A Valentine Wedding (7 page)

But even as he thought this, Alasdair could see again the look in her eye as she’d thrown her challenge. And it made him very uneasy. He hesitated for a moment, thinking that perhaps he would go back and try to put things right between them. They had both said things that should not have been said, and he should never have kissed her as he had done, even in the face of blatant provocation. But he knew he was still too angry to try to make peace. If he went back to Mount Street in his present frame of mind, it would only make matters worse. He would be out of town for a few days. It would give them both much-needed space and time to cool off.

And he needed a cool head to deal with this other business. A frown crossed his eyes. It was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Would Ned have sent such a sensitive document to Emma?

He climbed the steps to the house where he had his lodgings, and the door was opened before he could reach for the knocker. “Your portmanteau is packed, Lord Alasdair. The post chaise should be here any minute.” His manservant stepped aside to allow his master entrance to the hallway.

“Good. Thank you, Cranham. Ill leave within the half hour.” Alasdair’s apartments were on the ground floor, and as he reached his own front door a step sounded on the stairs. He glanced over his shoulder and nodded courteously at the man descending the stairs. He didn’t know him but guessed he must have taken the suite of rooms above his own, which had been empty for several weeks.

“Good morning. Am I addressing Lord Alasdair Chase?” The man spoke pleasantly and came forward with an open smile and hand outstretched. “I understand that we’re to be neighbors. I have taken the
apartments above yours.” He shook hands. “Allow me to present myself. Paul Denis at your service.” He pronounced the name in the French manner, not sounding the final s.

“Mr. Denis.” Alasdair inclined his head in polite acknowledgment. “I bid you welcome. Are you newly come to town?”

“Yes, I have lived until now in the country. My family came from France in ’91.1 was a small boy at the time.” He made a deprecating gesture. “We were able to bring nothing out of France, and my parents settled in Kent on the estate of an old friend of my father’s.”

“I see.” It was a common enough story. The revolution had brought a flood of poverty-stricken émigrés from France to England. There were many aristocratic émigrés living in reduced circumstances in the country, and a good many of them in London, some on the fringes of society but many moving in the best circles. Monsieur Denis had the air of one who intended to move in the best circles.

“Unfortunately I have to go out of town for a few days,” Alasdair said. “But on my return, I trust you’ll dine with me one evening.”

“I should be honored.” The Frenchman bowed and Alasdair with another polite smile went into his own lodging. He was perfectly willing to introduce Monsieur Denis to his own circle of friends if he seemed agreeable. Judging by the impeccable cut of his coat and the elegant fall of his cravat, his neighbor had already mastered some of the necessities for cutting a dash in London. He certainly didn’t give the impression of a country bumpkin.

Within the half hour, Alasdair was ensconced in a post chaise and four, driving out of London along the
Staines Road, which would have interested Emma considerably, since it took him in the opposite direction from his family home in Lincolnshire.

He arrived at his destination having changed horses three times on the road, just as Lord and Lady Grantley were preparing to go into dinner at the un-fashionably early hour of five o’clock. Lady Grantley was not best pleased when their visitor was announced.

“What business could Alasdair have at Grantley Manor?” she demanded of her husband, whose eyes had lit up at the prospect of a male companion over the after-dinner port.

“A social call, my dear,” suggested the earl.

He was rewarded with a snort of disgust. “Don’t be a fool, Grantley. What are we to do with him?”

“We can’t be keeping him standing about in the hall, my dear.” Her husband was deeply shocked.

Her ladyship sighed. “Show Lord Alasdair into the library, Gossett. And you had better tell Cook to put dinner back half an hour.”

“Yes, m’lady.” The butler bowed and departed soundlessly.

“Go and see what he wants,” instructed the countess with an irritable flap of her hands in her husband’s direction, adding with a long-suffering sigh, “I suppose we must invite him to dine.”

“Only polite, dear ma’am,” the earl said, heaving himself to his feet and heading with some alacrity for the door.

Alasdair turned from the French doors and his contemplation of the winter-bare garden when his host entered the library. “My lord.” He bowed. “Forgive this unheralded visit but I’m on a commission for Emma. It won’t take me very long to execute.”

“Oh, but you must dine with us, dear fellow,” the earl said, making it sound more like an appeal than an invitation. “We’re just about to sit down to dinner, and my lady begs that you’ll join us.”

Alasdair had a shrewd idea of how his arrival would have been greeted by the redoubtable Lady Grantley, and his sardonic smile flitted across his mouth. But he said, “That’s very kind of you, sir. However, I have taken rooms at the Ship in Lymington and bespoken dinner there. I just need a few minutes in Emma’s bedchamber and dressing room. She’s convinced she’s left behind a book of poetry that she says she cannot do without. I believe Ned gave it to her, and she’s very distressed to have mislaid it.”

“Oh, indeed we cannot allow you to dine at an inn,” the earl declared with unaccustomed firmness. “Dreadful cooks in general … no … no … you’ll do much better to take your meal with us, dear fellow. Lady Grantley’s cook is quite tolerable—really quite tolerable. You shall dine first and then fetch Emma’s book. Come, sir. Come along.” He urged his guest to the door.

Alasdair yielded gracefully and steeled himself to greet his reluctant hostess.

“See here, ma’am, I’ve persuaded Lord Alasdair to dine with us,” the earl said boisterously as he reentered the salon, where his wife sat with her embroidery. “He’s come on a commission for Emma. She’s mislaid some book that Ned gave her … thinks it may still be in her bedchamber here … sherry, Alasdair?”

“Thank you, sir.” Alasdair bowed to Lady Grantley. “I’m on my way to friends in Dorset, ma’am, and
Emma asked me to stop here on my way. I trust it doesn’t inconvenience you.”

“Hardly,” Lady Grantley said. “I’ll have a small sherry, Grantley.” She fixed Alasdair with a gimlet eye. “I fear you will be disappointed in your errand, Lord Alasdair. The housekeeper has turned out Emma’s bedchamber thoroughly, and I don’t believe she found any of Emma’s possessions still there.”

“Emma has slept in that bedchamber since she left the nursery, ma’am, and I believe she had certain private places that are perhaps unknown to the housekeeper.” Alasdair took a glass from his host. “She gave me precise instructions where to look. Both there and in her dressing room.” He sipped sherry and offered the lady a benign smile.

Lady Grantley huffed a little but could find no legitimate objection.

“I trust dear Emma’s settling down in London,” Lord Grantley said.

“I trust she’s setting about finding herself a husband,” Lady Grantley stated acidly. “A girl of two and twenty! She’s almost on the shelf.”

The return of the butler to announce dinner saved Alasdair from having to find a reply to this declaration. He gave his arm to his hostess and escorted her into the dining room.

Throughout the interminable and indifferent meal, he exerted himself to be charming, although he was plagued by memories of so many other meals he had eaten at this board, where for almost twelve years he had been as at home as Ned and Emma. Meals filled with laughter and wit. Meals where Emma had sat in her place across from him, her eyes sparkling, her hair taking on myriad colors beneath the candelabra. And Ned … Ned had sat to the right of his father
until he had taken his father’s place at the table’s head. Ned had always had some story to tell, some witty joke. And the three of them had teased each other, and mocked each other … and loved each other, …

Twelve years carried a lot of memories … now all tinged with the sorrow of loss, with the bitterness of anger and betrayal.

He raised his glass and drank deeply. Despite Lord Grantley’s promises, the food was indifferent, but the burgundy was fine. Ned’s father had had a splendid cellar, and Ned had kept it up. The free-traders plied the Hampshire and Dorsetshire coast frequently, and there were few gentlemen’s establishments that they didn’t supply. Looking at Lord Grantley’s rubicund countenance, Alasdair reckoned that the present earl would follow in his predecessors’ footsteps at least as far as his cellar needs were concerned.

It was with great relief that he saw Lady Grantley make a move to rise from the table. He rose and bowed as she withdrew, leaving the gentlemen to their port with the firm injunction that Grantley was to consider his gout and not to take more than two glasses.

Alasdair spent half an hour with the earl and then excused himself to complete his errand. The earl was clearly disappointed that they weren’t to sit long at the table, but his guest was adamant and with a heavy sigh his lordship set the stopper back into the decanter and rose.

“Well, you know your way, dear boy.” He gestured to the stairs as they went into the hall. “I’ll have Gossetl light the lamps in Emma’s bedchamber for you.”

“There’s no need, sir. I’ll take a candle,” Alasdair took up one of the small carrying candles from the
hall table and lit it from the wax taper in a heavy silver candlestick. Shielding the flame with his free hand, he went up the horseshoe flight of stairs.

Sconces were lit along the corridors leading from the central hallway abovestairs, but when he entered Emma’s old bedchamber it was dark and felt cold and very empty. He held the candle high and it threw its flickering light over the room that was so familiar and yet now so desolate and strange, deserted by the spirit of its former occupant. The furniture was the same; he could see the burn in the dresser top where Emma had once put down her hot curling tongs without due attention; the old stain was still visible on the carpet where she’d knocked over a cup of chocolate when he and Ned had surprised her, returning early one summer for the long vacation from Oxford.

He set the candle on the mantelpiece from where it would throw the most light and went immediately to the armoire. It was empty and he found the little concealed panel in the rear without difficulty. It sprang open to his touch and he ran his fingers around the small space thus revealed. There was only dust.

In truth he didn’t expect to find anything, but before he began the much more complex task of searching Emma’s possessions in her new abode, he had to rule out the possibility that she had left some of her private papers in one of her secret spots in her old home. He looked behind the pictures, remembering that on a treasure hunt she had once hidden a clue behind the backing of her mother’s portrait. There was nothing there. He went through all the empty drawers in the dresser; he looked under the bed; he lifted the carpet. There was nothing. Not a single scrap of paper to be found.

And it had to be on a piece of paper. It would help
if he knew exactly what he was looking for, but his instructions had been vague; Charles Lester had had no more idea than he what medium Ned would have used to convey his information. When Ned’s communication sent on by Hugh Melton had been opened at Horseguards, it had contained only a letter to Ned’s sister. The letter had been scrutinized by the code breakers but had yielded nothing. The only conclusion they could come to was that there had been some confusion in that blood-soaked haste before his death, and the communication destined for Horseguards had gone instead to Lady Emma.

To Alasdair, the hole-in-the-corner secrecy of his search seemed ridiculous. He had said to Lester that surely the simplest thing would be to ask Emma if she’d kept her brother’s last communication—the one sent on by Hugh Melton. But his suggestion had been vetoed absolutely. Lady Emma for her own safety must not know that she had in her possession something so dangerous, so vital to the course of the war with Bonaparte. If she knew its importance, she might pay it dangerous attention, and if she memorized it, for instance, that knowledge would make her a target for others seeking it.

And their methods of extracting information were both thorough and unpleasant, Mr. Lester had explained with steepled fingers and an almost apologetic manner. He did not address the issue that whether she’d remembered the document or not, she could still be subject to these unpleasant methods of interrogation. The enemy, if she fell into their hands, were unlikely to take her word for it if she protested ignorance. But it was clear to Alasdair that Emma’s welfare was not of real interest to Charles Lester and his masters. The fewer people who knew of the importance
of the document, the better. That was all they really cared about.

But did she have it? Alasdair asked himself as he carried the candle into the dressing room next door to continue his search there. She might have thrown it away. But he thought that an outside chance. Emma would not have thrown away anything that came from Ned, particularly after his death. He knew she kept all his letters. She was a hoarder, a highly secretive hoarder. She had always kept everything … every letter he and Ned had written her from school and Oxford … anything that had any personal relevance for her; hence her warren of secret hiding places.

His search of the dressing room drew another blank. Even the bookshelves were empty. Between the pages of books had been another of her favorite hiding places. But all her own volumes had been packed up and delivered to Mount Street. Alasdair supposed somewhat gloomily that he was going to have to go through them all. Through her books and through her writing case and all the drawers in her secretaire.

It was a hideous prospect. And in the present strained state of their relationship, well nigh impossible. He would have to find some excuse that would give him easy access to the house on Mount Street and the freedom to move around it at will. His position as trustee gave him access to Emma herself, but no right to roam her house.