander’s suspicions. So Lind had received his later messages. By the time Francesca was born, Lind’s replies had ceased. “And what of your wife? How has she fared through all this?”

“She hasn’t, I’m afraid. I buried her back in India.”

Lind cleared his throat. “Good God, I’m sorry. If you’d ever written to inform me of that event, I never received the letter.”

“Think nothing of it. Marianne’s death is a relatively recent occurrence. Any message would have arrived about the same time I did.”

Lind turned his attention to the passing scenery as the carriage trundled up the hill. Silence descended on the cab, a thick sort of silence that made Alexander want to shift in his seat and stare out the opposite window. As it was, he couldn’t help but notice the rich velvet of the squabs or the brightly polished wood interior. Lost investment or no, Lind certainly wasn’t in need of blunt.

How had matters come to this? Lind was an old, old friend. From the age of eleven, they’d banded together with Rowan Battencliffe to affront the gauntlet known as Eton.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to?” Alexander asked at last. “It seems as if you received my letters, but I rarely got a reply. Or perhaps you’ve had hard luck with return ships. I did manage to hear of your marriage, though.”

Lind turned a hardened eye on him. “I imagine you heard a great deal more than that.”

“No, actually.”

“You mean your friend Battencliffe hasn’t told you all about it?”

Your friend.
Not
our,
but
your.
What the deuce was Alexander to make of that statement? He attempted a smile. “Apparently Battencliffe has had as many problems with the post as you have.”

“Yes, well, that bastard has nothing to be proud of. I’m shocked that he’s perceptive enough to realize that much and keep his gob shut.” The edge to Lind’s words was finely honed. Alexander studied his school friend. The man’s speech fraught with … With what, exactly? Anger, regret, anguish entwined in his tone.

“What the devil happened to the pair of you? After all we’ve gone through—”

“Are you going to lecture me about honorable behavior?”

Alexander stared at the man.
Lecture
was an apt term. Certainly, he’d rattled on about honor and chivalry when they were youths, when Alexander was an annoying prig and full of his own personal notion of morality.

“Perhaps dredge up the Ludlowe incident again?” Lind added.

As yes, the Ludlowe incident. Alexander, Lind, and Battencliffe had attended a house party with several other young bucks just coming into their manhood and feeling their oats when it came to wagers and horseflesh.