No Brighter Dream: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 3 (30 page)

“Good. He should be. How is he, Ali?” Joseph-Jean leaned slightly forward, his gaze intent on her face.

“He’s well. He’s very well,” Ali said softly. “I think he’s relatively happy, although he still won’t discuss his parents, and I thank he’s still miserable about that underneath it all.”

Joseph-Jean just shook his head. “Stubborn fool.”

“It’s so frustrating, Jo-Jean,” Ali said, tucking her legs up under her. “I don’t think he even realizes that I know them, that’s how closed the topic is.”

“I know they appreciate your letters,” Joseph-Jean said quietly.

“I—I don’t suppose you could tell me what—what happened between them? No one else will speak of it, and it might help me to understand.” She looked at him pleadingly.

Jo-Jean looked down. “I’m sorry,” he said after a long moment. “I really can’t, Ali. It’s not my place.”

“What’s not your place?” Andre asked, coming into the sitting room, and Ali turned around in surprise, praying Andre hadn’t overheard anything more. But he seemed relaxed enough.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said, dropping a kiss on her head. “Well, Jo-Jean, when did you get in? And what are you doing closeted away with my wife, both of you looking as guilty as sin?”

“Oh, please,” Joseph-Jean said, rising. “It’s not as if Ali and I haven’t spent months closeted away together, which exemplifies the point. She was just telling me about the current story that’s circulating.”

“Ah,” Andre said, dismissing the subject. “That. It’s no more than a tempest in a teapot, already yesterday’s news. So. Are you looking forward to the lecture tomorrow?”

“I am. I’m also delighted that your new book has been received to such wide academic acclaim.”

“Don’t be modest. Your illustrations have received the same high praise, and you know it. It should be quite a turn-out.”

“Indeed. Well. We shall see. In the meantime, tell me how Matthew and Hattie’s wedding went?”

Ali launched into an enthusiastic recital, sparing Joseph-Jean no detail, and they were soon lost in laughter.

Ali listened with immense pride as Andre lectured the fellows and members of the British Museum, Joseph-Jean at his side with large illustrations.

Her smile widened as thunderous applause met his conclusion, and she watched him field questions from the audience with grace and good humor. Oh, he had come a long way from the days when she’d first known him, when he’d carried such a heavy burden in his heart.

He was so confident, so full of quiet enthusiasm for his subject, capable of making the dullest academic point sound fascinating. But best of all was the relaxed posture of his body, the brightness in his eyes, the smile that came and went like quicksilver. Yes, Andre’s heart was definitely lighter.

Ali’s own heart swelled with love. And then she heard a snide, murmured remark from behind her, the words spoken in Arabic.

“The damned man thinks he’s God. Look at him, behaving as if he owns the British Museum and everything in it. Lord, what I’d give to see him brought down.”

“One day, Allah be willing,” came a second voice. “It is not right that you should be passed over like this. You have worked every bit as hard as he. Every bit. All this attention is only because he is now a duke.”

Ali’s spine stiffened and a fierce cold swept over her body. She knew those voices, had felt their sting before when she’d been a child dressed in
chalvars.
Dear heaven, it was the blond man Weselley and his awful Syrian, she was sure of it. She felt sick and terrified all at the same time, and she pressed her hands together hard, forcing them to cease trembling.

“Yes. A duke. With a duchess,” Lord Weselley said sourly. “I wonder what his fine friend Claubert makes of that—although it doesn’t look as if he’s too concerned, given his self-satisfied expression.”

“Why should be he?” Abraham said. “I’m sure he thinks their secret is safe.”

Ali froze.

“Well, it will be my first priority to seek out Montcrieff’s wife and satisfy my curiosity,” Weselley replied. “I can’t help but wonder why Montcrieff would take such a risk. Or perhaps he thinks no one would guess at the truth.”

Abraham snorted. “Amusing, isn’t it? If the truth were known, Montcrieff would be ruined. His reputation would be in shreds, and the British Museum would be forced to ostracize him.”

“Maybe then they’d pay me some attention,” Weselley said. “God knows I’m treated like dirt as it is.”

“To cut your funding as they did—a vicious blow, delivered when you were not even in the country to defend yourself. It was probably the influence of that devil up there,” Abraham replied.

“He’s always had it in for me. Ah, well.” Weselley snickered. “He’s bound to slip up. And I’ll be there when he does. Not with rumor or innuendo, but with concrete evidence.”

Ali thought she really might be sick on the spot. The very evidence Weselley sought sat directly in front of him, if only he knew it. Dear heaven, they must have heard the rumors and guessed that Andre had married his servant boy. And if the word got out about that, Andre would be ruined. Society was not flexible when it came to the rules of correct behavior. Her mind raced furiously, trying to work out what to do next.

If either of them saw her, they would surely recognize her, and Andre’s entire future could be compromised—no.
Would
be compromised, hopelessly and beyond retrieval.

Ali squeezed her eyes closed against an unbearable pain that stabbed suddenly through her heart. Andre. She had to protect Andre, no matter what it cost her.

For even if Weselley was a fool, he was also a peer, and his word carried influence. Mrs. Herringer’s silly story was ridiculous, but Weselley had already guessed at the truth, and he obviously would stop at nothing to destroy Andre’s reputation.

Not only would Andre be ruined, but Nicholas’s and Georgia’s reputations would be damaged by association. After all, they had fostered the deception for years, as had Matthew and the other members of the family. She couldn’t be the cause of hurting so many people she loved. Especially Andre. Most especially Andre.

She pressed her fingers against her forehead, trying to think clearly through her panic. Weselley planned to seek her out. She couldn’t let that happen, for then he’d have proof positive and wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

But what could she do? What?

She couldn’t go to Andre; he was overly protective of her as it was. He’d be sure to confront Weselley and bring himself down in the process. Andre had worked too long and too hard to have that happen, and Ali refused to be the source of his downfall, not when he had been kind enough to save her life and honorable enough to marry her. Not when she loved him more than life itself.

Her nails dug painfully into her palms and a cold sweat broke out on her brow as the only solution dawned on her with sickening clarity.

Without seeing her face, Weselley had nothing. No proof, no confirmation.

She would simply have to make sure that there was no possibility of his ever identifying her. And there was only one way to do that. She would have to disappear.

Ali ducked her head, unable to stifle her nausea. Murmuring an excuse, she moved out of her row, and keeping her head lowered and turned to the side, she managed to slip out the door undetected.

She found the water closet and was violently sick.

The carriage ride seemed to take forever, and Ali struggled against tears the entire way, trying not to think, not to feel until she’d reached the safety of her room. She forced a smile for the footman and another for the butler and swiftly went upstairs, refusing the aid of her maid to undress, desperately needing to be alone.

And in that aloneness, Ali sank onto her bed and cried as if her heart might physically break, for she knew that she had to sacrifice her beautiful dream in order that Andre might keep his.

It was God’s will. It had to be. Only God could be so cruel.

Andre came to her later, but by then Ali was ready for him, her tears cried out, her mind made up. She’d even written the letter that he would find when she was gone.

She had this one remaining night with him, and she’d sworn to herself that she would make it last the rest of her life.

“You were brilliant,” she said, greeting him with a warm smile that she hoped was convincing.

“They applauded, if that’s any clue. Why did you leave early?” he asked, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “I looked for you in the crowd, but it was such a crush I just thought I’d missed you somehow, until I discovered you’d taken the carriage. You look pale. Are you feeling unwell?”

“I’m fine,” she lied, relieved that he hadn’t seen Weselley and wouldn’t work out the problem. “I didn’t want to distract you from all your admirers, so I left when you were answering questions.”

Andre took off his camel-embroidered dressing gown and slipped into bed, pulling Ali gently into his arms. “What is it really, Ali? The truth this time.”

“It’s nothing,” she insisted, wishing he would drop the subject, for she was about to burst into tears again, and that she couldn’t afford. “If you really must know, I had a headache earlier.”

“Ah,” he said. “Benson mentioned you’d looked strained when you came home. Are you sure nothing happened to upset you?”

“Just a headache. I’m better now,” she said, thinking that Andre always ferreted everything out of her with very little trouble, and if he carried on asking her questions, he’d have the whole story in minutes. “Andre? Could we not talk? Could we just hold each other, be together?” She had to fight hard to keep tears at bay. The effort nearly killed her.

He smiled at her then. “Be together?” he asked, smoothing his hands through her hair. “Oh, I think I might just be able to manage that. Are you sure you feel well enough, though?”

Ali simply nodded against his chest, suppressing a sob, thinking that death might be preferable to this agony. Never to feel Andre against her again, never to hear his voice? Never to have him love her…

“Sweetheart? What is it?” he asked, looking down at her with concern. “Are you certain your headache is better? If it’s not, tell me. I’ll give you something for it.”

She mutely shook her head. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, just make love to me. That’s all I want.”

“Of course,” he said, kissing her, stroking her hair, her face. “Of course I will.” He kissed her again, softly at first, but quickly building it into something else, sensing her need, setting a deliberate fire between them.

“Andre,” she whispered against his mouth. “Oh, Andre, don’t stop. Don’t stop tonight!”

“Whatever your heart desires,” he murmured, pulling her even closer. “But goodness, maybe we should spend more evenings apart if this is the effect a little separation has on you.”

Ali didn’t reply. She couldn’t. She pulled his head down and kissed him fiercely, forcing a groan from his throat.

Andre made slow, sweet love to her long into the night and she drank in every moment, every sensation, drowning in her love for him, giving him every last part of her, hoping that in the end it would be enough.

Because on the morrow she would be gone, and as angry as he would be, she wanted him at least to know that she had truly loved him.

“
P
our yourself a drink,” Andre said to Joseph-Jean the next evening, sticking his head out the sitting-room door. “Ali?” he called. “We’re home.”

He was surprised when Benson rather than Ali appeared. “What is it?” he asked impatiently.

“Her Grace took a train to the country this morning,” Benson said. “She asked me to give you this as soon as you returned.” Benson held out the silver salver with an envelope addressed in Ali’s tidy hand.

“The devil she has,” Andre said. Alarmed, he took it and dismissed Benson, ripping open the envelope.

Andre stared down at the page unable to believe his eyes. “Dear God no,” he whispered, stunned.

Andre shook his head back and forth in disbelief. “Jo-Jean,” he choked. “Jo-Jean. She’s gone.”

“Who’s gone?” Joseph-Jean said, moving quickly to his side. “Has someone died? Dear Lord, Andre,” he said, taking in his stricken expression, “what’s happened? It’s not your mother, is it?”

“Ali,” he said almost inaudibly. “Ali’s left me.”

“I don’t believe it,” Jo-Jean said. “
A li?
Ali can’t have left you—ah she’s ever wanted is to be with you.”

“Then read the damned thing!” Andre thrust out the letter and Jo-Jean ripped it out of his hand. Andre sank into a chair, trying to control his panic.

“Good God,” Joseph-Jean said softly when he’d finished. “What could have brought this on?”

“How in hell am I supposed to know?” He raked his hands over his scalp. “Naturally she forgot to explain. She was fine last night. Well … Actually not fine. She seemed upset about something, but she said it was a headache.” He frowned, remembering Ali’s impassioned, almost desperate response to his love-making. “It has to have something to do with that damned Herringer woman’s absurd accusation. Look, it says it right here, all this claptrap about the past.”

“Yes, but the last time I talked to her, Ali didn’t seem to take it very seriously. You’re sure she’s not upset that you’re not in love with her? That’s in there too.”

Andre glanced up from rereading the letter. “No, of course not. We worked that out a long time ago. Ali’s perfectly content with the way things are.”

“Ah,” Jo-Jean said. “I see. Well, perhaps someone said something to her last night, something that she thought might be damaging to you?”

“But what? And in any case, Ali’s always told me everything. You know what she’s like—she’s an open book.”

“Obviously not as open as you’d like to think,” Joseph-Jean said mildly. “The last time she went running off was in Xanthos, and you couldn’t work that out, either.”

“What? Oh, that’s right,” he said, frowning. “She tore off that night I was telling her the Xanthian history for the tenth time. No, I never did find out what that was about.”

“She also managed to hoodwink you into thinking she was a boy for six full months.”

“Yes, all right, maybe so, but this is different,” Andre said impatiently. “She’s my wife, for the love of God. Wives don’t generally take starts and go bolting off out of the blue, leaving ridiculous letters behind.”

“It’s not unheard of,” Jo-Jean pointed out.

“But this is Ali. Ali’s not like ordinary wives.”

“No, she’s not, is she?” Jo-Jean said with a smile that Andre found maddening. “Well, I suppose you’ll have to go find her, won’t you?”

“Find her … why, of course,” Andre said with a rush of relief. “Why didn’t I think of that? All I have to do is fetch her back again. That can’t be too difficult.”

“I hope not,” Jo-Jean said, scratching his ear.

“Oh, I imagine all I have to do is give her a good talking-to. Ali might be stubborn and overly emotional at times, but it generally doesn’t take too much to bring her around.”

“Do you suppose she went to Ravenswalk?” Jo-Jean asked. “After all, that’s home to her.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Andre said succinctly. “She’s most likely gone to the farmhouse. It’s her safe haven, and I gave it to her outright, so she would be fully within her rights.”

“Isn’t that a little obvious?” Jo-Jean asked. “Surely she’d know that would be the first place you’d look.”

“Ali in her infinite wisdom obviously thinks I’ll jump at her offer to divorce her, since she thinks it would be for my own good, the little idiot. It hasn’t occurred to her that a divorce would cause a far bigger scandal than the truth.”

Joseph-Jean gazed at the ceiling. “Whatever you say. You know Ali better than I. But for God’s sake, get on with it—she has hours on you.”

“Yes. I’d best take my carriage.” He stuck his head out the door again. “Benson!” he bellowed. “Tell Handray to pack me a case. I’m going to the country immediately. And summon the brougham.”

Within a half hour, the horses were pounding toward the coast.

Andre arrived at Milford Farm shortly after dawn, exhausted, deeply worried for Ali, and furious that she had put him through a lot of unnecessary aggravation, even if she had convinced herself that it was on his behalf.

He went immediately inside and started straight upstairs to the bedroom. He pushed the door open, only to find the room empty and the bed neatly made.

The shock nearly undid him. He’d been so certain that this was where she’d be. “Damn!” he cried. “Where the hell are you, Ali?”

He shoved his hands on his hips and stared at the floor, his head spinning with questions. Hattie and Matthew were out of the country on their wedding trip, so they weren’t a possibility. Anyway, he’d checked Raven’s Close on his way out of Ravenswalk, and it had been shut up tight as a drum.

She wouldn’t have gone to Sutherby—that wouldn’t be running away. A hotel, maybe? But Benson said she’d gone to the train station. And anyway, why in hell hadn’t she taken the dog? She loved Sherifay. It didn’t make sense that Ali would leave her in London.

“Oh—it’s you, Mr. Saint-Simon.”

He turned around to see Martha Lummus, her face wearing an expression of strong disapproval. “Mrs. Lummus, have you seen my wife by any chance?”

Her scowl deepened. “Indeed I have, only yesterday. Came on the train, she did. Packed up her things, crying her eyes out. Shame on you, I say, married only eight months to the sweetest girl in the world, and look at the state you’ve reduced her to.” She crossed her arms. “And you two were always so happy when you came to stay. Never would have guessed you could have bungled it so badly.”

“Never mind that, where is she now?” he said desperately. “Please, Mrs. Lummus, I must find her.”

“My husband took her to Southampton yesterday afternoon. She said she was going home.”

“Home?” he said with a rush of elation, thinking that Ali must have changed her mind at the last minute. “Excuse me,” he said, “I have to get back to London immediately.” He started to move past her, but Mrs. Lummus put out a hand.

“You won’t find her there,” she said, “not unless you can sail to your house. She took a ship.”

“Oh, dear God,” Andre said, his heart sinking further than he would have thought possible. “A
ship?
Are you sure?”

She nodded. “My husband was worried about her. He dropped her at a ticket agent and then he waited around the corner until she came out again and took a hansom cab away. Then he went inside and they said she’d bought passage for a ship that sailed last night.” She gave him another mistrustful glare. “Said she was so upset she could hardly speak.”

Andre rubbed a hand over his eyes. Ali. She’d taken a bloody ship. And there was only one place she would have taken it to.

“Mrs. Lummus. Martha,” he said urgently, taking her by the arms. “Please. Get your husband. I have to find out what ticket agent my wife used. Now. Quickly.”

“I don’t know as he should tell you. For all we know you’ve been beating the poor thing. Why else would she be running away?”

“I swear to you, it’s nothing like that. My wife left the country because she is misguidedly trying to protect me. I knew nothing about it until yesterday evening or I would have come after her sooner.”

“Oh,” Martha Lummus said, but she didn’t look terribly convinced. “You haven’t been breaking the law, have you?”

“No,” he said, wanting to tear his hair out. “I haven’t been breaking anything, including my wife’s head or heart. Please, Mrs. Lummus. I’d really like to get her back, but I can’t do it standing here arguing with you.”

“You can speak with Arnold, then,” she said grudgingly. “But you’ll have to wait until he’s finished with the cows.”

“I’ll go to him,” he said.

“No, you most certainly will not. In your state of mind you’ll upset the beasts and sour the milk.”

Andre was not sure when the role of master had been assumed by the servant, but he could see that Mrs. Lummus was not going to budge on the matter. In a way he couldn’t really blame her. The situation did look highly suspicious. So he just nodded. “I’ll be here.”

He spent the half-hour wait going through Ali’s things. He knew that she would have taken her passport from the London safe, and she had probably taken money as well to buy her ticket. He desperately hoped she’d taken enough to support herself until he could get to her. Knowing Ali, though, she probably hadn’t wanted to deprive him of a single unnecessary shilling.

He looked inside the wardrobe. Her dresses were gone, and that was a relief, for it meant that she had no intention of cutting her hair and dashing around in
chalvars
again. He could only pray that she’d be sensible enough to use the protection of his name. But somehow he doubted she would. It would make her too easy to trace.

“Oh, Ali, why?” he groaned, sinking onto the bed and putting his head in his hands. “Why, for God’s sake? What could possibly have chased you all the way back to Turkey?” He picked up a handkerchief lying on the bedside table. It smelled faintly of Ali’s sweet, clean scent and a touch of jasmine.

The subtle perfume brought back a memory that had nothing faint about it. With a stab he remembered the evening only three weeks before that Ali had decided to explore the art of erotic massage here on this bed. It wasn’t a night he was likely to forget.

But then the farmhouse held many extraordinary memories of various uninhibited hours they had spent here over the last eight months—the long winter nights, curled up against each other, reading or talking or making love. It was the first time in years he hadn’t minded the cold, had enjoyed walking through the snow hand in hand with her, listening to her chatter.

And then had come the burgeoning spring days, when they’d had enough of London social life and taken a train to put it all behind them, if only for a day or two. God, the house felt hollow without her vital presence, he thought, feeling just as hollow himself.

But he’d find her. He’d find her and bring her home, back to where she belonged, firmly tucked at his side. He’d sworn to protect her and he would, with every fiber of his being, if he had to track her down to the ends of the earth.

“Mr. Saint-Simon?”

Andre looked up.

“Arnold’s outside. He’ll speak to you now.”

Mrs. Lummus spoke far more gently than in their last exchange, and he wondered why. “Thank you, Mrs. Lummus,” he said, rising and tucking Ali’s handkerchief into his coat pocket.

He quickly went downstairs, immediately discovered what he needed to know, and instructed his coachman to take him directly to Lloyd’s ticket agency in Southampton.

“It’s the worst of all bad luck,” Andre said, accepting the glass of cognac that Jo-Jean had poured him, and throwing himself into a chair. “Not only did Ali get a fluke passage to Constantinople because someone canceled at the last minute, but there’s also not another ship leaving for a fortnight.” He took a long swallow of the badly needed drink. His nerves were in a terrible state, but he had no intention of falling apart. There was too much at stake.

“Someone has to have a boat going that direction. Can’t we go to France or Italy and transfer?”

“We could, but all the schedules are conflicted. I checked. We’d be waiting for the same period of time. Damnation!”

“What about the Navy?” Jo-Jean asked. “Surely they’d accommodate two passengers on urgent business?”

“I don’t have the flimsiest excuse to announce that I have to sail off to Turkey on an urgent mission, Jo-Jean. That and Ali’s absence would only fuel the fire.”

“Yes. Yes, I see. Whatever we do, it’s imperative that everything be kept quiet on the home front. Well.” He thought it over. “Suppose you announce that Ali’s paying a visit to your parents, and you’re staying behind on business until you can join her?”

Andre gave him a filthy look. “I think I can come up with something a little more useful than that,” he said.

“Like what? You don’t want your staff to know that Ali’s fled the coop, so it’s no good putting it about that she’s at Sutherby or even Ravenswalk. Saint-Simon is perfect.”