Edith Layton (5 page)

“Touché,” he said, wincing. “I deserve it, I suppose. And though I don’t deserve such a fine luncheon, I’d very much appreciate whatever you bring me.”

She turned. “I’ll just get your tray.”

“A moment, please,” he said. “There’s something else I’d like to say. Please listen. It may be
oafish
of me to remind you, but after all, we don’t know if I’ll still be here to say it by the time you get back, do we?”

Alexandria’s head shot up. She stared at him, and a slow blush warmed her cheeks. “Oh, lord!” she said. “I forgot. You heard every word we said downstairs, didn’t you? I should have thought…”

“You were otherwise occupied,” he said with a small smile. “Look, Miss Gascoyne, I want you to know that
I
wouldn’t want me as a guest. At least, not in this condition. It was kind and generous of you to take in a wounded stranger, and being repaid by suspicion can’t have been pleasant. My suspicions were as crude as they were rude. I apologize. All I wanted to ask is if you could get me paper and a pen so I can write some letters to cancel some appointments, and
most important, let my household know where I am and what I need. I’d like to get things moving so that I can unburden you as soon as possible.”

She paused. It was nicely said, there was no denying it. She might as well be gracious too. “I will,” she said, “but it might be better if you dictated your letters. Otherwise we’d have to bring in a lap desk, and the way your leg feels right now I doubt it would be practical. I’ll be glad to write them out for you—if they’re not too personal, that is?”

“No, I’ll save my love letters until I can remember more poetry,” he said wryly. “All that springs to mind at the moment is Richard’s lament for a horse, and various funeral odes.”

“‘How are the mighty fallen,’”
she quoted, low. But not so low that she didn’t win a sudden amused smile from him. It felt so good to have someone understand her so readily that she changed the subject. “Well then, I’ll be happy to write any letters for you. Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked.

“Don’t forgive me
that
quickly,” he said, grinning. “I deserve a week of cold shoulders and cutting looks, at least. As for what you can get me? Do you think you could manage a new leg? I suppose not. Ah, well, I’d be delighted by luncheon and a letter or two, then some of the doctor’s delicious poppy extract. That’s exhilaration enough for now. I’ll try to sleep the rest of the day away.”

“You don’t have to drug yourself into submission on my account,” she said quickly.

“I assure you, it’s on mine,” he said. “The poppy leads to strange dreams, but they’re better than the reality of my condition just now. Strange indeed…” he
mused. “Do you know, when I first found myself here, and you were all here in the room with me, talking, I thought I was abroad because I couldn’t understand a word I overheard. It was all Greek to me. Literally.”

She hesitated, then smiled. “Oh, that. That was reality. I was reading
The Odyssey
to the boys. For their lessons.”

“In the
original?”
he asked, astonished.

“Yes, their father was a schoolmaster.” she said coolly. “He insisted the boys be educated. I’m a mere female, but they were at it so much I couldn’t help learning some of it. At least so I was told, and so I was allowed to learn more.”

“Forgive me,” he said. “I put my foot wrong again, didn’t I? Maybe because the other one hurts so much. The damn…deuced thing hurts like blazes. I can bear that. But the doctor said I have to lie still to help it mend. That’s hard for me. So I’ll take the medicine until I can stump around and shake off the fidgets. I’m not a convenient patient, but I’ll try to be an obedient one. The less I do, the faster I’ll heal. And I will, I promise. I’m not ready to die just yet.” He slanted her a conspiratorial smile. “Only the good die young, remember?”

“T
HOUGHT YOU
’
D BE ASLEEP
!” A
LEXANDRIA EXCLAIMED
. She’d tiptoed into the earl’s room, only to find him sitting up and looking decidedly…grumpy.

“I’ve had enough. My dreams were all right when they were fantastical, but now they bore me. Even if they were magical, I’m feeling so much better I don’t need them anymore,” he said, his eyes kindling at the sight of her—and the tray she bore. “Is that for me?”

“Well, actually it was for me,” she admitted. “I was going to stay here while you slept. I’ll just go get another cup, and some cakes, if you think you can eat them.”

“I think I could eat them and a horse. How is mine, by the way?”

“Fine,” she said, looking at him curiously. “Are you really feeling better?”

“The worst is over,” he said, his eyes still on the tray. “What discomfort remains is more annoying than
desperate now. I heal as quickly as I tumble into trouble in the first place. Is there enough for us both, do you think?”

“I’ll be sure there is,” she said with a smile, turning to go.

“No, don’t leave!” he said quickly. “Please. I’ll take my tea later. Talk is more important now. I’m not used to lying in bed in the daytime. And it is a glorious day, isn’t it?” he added sadly, glancing out the window. “Could you open the window? I’d like to feel a breeze and breathe some fresh air.”

She put down her tray, drew back the curtain and threw the shutters open all the way.

He sighed. “Now I can hear the birds, at least. Lying up here alone makes me feel like the last man on earth. It’s the countryside too, so quiet. The lads are at school, right? I could hear you and Mrs. Tooke downstairs…Lord! I’m prattling. Please stay and talk. I can just about bear doing without the use of one leg, but getting on without my mind is rather more difficult. After all, this isn’t London, you know.” He grinned. “At any rate, I’ve slept enough.”

The thought of him lying alone upstairs with no one to talk to and nothing to do had occurred to her. It would be horribly boring for her, and she was accustomed to the quiet of the countryside.
It must be hellish for him,
she thought, which was why he was trying so hard to be convivial. She wondered how much it cost him to beg a simple country woman to stay and chat a while, and decided to make it easier for him. Firmly suppressing the little surge of personal pleasure at the thought of passing the time chatting instead of simply watching over him, she prepared to do just that.

Alexandria lifted the lid off the little teapot. “You can have this cup. Don’t argue, if you please,” she added before he could speak. “It’s no great sacrifice. I didn’t want to leave you alone all afternoon so I brought my sewing, and provisions for when I felt like having some. That isn’t now.”

She took the tray they’d been using as his desk and table, and settled it on his lap. “I even brought some macaroons, but I’ll get you some of Mrs. Tooke’s scones later. She’s the woman the doctor sent to make it possible for you to stay, remember?” Alexandria was pleased to see he looked guilty, and with that unspoken concession, decided to let the matter drop. “There are other benefits of having her here, it turns out. At least for me. She’s a marvelous cook. She’s baking today, and we have cream and berries.”

“Tea and scones? And forgiveness?” Drum asked. He picked up his cup, took a sip of the amber liquid and sighed. He laid his head back. “I don’t deserve such treatment, and you know it,” he said with a rueful smile. “I could have been in trouble. Instead I find myself in the lap of luxury.”

“In a poky little room in a cottage in the back of nowhere?” She laughed as she settled herself in the chair by the window. “There’s no need for flattery, I already promised you the scones, remember?”

“It isn’t the size of the room, or the location, it’s the treatment and the company that I’m grateful for,” he said, picking up a freshly baked macaroon.

“Yes,” she said sweetly, her eyes on her sewing. “I’m sure that while we might not compare to an evening at the opera or the theater, we certainly equal a night at Brooks or Almacks, or some glittering London
soiree.” She looked up to see an arrested look in his eyes. “I know about those places. We get a newspaper as well as a magazine,” she explained. “Mr. Gascoyne was very fond of the
Gentleman’s Magazine
. They once published a letter of complaint he wrote.”

A faint frown appeared to darken those cerulean eyes. “Mr. Gascoyne? You always refer to him that way?”

“Yes, he insisted. He was old-fashioned and believed familiarity bred contempt,” she said simply.

“Well, I don’t hold with that,” Drum said. “Neither does my father, and it’s been said he has the stiffest neck in the kingdom. Still, yours must have done something right. Just look at the lads. And you. You’ve done very well.”

He paused and took a look at her. He found her as refreshing as the tea and cakes she’d brought. He enjoyed her unexpected sense of humor and appreciated the way she struggled with the difficult problem of finding herself responsible for him. But amiability was one thing. In this situation it was vital that he keep the conversation and his thoughts on an even keel. She was his nurse and comforter now, so of course he’d like her. But he hardly knew her. It was time to remedy that, at least.

“You’ve kept the family together, which can’t have been easy,” he said. “From what the doctor said, you aren’t much older than your brothers, and weren’t that old when your father died.”

“It wasn’t hard,” she said, concentrating on her stitching. “It’s all I know, after all.”

He watched her as she stitched. She was nothing like the women he was used to, or any of the ladies of
London. They wore curls or ringlets these days. Her gleaming hair was pulled back in a queue, as a gentleman might have worn his a generation before. Stray gossamer filaments of it were stirred by the breeze from the open window. It shone from cleanliness, not pomade, he realized, and that was unusual in ladies of the ton. Many didn’t use oils to tame their hair because their own did the trick. London put a premium on looks, not frequent use of soap.

It was more than her hair. Drum knew fashion, and Alexandria Gascoyne either didn’t want or couldn’t afford it. She wore an old gown with a vaguely pink floral pattern today, though she’d look much better in any of the bold colors that were the current craze. Not that she looked bad to him. She really was quite lovely, he thought, watching her, though she didn’t seem to know it or at least refused to capitalize on it. He guessed she was at least one and twenty but it was hard to say; she had the bearing and demeanor of a much more mature woman. Her manner was open, almost masculine in its directness. Her appearance was not.

Men in London spoke about the virtues of country women, the attractions and abilities of milkmaids with their clear eyes and fine complexions and strong constitutions. They were thought to be ignorant and gauche, but freer, more robust, ribald, and passionate than other women. More disease-free, too. That meant there was considerable call for them in the brothels, so much so that madams commonly met incoming stagecoaches with offers of employment for girls just arriving from the country. Alexandria Gascoyne had that kind of fresh loveliness, but Drum wasn’t misled. Her mind was anything but provincial.

Still, it was hard to appraise her mind when her body was so close. Her figure was sturdy but not overblown, she had fine, full breasts, a waist that curved to a firm, rounded bottom…

He looked away. She exerted a strong pull on his senses. He acknowledged it, and firmly put the knowledge aside. Sensual pleasure was vital to a man’s happiness—at least, to his happiness. But if there was one thing he knew, it was propriety, and he was cursed with common sense. This wasn’t the time or place, he reminded himself, and she certainly wasn’t the woman to think such things about.

“The boys don’t look like you,” he said, trying to turn his train of thought. “Your hair for one thing, their eyes for another. In fact, they don’t resemble each other that much either.”

She smiled. “You’re observant. There’s no reason they should. We’re not related, and neither are they. They’re adopted.”

He was surprised. He hadn’t heard much, but enough to get the impression that the late Mr. Gascoyne had been a private and solitary man, not the usual sort to take in foundlings.

“Mr. Gascoyne came to a crossroads in his career some years ago,” Alexandria explained, keeping her attention on her stitching, “He lost his position at Eton—”

“
That’s
where I know the name from!” Drum cried, suddenly remembering a little man stalking down the corridors, his sour face wrinkled as a walnut, looking as unapproachable as everyone said he was. “I was never in his classes, but didn’t he teach Latin?”

She nodded. “Ancient studies, too. But he lost that
position and had to find another. We have a school not far from here—Eaton’s Academy for Young Gentlemen. E-a-t-o-n, with an
a
, that is.” She smiled at his expression. “Yes, the name’s
supposed
to remind people of that other school. It’s not as elevated or ancient as Eton, of course, but it’s not a bad place. It’s for self-made men who want their sons to rise in the world. Mr. Gascoyne heard about a position opening there. Since he’d lost his job partially because of his…inflexibility, it was said, his friends suggested that having a son himself would go a long way to showing that he really liked and understood boys.

“It turned out to be not only wise, but economical,” she went on briskly. “The foundling home pays a stipend for each child taken off their hands, you see. Mr. Gascoyne taught classics but he had a firm grasp of mathematics and realized that three can eat as cheaply as one. At least, a pot of soup goes very far, and clothes can be handed down. So he took them in size order, Vin, Kit, and Rob. And got the job.” She bit off a thread. “The boys still go to Eaton’s, but they live here. They hitch Thunder to a cart and ride there every day. It’s cheaper and better for everyone that way.”

“How did your mother cope with all those boys?” Drum asked.

“She didn’t,” she said abruptly. “She was long gone. I was the one who took care of them. It was no problem for me because they’re good lads, and weren’t infants when we met. We had a housekeeper for a little while but I soon took over her duties. As I said, Mr. Gascoyne was a frugal man.”

Her sunny mood had darkened. The room seemed darker too. Drum was annoyed with himself. He was
usually more facile than that. “You know about the clubs and galas in London because you read the London papers. Have you ever been there?” he asked, to nudge the conversation down a smoother track.

“Never,” Alexandria said. “There was neither time nor opportunity.”

“I thought not,” he told her. “Don’t believe everything you read. I can tell you some evenings at the best clubs are amazingly boring when none of your friends are there, or even if they are, they may get into some witless argument that lasts for hours. Some nights at Almacks it’s hard to suppress your yawns. Most nights, actually. And not all soirees glitter. Some frankly fizzle, like fireworks on a damp night. Most are held in rooms that are too hot, with the company too loud and the food too scarce, stale, or paltry.”

“I’m sure it must be unendurable,” she said with a faint smile, her eyes on her needle.

He grinned. “Right. I manage. It’s only that the city isn’t always the glittering vision it seems from the countryside.”

“This countryside, at least,” she said with a sigh. “We don’t have stately homes here, so there are no house parties or balls. The local squire lives in a farmhouse. We have a smith’s shop, which the road just reaches before it goes running back to the highway. It serves three other tiny hamlets nearby, or it wouldn’t have enough business to exist at all. Time stopped here once when Good Queen Bess rested for an hour at our well while on one of her processions through the countryside. Then it marched on without us.”

“Did you ever visit anywhere else?” he asked curiously.

Her face grew still, her voice harsh. “Once. I went to Bath. For all of seventeen days. But then I got word that Mr. Gascoyne was sick. He was gone by the time I got back.” She looked up at him. “Please don’t pity me. I have more than many women do. The boys, this house, my own place in life. That’s not inconsiderable.”

“Any suitors?” he asked casually, popping another macaroon in his mouth.

She smiled. “Hordes,” she said. “Now you know everything about me. In all fairness, may I begin my inquisition?”

He pretended to choke. “My dear!” he said, “I know nothing about you at all. You’re as evasive as an eel, slippery as one too. I’m an open book! You have my name, my rank—my life, in sum.”

One eyebrow lifted as she stared at him. “Yes,” she said levelly, “you’re a London gentleman, a nobleman of fame and fortune. That’s the sum of it? Fine, then. And so I’m a country woman of no particular note, and adequate means. There we are. Shall I get your scones now?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m five and thirty,” he said, “bedeviled because my father wants me to marry and I haven’t found the lady of his dreams yet. I went to Eton, as I said, then Oxford. I served my country by working for the War Office, which means I’ve lived abroad a great deal. I have a few good friends and many more acquaintances.”

She sat back, listening with rapt attention.

“I like to sing,” he went on, “and am not crushed that my leg is, because I’m not that keen on dancing. I get into heated arguments about politics. I fence, box,
ride, and drive, but don’t consider myself a Corinthian or a dedicated sportsman of any kind. I read and go to plays, but am not an intellectual. I’m in demand at parties because I can flatter anyone for anything at any time. I’m very good at conversation, because that’s what we wastrel London gentlemen excel at. I can talk for an hour on any subject, and even make sense sometimes.”

Drum was very pleased with himself for making her laugh again. Too pleased, he knew. But he was careful and knew himself well. To flirt was not to fall. To charm was not the same as making a misstep. He’d pass the time pleasantly, amusing both himself and her. Why not? It was no great task. He’d think of her as a nun, a charming one, a woman who was his nurse and hostess, but one already taken by another, far more powerful than he was. Society was just that.