Time After Time (296 page)

After Gareth departed, Alec pushed away from his desk, and walked over to the study’s large bay window, which looked out upon St. James Street below. Bracing his hands against the sun-warmed panes, he watched carriages and pedestrians move down the cobble-stoned thoroughfare, regretting his impulsiveness. Undoubtedly, his decision was a poor one. What would Annabelle read into his reply?

Annabelle,

I’ve missed our friendship, too. I will see you at Gareth’s party. But you must promise to keep your clothes on.

• • •

As he waited for his father to join him in the library at Dorset House, Alec took a brief glance at its worn leather tomes, all lined up in an orderly fashion along dozens of age-darkened wood shelves. This was Henry Carstairs’s domain, the inner sanctum where he built his political coalitions, and entertained allies with brandy after dinner. On the rare occasions Alec had been in London as a child, it had also been the room where Father meted out his punishments. Perhaps that was why Edmunds, their butler, had seated him here, rather than in the family drawing room. The earl’s note had hinted at his strong displeasure, though Alec was long past the age of birch rods and bloodied hands.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the earl strode into the room, a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm, his reading spectacles perched on the edge of his nose, making his eyes seem owlish. Trim and fighting-fit, Father would make for a very intimidating owl indeed, though Alec now bested him in height by two inches. He was no longer the small, sickly boy who had so often been ignored, along with his mother. He’d finally earned his father’s attention, even his respect, despite their high price. Standing quickly, he offered a quick bow. “Good morning, Father. You wished to see me.”

“Take your seat,” the earl said, settling into the large baronial chair behind his desk. “I was not happy to learn that you are going to Nuneaton for the Layton boy’s fete, when you should be here preparing for the Commons.”

“Even allowing for travel there and back, I will only be gone three days. I’ll be bringing along the summaries prepared for me, and I’ve memorized the names of all the members, as well as their political positions.”

His father shifted in the chair, displeasure obvious in the tight set of his jaw. “I expected you to join us for dinner tomorrow. Lord Fitzsimmons and his daughter, Jane, will be in attendance. He’s proven a useful ally in Parliament, and the girl is a reliable and sober sort. She’d make a good wife for you.”

Of late, Father had mentioned marriage repeatedly, and Miss Fitzsimmons in particular. “I’m sorry I was not informed of your plans,” Alec replied. “I cannot attend. I’ve already accepted the invitation to Astley Castle.”

“To travel there for a such a short trip, when our Arbury Hall will have to be readied. I think it an imposition.”

The Hall, which bordered the Layton estate, was kept in a constant state of readiness, because Father expected nothing less. It wouldn’t be wise, though, to point that out. “I won’t be staying at the Hall. I’ll stop by to have the carriage checked and to greet the servants, but I will sleep at the castle. They’ll have a number of overnight guests.”

“Those guests won’t be from the best families, I can assure you. And the Layton boy is drinking and gambling himself into the grave. I don’t like that you associate with him.”

“I don’t share his vices, Father.”

“No, but never underestimate the allure of recklessness. The boy is shockingly irresponsible, and the girl is at an age now when your childhood friendship might be mistaken for something more.”

“I am well aware of that.”

“Annabelle Layton is the sort that invites scandal. The whole family is, which is something we can’t afford, not if all my plans for you are to be realized.”

“They are good people who mean no harm.”

“They are remarkably odd. Lady Charlotte is weak-minded, and Sir Frederick … I’ve rarely met a more compulsive man. Nervous and awkward, but mention some sort of flying insect, and he’ll prattle on for hours. Lepidopterology is all the rage, but I can’t abide butterflies.”

When Alec was a child, quiet in a lonely household, the Laytons had seemed exuberant, exotic even. They’d lived and loved with abandon, while he and his own mother had been starved of affection. Alec couldn’t fight back a flash of anger at the memory. But those days were past. With hard work and dedication, he’d found a way to earn his father’s love. And not just for himself.

But it was true that Gareth was increasingly a victim of his weaknesses. Just yesterday, he’d tried to talk Alec into a large wager. Lord Chetwiggin’s grays were racing against Lord Sherford’s blacks in a torchlit sprint on Hampstead Heath. Alec and Gareth would leave for Nuneaton beforehand, but Digby was placing a bet in Gareth’s stead. Undoubtedly, it would be made for far more than he could afford.

“I’ll not return with a passion for lepidopterology, Father. I can withstand a brief exposure to their family.” And to Annabelle.

Those owlish eyes were fixed upon him, their expression severe.

“You mean to disagree with me on this?”

“Shall I break my word, then? That is not the man you’ve raised me to be. This will be a party in the country with old friends, and nothing more.”

The room was ominously quiet.

“If you must go, then go,” his father said at last. “But remember who you are, and what I expect. Don’t do anything that will have unfortunate repercussions. And stay away from Annabelle Layton.”

• • •

Annabelle was thrilled to see the familiar handwriting on the back of her note, but she was less thrilled reading it. In fact, only the most rigid self-control kept her from stomping one of her darling green half boots on the stone floor of the terrace. Could he not be done with it? Did he not remember the heat of that morning? The very air had simmered, like a pot set to boil. She’d been unable to sleep. Astley Castle’s fountain, hidden from view in the formal gardens, had beckoned like the wellspring of salvation.

She’d known full well that her behavior was scandalous. Ladies did not swim in fountains after all, but the water had felt so wonderful. And she
had
been wearing clothes: a linen shift, even though the water made it rather revealing. Certainly, she’d not expected Alec to be out wandering the castle grounds at dawn, a witness to her shameless display. He had gone utterly still at the sight of her, like a pillar of salt caught between Sodom and Gomorrah.

Even now, she could remember his eyes. Something had burned in them, and she’d hoped, despite her embarrassment, that he’d finally understood she was no longer a child. That she could be more to him than a friend. But the past two years had laid waste to those notions. The only thing burning that day had been his indignation.

Later—after she’d been trussed back up in a suffocating corset and a long-sleeved gown—he’d warned her about the dangers a young woman could face, sounding just like Parson Withersby at a Sunday service. Not that the parson had ever been so breathtakingly handsome.

Since then, however, Alec had come up with an astonishing array of excuses to avoid her. The amusing letters they’d once exchanged with great regularity were now limited, on his part, to polite inquiries about her well being. He was too busy in London being molded into the man his father thought he should be. A man who was hidebound and self-important.

Startled from her pique by the sound of laughter, Annabelle leaned over the terrace balustrade, looking out onto the back lawn. Her parents were chasing butterflies—her mother’s hair unbound and floating behind her, her father’s shirttails flying like flags in the breeze, both of them swinging their nets with wild abandon. Their plan was to catch dozens of the colorful insects, so they could be released in the Great Hall during Gareth’s party. However, she’d have to speak with Mother about that. Those plans had to be changed. Annabelle wanted this party to be remembered for its decorum. If only to shock Alec.

• • •

“Gareth, that is the largest trunk I’ve ever seen,” she said the next morning as her brother burst into the hall in blur of color. “I hope it means you will be staying for a while. It would do both you and your purse some good.”

“I can’t be poorly dressed at my own birthday party,” Gareth said, wrapping her in a quick hug after instructing the footmen to take his belongings to his room. He was wearing a bright green jacket over a puce-striped vest and fawn trousers—obviously a statement of high, if unfortunate, style. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with my purse. I’ve had a rush of luck at the tables lately, and I’m expecting to hear the news of my biggest win yet once Digby arrives.”

“Who is this Digby? You’ve not mentioned him before.”

“Damien Digby. I met him a few months back. He has got a gift for picking winners. I think you’ll like him.”

She doubted it. She didn’t like anyone who indulged her brother’s gambling habit. He regularly exceeded his allowance. Whenever he came home from London, he and Father closeted themselves in the study, arguing about money in angry whispers.

Of course, he invariably returned to the city with an additional bank draft. Her parents liked to joke that Gareth could charm the stripes off the famous zebra at Astley’s Amphitheater. With a ready smile, he was so undeniably good-looking that most of her friends were madly in love with him. He got whatever he wanted. They both did.

Which is what made the matter of Alec Carstairs so infuriating.

“You shouldn’t be spending so much of Father’s money, Gareth. Have you forgotten that I’ll be going to London for the Little Season in September?”

“How could I? You prattle on about it in every letter. I’ve warned all of my friends. We’re going to decamp en masse to Brighton.”

“I will ignore your insults,” she said, fighting back a grin. “Tell me, what does Alec think about this Mr. Digby?”

“You can guess the answer to that, Annabelle. Honestly, Carstairs has forgotten how to have fun. Any day now, I expect to find he’s gone old and arthritic.”

Even so, he was still the most handsome man she’d ever seen. And tonight, she would not be ignored. Mrs. Markum from the village had made up the most beautiful dress for her. It was the palest of cream silks, shot through with silver thread, and delicately embroidered with tiny flowers. Her hair would be pulled back with the clips Father had given to Mother on their wedding day. They were shaped like butterflies, the wings sparkling with dozens of small diamonds.

Tonight, she would dare him to find a trace of the girl he pretended her to be.

• • •

Just as evening fell, Alec walked up the crushed stone drive to Astley Castle. Despite its rather grandiose name, it was more accurately a fortified manor house, although it did have a moat. Briefly the home of Lady Jane Grey, England’s unfortunate Nine Days Queen, it had also served as a garrison for Cromwell’s forces during the Civil War before passing into the Layton family. Tonight, however, the house gave no hint of its troubled history. Japanese lanterns were strung, not only in the trees leading up the drive, but also in those surrounding the house, and the effect was magical. In the early dusk, a gentle light bathed the grounds, softening the lines of the old home, coloring it with pale pinks and darker purples. Alec heard strains of music and conversation. In fact, it appeared to be a remarkably conventional party, which was something of a surprise. Surely, circus animals were lurking somewhere.

The oversized front door was open to the evening air, and dozens of people were assembled in the Great Hall, which was brightly lit with wall lanterns. Chandeliers decked with wax candles flickered high above as Gareth’s parents received their guests. Sir Frederick, who often panicked in crowds, was hiding his misgivings well, and Lady Layton was radiant beside him. Gareth stood next to her, dressed in a colorful approximation of evening attire, but he seemed distracted. His eyes were darting the crowd and looking for someone. A footman with the champagne tray, no doubt. Alec did not see Annabelle.

But then familiar, melodious laughter washed over him, and he turned. A willowy, honey-tressed blonde stood at the center of a crowd of adoring men. Her face was hidden from view, but her gown—the color of moonlight—caressed her curves like a lover. Alec braced himself, every nerve taut. As if sensing his presence, she looked over her shoulder and smiled.

God in Heaven, he should never have come here tonight.

Annabelle had been only four years old the first time he saw her. He’d joined his mother on a neighborly visit to Astley Castle, and the little girl had utterly charmed him, struggling to sit still while Lady Layton served tea to her guests. Delicate, soft, and pink, like a rosy-cheeked doll, she’d roused all his protective instincts before kicking him in the shins to gain his attention.

If only he could see the girl she’d once been in the woman standing before him. Even two years ago, there had been hints of her, hiding in the body of a goddess. But there was nothing childlike about Annabelle now. She was spectacularly lovely, with arched brows, high cheekbones, and cornflower blue eyes that took his breath away.

Excusing herself from her admirers, she walked toward him with a slow smile. Then again, walking was not the right word. Swaying was the better choice, and all he could do was stand there, heart slamming in his chest as she approached, the gossamer silk gown caressing her curves. Were it dampened—as was the fashion with London’s faster set—it would be almost transparent. Just like that morning when she had gone swimming in the fountain, casting a spell over him like a sorceress.

“Alec, how nice you could join us this evening. I worried that in the end, something pressing would keep you in London. So often in these past two years, that has been the case.” Once, she’d have embraced him impulsively, laughing all the while. Now, she gave a surprisingly ladylike curtsey, extending one gloved hand. He leaned down to press a kiss upon it, and if his lips lingered a moment too long, he was rather proud of his self-control. It had been just enough to breathe in the scent of her—a familiar mix of honeysuckle soap and the lemon drops she loved. But there was also something new. Something dangerous.