Kissing Comfort (9 page)

“Eight weeks?” Newt stopped drizzling honey on his toast. “How was that decided?”

“We negotiated terms,” she said. “I had to. He wanted to continue the charade for six months.”

Tuck lifted his eyes heavenward. “Thank you, Lord, for giving us a child with more sense than a bag of hair.”

“Uncle Tuck!” Comfort quickly raised her napkin to her lips to stifle her laughter.

“What? I told Newt from the first that you'd be a comfort to us, and you are. I don't know why he worries.”

Newt swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “I worry so you don't have to, and you should thank me for it.” He regarded Comfort with concern. “So you're willing to pretend to be Bram's fiancée for the next two months. Did I hear that right?”

“Yes,” she said, staring at her plate. “It did not sound quite so ridiculous when Bram said it.”

“I'm sure it didn't. There's something you can learn from that in the event you haven't already figured it out.”

She smiled ruefully. “I think I've got it.”

Newt was confident that she had. “Well, then, I'd like to know what possessed him to make the announcement in the first place.”

“I'm not sure that I even understand it,” she said. “The best I can explain it is that he felt a need to do something when Bode didn't show up.”

“He could have put a half-dozen dinner plates on sticks and kept them spinning,” said Tuck. “I never get tired of seeing that.”

“And broken plates,” Newt added, unable to resist another caution, “aren't as messy as broken hearts.”

Comfort chose to deliberately misunderstand. “Do you really think I can break Bram's heart?”

Newt gave her a sideways look, telling her in no uncertain terms what he thought of her response. Tuck, though, chose to answer as if she meant to be taken seriously.

“You could,” he said, “if you helped him find it first.” He looked up from his plate to find Newt glaring at him. “Not a challenge,” he added quickly. “And it would be cruel.”

“Yes,” said Newt. “Like finding a splinter in Thistle's paw, pulling half of it out, and leaving the rest to fester.”

Comfort and Tuck stared at him.

Newt shrugged. “Someone has to say it.” He used his knife to point at Comfort. “I'd feel better if I knew that Bram couldn't do that to you.”

“My heart's my own.”

Newt wanted to be convinced. He saw it was the same for Tuck. They both nodded slowly in unison.

Tuck tore off a bit of toast the size of his thumbnail and held it under the table for Thistle. The cat wound around his legs twice before he took the treat. “Does Alexandra know?”

Comfort had been dreading the question. “No. Bram doesn't want to tell her he made it all up.”

“That's not fair to her,” Tuck said.

“He thinks it would be worse if he told her.”

“For him,” said Newt. “In eight weeks, when you break off the engagement, it will be worse for you.”

Comfort hadn't considered that. “I have to believe she'll be understanding. She knows engagements don't always end in marriage. Look at Emma Farmer and Leland Broderick. They were engaged for two years before they decided they didn't suit.”

“That marriage was arranged for purely mercenary reasons,” Tucker told her. “The families ended it for precisely the same reasons. I'm not sure that Emma or Leland had any say in the matter.”

“I didn't realize. But it doesn't negate my point. They were engaged, and now they're not.”

“Did you see the Farmers this evening?”

“No. They weren't on the guest list. Neither were the Brodericks.”

“That's how Alexandra handles people who don't conform to her expectations.”

Newt nodded. “And she didn't even have a dog in that fight. You have to consider how she'll react when it's her son.”

“She isn't blind to his nature.”

“She wasn't blind to her husband's nature either, but she never failed him in public. Even when he threw his support to the Johnny Rebs and put the Crowne fortune at risk, she stood at his side.”

Tuck patted his knee and let Thistle jump on his lap. He stroked the cat, feeling its contented purr as a vibration against his palm. “I reckon Alexandra DeLong can suffer just about any indignity without blinking her public eye, but I don't believe she's ever not had her private revenge.”

Comfort was reading at the window bench in her room when Suey Tsin brought in a message from Bram. Thistle remained curled in her lap while she looked it over, and he required more push than nudge to vacate his cozy post when Comfort wanted to rise.

“My leaf green jacket, please,” Comfort said, glancing up from Bram's broad scrawl to look out the window. “That will be sufficient, I think.” The sky was cloudless, and sunshine had warmed her pleasantly while she read, but when she cracked the window earlier, she discovered she'd been deceived as a chilling breeze slipped into the room. “And the matching gloves.”

She folded the note in quarters and laid it on her nightstand beside the red-and-white tin that had been her bedtime companion for as long as she could remember. Her fingers trailed over the cool, smooth surface of the tin. It was inevitable after so many years of fingering it in a like manner that some of the paint had worn away. She could still make out all of the letters, but that was largely because while the paint had faded over time, the engraving in her mind had not.

Dr. Eli Kennedy's Comfort Lozenges.

She felt her fingertips tremble slightly and removed her hand before the tremor was visible to herself or Suey Tsin. Stepping back from the bed, she crossed the floor to where her maid held out her jacket.

“Will you let my uncles know that I've left?” she asked.

“I tell Mista Barkin. He tell uncles.”

Comfort didn't think that Suey Tsin had spoken more than a hundred words to her uncles in the four years she'd been working in the house. “All right. You tell Mister Barkin. He'll know better when they can be disturbed.” It was her uncles' practice each Sunday afternoon to hole up, as they called it, in their study on the pretense of discussing business for the upcoming week. It was not a well-kept secret that what engaged them was a couple of shots of whiskey each and a nap.

“You not want to tell either,” Suey Tsin said.

Comfort couldn't deny it. “You're right.”

“Where you go?”

“Pardon?”

Suey Tsin's sloe-eyed glance slanted in the direction of the bedside stand. “Message come. You go. But where you go?”

“Oh, of course.” She held out her hand for Suey Tsin to assist her with the buttons on her gloves. “The note's from Bram. He's invited me to join his mother and him for tea.”

The maid nodded. “I tell Mista Barkin.”

“Yes. Good.”

“You take carriage.”

“No, I'm going to walk.” She was looking forward to fresh air and stretching her legs.

“Too far. You take carriage.”

Comfort shook her head. Bram's house wasn't far at all. A few blocks and a steeply inclined street were all that separated their homes. “I'm walking,” she said firmly and accepted Suey Tsin's jerky nod as acquiescence. “Now, what have I done with my reticule?”

 

 

Bode plucked the damp and dripping bundle of shaved ice from his eye and tossed it at Travers. The valet had just enough warning to prepare for the pitch by cupping his hands together. He caught it easily and carried it to the bathing room, where he deposited it in the sink.

“Mind you,” he called back to Bode. “You were supposed to keep it in place another ten minutes.” He dried his hands and returned to the doorway in time to see Bode using his shirtsleeve to dab at his eye. Reaching around the corner into the bathing room, Samuel grabbed a towel and flung it at Bode's head.

Bode caught the tail of it before it fluttered to the floor. “Thank you.” He gingerly pressed the towel to his eye. “Given the proximity of my eye to my brain, the latter was in danger of drowning or freezing.”

“Neither one of those things explains stupidity.”

Bode lowered the towel and gave Travers an inquiring look from his good eye. “I see we're speaking frankly.”

“Something has to be said.”

“You're not referring to the icepack, I imagine.” When Samuel simply stared back, Bode sighed. “Ah. It's the note, then.”

“O'course it's the note. And I don't hold with you making me party to your scheme.”

“Scheme lends the plan more deviousness than it deserves, don't you think?”

“Scheme,” Travers said firmly.

Bode shrugged and finished wiping down his face. He folded the towel neatly and held it out for Sam. “She's not here yet, so maybe she saw through it. I never tried my hand at forgery before, and Miss Kennedy has more than a passing familiarity with Bram's penmanship.”

“She'll be here. I can't explain it, but she likes your mother. She won't turn down an invitation to tea.”

“Then perhaps we should have some. You'll see to that, won't you?”

“Only because I live to do your bidding.”

Bode's sardonic look matched Travers's tone perfectly. “The tea,” he said. “And some of those little sandwiches Alexandra likes.”

Travers nodded once. He collected a few damp towels and slung them over his forearm before he turned to go. To make certain he had the last word, he waited until he was closing the door behind him before he said, “Maybe you should have thought on this plan a little longer.”

Bode's firm mouth lifted at the corners as the door clicked into place. He appreciated Sam's concern, but he didn't share it. He merely wanted to speak to Comfort. He was hardly sowing the seeds of scandal. That was the kind of gardening that Bram did.

Resting his head on the back of the chaise, Bode closed the only eye he could and listened for some sign that would indicate that Miss Kennedy had finally arrived.

 

 

“I don't understand,” Comfort said as Hitchens opened the door wide enough for her to step inside. “I thought Mrs. DeLong would be at home. I'm sure that's what Bram wrote.”

“I can't speak to that, Miss Kennedy.” Even when the house was operating smoothly under his direction, Hitchens had a wrinkled brow. Now, with the calm waters stirring slightly, the wrinkles were pressed into sharp creases. “Mrs. DeLong and Master Bram have not returned since leaving for church. Their plans included a repast with Reverend Asbury and his wife following the service and a carriage ride out in the direction of Lands End. I do not expect them for several hours.”

Comfort pressed her lips together, thinking. “Perhaps I misread the invitation and it was extended for another day.”

“I don't know what else explains it,” said Hitchens. The tightness in his features eased a bit as he could find no reason that responsibility for the error should be dropped on his stooping shoulders.

A movement at the top of the stairs drew Comfort's attention. She saw Samuel Travers cross the landing and disappear into the west wing. He had been carrying a large silver platter in front of him. She didn't think she imagined that it was Alexandra DeLong's prized tea service that he was balancing.

Her nostrils flared slightly with the strength of her exasperated exhalation. “Never mind, Mr. Hitchens. I think I know what happened. You'll excuse me, won't you, but since I'm here, I may as well make a sick call on Mr. DeLong.”

Hitchens stiffened slightly, drawing back his shoulders. Even with this adjustment, he was not quite eye to eye with Comfort. “Allow me to inquire if he's taking visitors.”

“There's no need. Mr. DeLong and I don't stand on that sort of ceremony. He'll receive me. In fact, I believe I'm expected.” She neatly sidestepped the butler's attempt to interfere with her advance on the stairs. She pretended that his intention was to escort her. “Don't trouble yourself, Mr. Hitchens. I know the way.”

Bode sat up when he heard Travers fumbling with the doorknob. A moment later the valet entered, the tea service balanced gingerly on the fingertips of one hand. “Careful with that,” Bode said unnecessarily. “Put it on the table beside that chair.”

“I'm not sure she'll be sitting down,” Travers told him. “Could be this platter is holding a whole lot of weapons she'll be launching at you.”

Bode ignored the warning and focused on what was salient. “She's here?”

“Just arrived.”

“Well, send her up.”

“Oh, I think she's on her way.”

“Really?” He had intended to ask Travers how that had come about so quickly, but Comfort's sudden appearance on the threshold of his room made the question unimportant. Bode started to rise, clenching his jaw when his back began to spasm.

“Stay where you are, Mr. DeLong. I told your butler that you and I don't stand on ceremony.”

“He doesn't stand at all,” muttered Travers. This aside earned him a withering look from Bode and Comfort's appreciative smirk. He pretended he was unaware of either and set the tray down. “Is there anything else, sir?”

Bode indicated the bell on the floor at his side. “I'll ring if I need you.”

Travers restrained the retort that came to mind and addressed Comfort instead. “May I take your jacket and gloves?”

“No.”

“Your bonnet, then.”