Patricia Rice (42 page)

It churned his stomach just thinking of it. He wished he could talk to Dora about it, but Dora had too good a heart to believe she would be better off without him. She would spout nonsense about this being his home, and she might even offer to leave rather than let him go. He didn't want that. He wanted to take care of her, to see that she had everything she deserved, and he wasn't doing much of a job of it this way.

He was thinking so hard, he stared at the carriage rolling up the road for a full minute before he realized what he stared at. He knew every carriage and buggy for miles around, but he didn't know this one. Someone might have bought a new one, but this thing looked like it was on its last set of wheels. As a matter of fact, if he recollected rightly, they rented one like it at the train station.

The rails ran from Louisville to Nashville. He didn't know anyone coming from either place or anyplace in between, but that carriage was headed for their drive.

Shouting at Jackson, Pace loped back the way he had just come. If Josie had relatives arriving, he didn't want Dora meeting them alone.

He had waited too late to have time to put on a fresh shirt and tie. He bounded through the back door just as the carriage pulled up at the front. He could hear the women on the stairs speculating as to the identity of the new arrival. Amy gave a cry of distress somewhere on the upper floor and Josie clicked down the upper hallway after her daughter. He heard Dora opening the front door before he could traverse the dining room.

"We are here to see Mr. Carlson Nicholls," an arrogant, English-accented voice drawled loudly, as if talking to some deaf-and-dumb servant.

"I am sorry. He passed away more than two years ago," he heard Dora answer politely. "Might I help thee?"

Pace stood in the back of the hall now, studying the newcomers before making himself known. He didn't like the sound of their voices. He liked their looks even less. They wore high-crowned beaver hats and pearl stickpins in their cravats. The one had a spoiled, selfish set to his fat lips. The other was gray-haired and peered through his glass as if inspecting a particularly fascinating species of insect.

Instinctively, Pace knew what would come next. He could halt it now, but some perverse reasoning allowed him to let them stick their feet in their mouths. There were some things from which Dora didn't need his protection.

"Then we wish to see the master of the house," the one with the fruity voice and the gray hair replied. "We don't care to be kept waiting out here. Let us in at once, girl, and fetch your master."

Pace grinned, crossed his shirt-sleeved arms, and leaned against the wall.

"I have no master but God," Dora informed him coldly. "If thou wishest to enter, thou wilt state thy business first."

"By Gad, I'll not take this sort of insolence! Get out of my way now, girl, before I have Smithers remove you. I'll make myself known if you will not." The taller man with the fat lips and narrowly spaced eyes pushed forward.

Pace was already lifting off the wall and heading toward the door with fists balled when the younger man's eyes suddenly bulged as he glared at the small figure in prim gray.

"Alexandra! My God, Alexandra! What have they done to you?"

To Pace's complete shock, Dora literally slammed the door into the man's nose and raced up the stairs.

Chapter 32

Angels and ministers of grace, defend us!

Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,

Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,

Be thy intents wicked or charitable,

Thou com'st in such a questionable shape,

That I will speak to thee.

~ Shakespeare,
Hamlet

Pace had the passing notion that he'd best close the door on the floored visitor as if it would drop the lid on Pandora's box.

But the furious shouts of the older man and the prostrate figure groaning on the floor caused him to conclude the problem wouldn't go away. Josie's arrival finished the matter. She cast him a curious glance when he didn’t immediately see to his guests.

Throwing off his reluctance to greet the visitors, Pace froze Josie with a look while he strode into the front room. As the prostrate figure dragged up from the porch, holding his nose, Pace crossed his arms over his chest and blocked their entrance. He almost reveled in the fact that he wore only shirtsleeves and work pants still coated in field dirt. He wore old boots with his toe pushing out one side. He had to look worse than any peasant these elegant creatures had ever been forced to converse with. He almost grinned at their shock.

"May I be of some assistance, gentlemen?" Just for the hell of it, Pace used his best courtroom voice. Keeping the opposition unbalanced had always been one of his best ploys.

He couldn't tell if Dora's performance or his own was the major contributor to the fact that the two men stared wordlessly for a full minute. Apparently reaching some unspoken agreement, the older man stepped forward while the other dabbed at his nose with a handkerchief.

"Excuse us, but I am Sir Archibald Smithers, solicitor for George Henry, third earl of Beaumont. This is his son, Gareth, Viscount Doran. We have a subject of most importance to discuss with the master of the household. Is he in?"

Pace still didn't like the man's tone. Nor did he like the looks of the snotty bastard with his bruised nose up in the air. That would be Gareth, he supposed. Gareth. Hell of a name for a man. He almost grinned at what he could make of that name, but Dora's reaction to these men still gnawed at his insides.

They'd called her Alexandra. The snotty one seemed to know her. He didn't like that idea in the least. He didn't grin.

"I'm Payson Nicholls, and this is my property. My wife has taken objection to your disrespect and familiarity, so state your business quickly." This went against all the rules of Southern hospitality. If his mother listened, she would rush down those stairs and box his ears. But Dora didn't run without reason. He wanted these men gone so he could go to her.

The two men looked disbelieving. They glanced at Pace's old work boots, then back to the elegance of the hall foyer. Their gazes caught on Josie hovering in the background. The older man scowled.

"Mr. Nicholls, the subject we have to discuss is a delicate one requiring some explanation and privacy. We must insist that you let us in."

"I've told you, my wife doesn't like your looks. You'll spit it out here or be on your way." He was beginning to enjoy this. He'd been an officer in the army. He knew how to give orders and swing his weight around. But he'd never owned property before. He'd never held a position of authority where he could legally throw someone off his land. He really liked the idea of having that power over these two.

The gray-haired man looked suitably indignant. He clutched his ebony cane in his gray-gloved hands and glared. "If we must come back, it will be with the law at our sides. You cannot keep Lady Alexandra in a position of servitude any longer, not so long as I shall live, sir!"

The fun went out of the game. Pace stared at the older man, seeking the truth in his furious features. Maybe he was a candidate for an asylum, but it looked as if he would have to let him in to find out. Clenching his teeth, he stepped back from the doorway.

Josie drifted down, her gaze fastened with interest on both men—or perhaps more appropriately, on their expensive attire. Pace was forced to make introductions. "Josie, Sir Archibald Something or other, and his faithful sidekick, Gareth. Gentlemen, my sister-in-law, Josephine Nicholls."

Gareth scowled and ignored Josie's outstretched hand. The solicitor bowed over it respectfully. "Madam, a pleasure." He glanced reprovingly at Pace. "The viscount is properly addressed as Lord Doran."

Pace nodded his head impatiently at the parlor. "Whatever. I want to hear this cock-and-bull story. I don't have anything better to do today. Josie, will you get the gentlemen something to drink? They won't stay long."

Josie glared at him. "Pace, you are being unforgivably rude." She swept off in a trail of swishing silk and a cloud of French cologne.

The visitors took seats on the brocaded sofa, giving scant regard to the lovingly polished furniture hauled all the way across the mountains from Virginia. Pace’s ancestors had shipped some of it from England when this country was still a colony. To these men, the antiques were no doubt inconsequential trash.

This was his home, and he was proud of it. He hadn't fully realized that until now, when these snobs turned their noses up at what his family had worked so hard for generations to attain. He'd wager neither of these two could repeat the performance.

"Well, gentlemen, I'm waiting." Pace didn't take a seat but leaned against the mantel, tapping his toe. "Tell me how I'm keeping your imaginary Lady Alexandra in servitude. You do realize the war is over, and we don't have slaves any longer."

The viscount scowled, leaving the solicitor to answer. "As I said, I represent the earl of Beaumont. He received information from a certain Carlson Nicholls that he had reason to believe Lady Alexandra Theodora Beaumont resides in his household under the name of Dora Smythe. Due to the war and the clumsiness of our investigators, we were unable to follow up that letter until now. We have come to take Lady Alexandra back to her rightful home."

Pace stared at them with incredulity, but the sinking feeling in his stomach told him the story was so wildly incredible it must contain elements of truth. Dora's accent mimicked this man's. She'd come from England. He had always considered her on a level well above her surroundings, but he had only acknowledged it by calling her an angel.

Worse yet, Dora had recognized these men.

But she hadn't run to them with open arms. Warily, Pace regarded his visitors. In their prissy clothing with their soft white faces and padded coats, they didn't appear dangerous. Dora had easily felled the big one. But Pace knew the legal ramifications of power. An earl would have plenty of power. They were dangerous all right.

"Have you proof of any of this?" he asked, accepting the mint julep Josie presented him even though he despised the stuff. At the moment, he welcomed a good belt of bourbon in any disguise.

The other men took their drinks and sipped, returning to their seats when Josie departed. She'd thrown Pace a look that meant she would interrogate him later to pay for this, but Josie presented the least of his problems.

The viscount spoke for the first time, his tone harboring arrogance and impatience. "My sister was stolen from my father's arms by a band of lying, thieving religious fanatics when she was only eight years of age. I have a miniature of her here that will show she hasn't changed greatly over those years. Your maidservant is almost the image of her."

He held out a painted portrait in a gilded case. Pace took it gingerly, staring down into the blue eyes of the fairy child he remembered so clearly from his sixteenth summer. His stomach clenched with an immense wave of despair, but he concealed the pain as he handed the portrait back.

"The portrait resembles Dora, my wife, as a child. She has never mentioned anything about kidnapping. She was adopted by an elderly couple and reared in the Quaker religion. She seemed happy with them. I should think a Lady Alexandra would be quite vehement about returning to her real parents if your story were true."

The viscount's face grew mottled with anger at this slur to his honesty, but the solicitor interceded for him. "The matter should be quite simple, Mr. Nicholls. Call the girl down and let her tell us the truth."

Pace straightened and felt his jaw muscles tighten. "The 'girl' is my wife, gentlemen. I will ask her if she wishes to speak with you, but I will not order her to do anything she does not want to do."

"How do we know you will give us her honest reply? If she is held against her wishes, then we can't expect you to answer us honestly," the viscount sneered in retaliation to Pace's earlier insult.

He wanted to pound his fist into the other man's soft jaw, but he refrained with a control he hadn't realized he possessed. Glaring at them, Pace stalked toward the door. "That is your problem," he informed them as he walked out.

He didn't know what he would find when he went upstairs. He didn't want to believe a single word they said, but he couldn't think of any good reason for concocting such an insane story. There were too many truths in it, and Dora's reaction was the strongest one of all.

He found her sitting in the rocker in his mother's room, cradling Frances in her arms as she pushed the chair back and forth. His mother was up and dressed and gave him an icy look when he entered. Pace ignored her and turned to Dora. She wouldn't look at him. His insides turned to ashes.

"Are they telling the truth, Dora? Are you this Lady Alexandra they're spouting about?"

She smiled as Frances grabbed her finger and pulled on it. She stroked the infant's cheek, then looked up at Pace. The sunlight from the window gilded her curls and illuminated her translucent skin like some majestic painting of old. Her features were calm, her eyes steady as she gazed upon him.