Authors: The Conquest
Gilly saw Alexandria’s indecision and pressed on. “Now, the guessing about why Annabelle and Drum are spending so much time together lately is much more interesting. That tattle’s the best to hit London since the rumors of a French invasion by balloon. Why, Damon says bets are being laid in all the gentlemen’s clubs on when he’s going to propose to her.
“Oh, Ally, the ball is my present to
you
. Please come, you can go home the next day, I promise! The best thing to come out of Drum’s accident was my meeting you. I want to keep you as a friend. You’re not high-born and neither am I, and you’re bright as can be, honest and wise and good to boot. And handsome as you can stare, and that’s no lie! I wish Drum would fall on his head again and let all that nonsense spill out so he could love you as he should,” she said savagely, “because you’d be so good for him! But if he can’t, I want you to have other chances at happiness. You’re not common or ordinary. And you
do
deserve more.”
Alexandria didn’t want to disappoint Gilly, because she valued their friendship too. But she knew she’d already gotten what she deserved in coming to London, and her just deserts in other ways, exactly as Mr. Gascoyne had prophesied. She felt sick to her heart about it. She should have remembered her place. He’d educated her beyond it, but just as he’d said, teaching a pig to count didn’t make it more than an educated pig. She sat quietly, her head averted. Gilly was afraid to speak again lest she muddle matters further.
Then Alexandria spoke again. “For you, then, I will. But then I
will
go home.” She raised her head, sniffled, then eyed Gilly. “They’re saying he’s seriously courting Annabelle? Do you think he is?”
The little old man was hopping mad. He paced the study, his voice growing louder with every step he took. “And I’m here to tell you it’s a vile lie,” he roared, shaking his finger at the Earl of Drummond, sitting silently behind his desk. “Whoever’s spreading it is my enemy because I’m as a loyal a subject as ye are, my lord, and I’ll fight any man who says not! I come all the way from Sussex just to find the wretch who’s ruining my reputation and the trail led straight to ye! They say yer incapacitated, so I’ll wait, but if it’s to be pistols at dawn to save my good name, then so be it!”
Drum’s head was ringing. The fellow had been shouting for a long time and he hadn’t been able to put in a word. Now at last the man stopped and glowered at him. “I never said you were an enemy,” Drum said calmly.
This infuriated the little man again. His face grew redder. “Well, if ye didn’t, then why’s yer friend there asking all them questions about me in every lane and cottage near my home, eh?” Now he pointed at Eric, standing silent by the window.
“I never said you were an enemy either, Mr. MacDonald,” Eric said.
“Nay, but ye
asked
if I were,” MacDonald said with venom. “Ye asked everyone yer shadow fell across, and so then what’s a body to think, eh? My neighbors are looking at me as though I had two heads, and me as loyal a subject as…”
“Mr. MacDonald,” Drum said forcefully, “the plain truth of it is a fact few people know and I wouldn’t tell you if I didn’t feel it was only fair.” He lowered his voice and the old man fell still, listening intently. “An attempt was made on my life by an enemy of our government. Your name came up in our inquiries,” he added, raising a hand to prevent another outburst, “James MacDonald, of Ivy Close in Sussex. That is you? Well, then, sir, that’s the only reason my friend pursued the matter.”
“’Tis that villain MacDougal!” the old fellow cried in fury. “I knowed it! Never forgiven me he hasn’t, not from the day my James borrowed his best scythe and dropped it in the grass, forgetting it till the rust had taken over, and no amount of scrubbing…”
“It’s the fact that you had an ongoing correspondence with Louis Gascoyne, a known apologist for Napoleon,” Eric said.
MacDonald looked thunderstruck. “Me? I don’t write letters to no one!” He grew still. The other men could see his fury fading and his horror rising. He put a hand to his forehead. “My dolt of a son,” he said softly. “Och, Jamie, what a fool ye were.”
He seemed suddenly much smaller and older. “My son James is likely the feller ye were seeking,” he said on a weary sigh. “But if seeking were finding, I’d have him home where he belongs. He met yer Mr. Gascoyne in school, I take it? Well, he fell in with a lot of young hotheads there, so ’tis no wonder. He supported Napoleon?” He heaved another sigh. “So maybe that’s why he went abroad. He left without a backward look and we haven’t had a word of him for three years now. I made a bit of money and we sent him to a fine school
so he could take his place with gentlemen, but all he picked up with was the riffraff. But that’s our James all over, ain’t it?”
Since he’d said that last to himself, neither man could answer.
“You haven’t heard from him?” Drum asked quietly.
“Nary a word,” MacDonald said, shaking his head. “No, I lie! We heard a rumor that he’d took off to America after the war, down to that New Orleans they have. I suppose if he likes Frenchies that makes sense now. But we couldn’t credit it then.”
“I’m sorry,” Drum said.
“Nay,” the old man said. “I don’t blame ye. I blame James, but there’s nothing new in that, is there? Pardon me for anything I said. If I hear from him, you’ll know.” He bowed and left the room.
It was a moment before Drum spoke again. “That makes three men who have marched in here threatening to blow off my head as result of our inquiries,” he commented blandly. “Two apologized, and one, I fear, is still considering it. I don’t blame them any more than MacDonald blames his foolish son. Two of the fellows corresponded with Gascoyne about his other passion, butterflies. And one was merely a namesake of a man who has passed on to the same place his friend Napoleon has gone to.”
“Leaving three here in London still not spoken for,” Eric reminded him. “And those four in the countryside.”
“Three, now,” a familiar voice corrected him from the door.
“Father!” Drum said. “You’re back?”
“As you see,” the duke said, stripping off his riding
gloves as he sauntered into the room. “I’ve been making inquiries of my own.”
Drum frowned. “I’d rather you wouldn’t, sir! It’s dangerous.”
“Oh? Dangerous for me, and not for you? Because you told me there was no danger to yourself. Don’t worry. I’m well able to take care of myself, and I remind you, I look after my own. I went back to the scene of your accident and followed some lines of investigation. I believe you had the name of Mr. August Powell, Major? Cross it off your list. Powell’s taken up with a higher cause than Napoleon’s now, he’s found a new idol to worship, literally. He’s become profoundly religious, and can’t stop praising God.”
“It could be a ruse, sir,” Drum said. “Madmen are clever.”
“Clever enough to give away all their worldly goods and enter a monastery?” the duke asked sweetly. “Yes, that’s precisely what the fellow’s gone and done. A month
before
your accident.”
“That leaves six on your list of highest suspects,” Drum said. “Six men who are probably similarly converted since their revolutionary days. Give it up, gentlemen. There was a shot, it creased my horse and unseated me, I can’t deny it. But the more time goes by the more I’m sure it was never aimed at me. Some things have to remain mysteries. I’m alive and getting well, and I’m content to leave it at that.
“So,” he said, looking brighter, “I’m glad you’re here, Father. I hope you plan to stay awhile. Seems Gilly’s giving a ball to reward Miss Gascoyne and I think it would be a nice gesture if you were there to ask her for a dance too.”
“Too?”
the duke asked with interest.
“Yes,” Drum said with a grin. “The hunt for an assassin may be a lost cause, but I’ve much better news. The doctor said I may have crutches soon, and since I’m healing so well and quickly, I hope to even be able to stump around without them by the time of the ball.”
“To dance with Miss Gascoyne?” his father asked. “Charming gesture. But what about Lady Annabelle? I thought your good news might concern her, actually.”
“Early days,” Drum said evasively.
“But growing later,” the duke said. “I’d ask that you remember that old adage: ‘He who will not when he can, cannot when he will.’ By which I mean, in less poetic terms, that someone may take the opportunity, and more, away from you if you hesitate too long to claim her. The lady is exquisite, and available. The first will remain so for some years. The second is a transient state. More than her hand in the dance will be sought by another if you don’t act soon.” He contemplated his son. “Still, if you don’t mind that happening, all sorts of new possibilities arise.”
Drum frowned, thinking about those new possibilities, wondering if he was finally being warned about his father’s own matrimonial interests. Was he saying that if his son wouldn’t have Lady Annabelle, he’d step in and take her for himself?
“Don’t scowl,” the duke said. “Your time’s not run out yet. If this ball is such a grand affair, I think things can wait upon it. I’ll return in time to attend. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Return?” Drum asked. “But you just got here.”
“I came to report on my progress. I’m going back on
another trail that promises more. I’ll be back again, never fear.”
But Drum evidently did. Because as his father compared notes with Eric, Drum frowned. Whatever he’d said, he wasn’t completely sure his accident had been just that. So his father might be putting himself in danger, one way or another. It might come from enemies of the state who might do something lethal to escape his investigating them. Or if he stayed in town, it could come from a lady who might have gentler, but equally devious and permanent plans for him.
T
HE MUSICIANS WERE PLAYING A WALTZ, THOUGH IT
was hard to be sure because the tune kept changing. Drum never got excited about such things, but now he couldn’t wait to go in to the ball. It was a brilliant affair—literally. The ballroom was so brightly lit he had to squint and everything had a glistening aura around it. It was crowded too, but everyone made way for him as he entered. He was walking on both legs as though nothing had ever happened. His legs were strong and healthy; he could tell because he wore no breeches. He looked down to see two perfect limbs and that was enough for him, and everyone else, it seemed, because they all bowed or curtsied to him.
He looked for his partner. It was hard to find her because the other dancers kept turning into beggars and ducks, but then, in the way of dreams, they swirled back into people again. He saw Alexandria then too, standing before him, smiling, waiting for him to claim
her for the dance. He strode to her side, though he had to walk uphill and she kept moving away.
She wore a pink gown. Sometimes it turned purple and then again salmon, but it always remained somehow pink, and he felt warmth in his heart and in his groin just looking at it. He finally reached her and bowed. She laughed up at him. Up? He’d never stood beside her before and the shock of it almost woke him to reality. But it was wonderful to look down into her eyes at last—even better to finally take her into his arms. He sighed with pleasure.
She was just the right height for him. She came to his chin and fit to his body, her breath against his neck and her breasts pressed and peaked against his chest. It was strange that she wore no clothing, but even better because of it. His hand went to her bottom to pull her closer, and the dream almost turned into another thing entirely.
He turned in his bed and the wood on his splint pressed into his leg, chasing erotic thoughts from his mind.
“We’re dancing!” she said with a smile, reminding him his leg was fine, and they were at a ball.
He was very proud. “I said I would.”
They danced, turning in slow circles, and Drum began to leave the dream to drift into deep and dark and dreamless bliss.
“What are you doing?” his father asked.
“Dancing,” Drum said, awakened to his dream again.
“Very good,” his father said, and Drum looked down at his partner and into Annabelle’s exquisite face.
She was very beautiful, all in icy blue, but he felt suddenly as cold as ice and looked for Alexandria. He saw her—dancing in his father’s arms.
“Stop!” he shouted. “You can’t do that. She’s nothing but a commoner, let her go.”
His father’s arms fell from Alexandria, and since she was twirling, she fell away from him and to the floor.
There was a terrible look on her face in that moment, a look that touched Drum’s heart because it was one of guilt and fear intermixed. Drum paused. “I’ve seen that look before,” he said, “but when, and where? Stop it please.”
“You know when,” she said, “and why.”
He groaned, because he almost remembered. He shook his head because he didn’t. He ran to try to raise her from the floor but had to look down because there was a pain, a rat was gnawing at his leg. He was appalled and shook his leg hard…
“My lord?” a voice asked from his bedside.
Drum’s eyes snapped open—then shut against the blare of light from the lamp Grimes held high in the darkened room.
“You cried out,” Grimes said. “Are you in pain? Your leg, is it hurting you?”
“Blast,” Drum said. “I’d forgotten, I suppose it is.”
Grimes pulled back the coverlet, brought the light close and hissed in alarm. “A slat of your splint’s been splintered and it’s digging into your skin. No wonder you cried out!”
“Any blood?” Drum asked, wincing as he struggled up to an elbow and tried to peer down at his leg.
“No, for a wonder. It’s not too big a sliver but it
must have been painful. You likely bumped into a table or such today and chipped the wood. I said those exercises were getting too vigorous! We’ll have to inspect the splint every night in future. It’s getting old and the wood was never of the best quality.”
“I didn’t think to order mahogany,” Drum muttered.
“Just lie still, my lord. We can break off the piece and smooth the slat down. I don’t think it will affect the stability of the splint.”
“A man shouldn’t wear wood,” Drum grumbled. “What’s the hour?”
“Almost dawn. I’ll take care of this and you can get back to sleep.”
“No sense to it now,” Drum said, yawning. “Light the lamps and pull back the curtains. If I were going riding as I like to do I’d be getting up now anyhow. Damn, damn, and blast. I can’t wait to be free of this cage.”
The lamps in the room bloomed around him. Curtains were pulled back to reveal the gray blush of dawn. Drum remembered his dream as it receded with the darkness. He let it go. He didn’t know what it meant and didn’t want to think about it. He’d dance at the ball in reality, Alexandria wouldn’t fall, and his father…It was only a damned dream. He supposed he’d had it because he worried about how society would treat her. He didn’t need the reminder. He would see to it that she wasn’t insulted or hurt. He owed her that much, after all.
“Greer, Henderson, Copely, and Fitch?” Drum said gloomily a few hours later at breakfast. “They’re all in London now?”
“And Norton,” his guest added, moving to the sideboard and helping himself to more eggs.
Drum shook his head. “Norton emigrated last year, my sources tell me. Creditors and an angry wife. Devil take it, Eric, we’re chasing will-o’-the-wisps. The war is over, Napoleon’s dead. And so is the whole issue. Was I attacked for any reason? Probably not. Will I be again? No, again. Our enemies have beaten their swords into plowshares. If they’re still plotting, it’s in the back rooms of banks. That’s the only way to fight now. The armies on both sides are exhausted, men and munitions. The time for guns is over and even a madman knows it.
“In the remote possibility that an enemy of mine
did
fire that shot, it’s because he happened to see and recognize me. If so, it was an act of the moment, as instantly regretted. He probably came to his senses and hared off, thinking himself lucky to be able to do so. Face it, there’s no one after my life now except aspiring mamas looking for a wealthy son-in-law.”
“Really?” Eric asked, raising a brow. “I suppose that’s why you hired a Bow Street Runner to follow your father? He found out and told me before he left, he was very amused. Seems he’d already hired the same runner to watch over
you
.”
“Greedy lout, he’s collecting two salaries.”
“No, he’s collecting none. Your father dismissed him.” Eric sat down at the table again. “Then he told the greedy fellow that he could work for you for all he cared, but that he himself fully intended to blow the head off anyone he saw skulking behind him, and ask for his credentials after.”
“He would, too,” Drum said with a small smile.
“Interesting way for you not to worry, though,” Eric said.
“I can take risks with my own life—not that I think there is any,” Drum added quickly. “But I don’t gamble with my loved ones. Don’t look so surprised. I may have a reputation as a cold fish but just because I never swooned over a fair lady doesn’t mean I can’t and don’t love my father.”
“I never said so,” Eric said. “And I don’t blame you. He’s a remarkable man. He’s a lot like you in that he seems cold until you come to know him, then you realize he’s the opposite. I suppose he’d shudder to hear me say it, the way you’re doing now. I’m glad I got to know him these past weeks.
“I admire my own father. No,” Eric added, his fork in midair as he thought about it, “the truth is I love him too. That’s important. A good mother teaches a man how to love other women because of his feelings for her. But a good father teaches him respect for women, and is the making of him. A boy needs a model to grow into. I know too many men who fear or despise or are even ashamed of their fathers. We’re lucky, you and I.”
“We are,” Drum agreed. “What I remember of my mother is all good too. But since she unfortunately died young, that’s only a sense of warmth and comfort…and beauty. She was very beautiful, I think. Her portrait agrees. You’d hardly guess it from looking at me. I’m my father’s image. Just as well, I don’t think a tiny nose and rosebud lips would suit me. I hear all little boys think their mamas are perfection. Do you suppose that’s what they look for in their wives? If so, I’ll never marry, because much as I like females I’ve never found a perfect one.”
“No, and God forbid you did. How could any man live with perfection?”
“Well, the woman I wed will just have to learn how to do that, won’t she?” Drum asked.
Eric grinned, then slanted a glance at Drum. “Have you found that lucky woman then?”
“Not yet, and I’m not likely to so long as I’m in this condition,” Drum answered moodily. “The thought of being unable to hunt for a wife wouldn’t have bothered me only weeks ago. Now it does because I’m finally aware of time passing. You said my father was wise, and he is. I don’t want to be to old to dandle my children on my knee.”
“Hunt?” Eric scoffed. “Hardly. You’re the hunted one. This house is filled with your admirers every afternoon.”
“As I sit like a stuffed owl, watching them. No. That’s
not
how to find a wife. I need to walk and talk alone with a woman, maybe even lure her into a dark corner for a little test to see if we suit.”
Eric stared.
Drum laughed. “I’m not a monster of depravity. And none of the ladies hanging after me are models of innocence, no matter what their mamas say. At least not any I’d be interested in. They’re up to snuff—believe me, they know their way around. A fellow can expect a virgin bride, but not an unkissed one. Yes, there are women on the catch who try to snare a chap for stealing one, but everyone knows who they are—or should. But what’s wrong with trying a kiss on for size?”
He snorted. “It’s only fair for them too. We know that a woman who fits the bill in every other way might be stiff as a board in a man’s arms. Well, a fellow who
looks like Adonis might be clumsy as a ploughman at lovemaking. For that matter, a ploughman might have all the skills of Casanova! There are things only touch can discover. How do you know until you sample, if only a little? It’s the only sane way to make such an important decision. I have to do that soon, but I’m not sure yet…”
Drum paused and fixed Eric with a grave blue stare. “I’ll ask you again. Since I’m not in love or committed in any way, but will be looking for a mate, please tell me if I’m looking someplace where I’ll tread on your toes—before it’s too late. Not that I can compete with a Viking like you. But I wouldn’t want to.”
“I don’t mind a one-legged man stepping on my toes,” Eric said blandly. “Nor do I worry about where you tread. I’m a romantic, I believe in mutual attraction. The woman who wants me won’t take another for profit
or
vanity’s sake. If she wants you, I certainly don’t want her settling for less. If she doesn’t want you but is determined to have you anyway, then I certainly don’t want her.”
“And she is…?”
“Without a name, as yet.” Eric smiled. “I think. Maybe.”
“Well, that’s a help,” Drum said. He put down his napkin. “So. On to more edifying topics. I’m off to Vauxhall this evening. Not only will a trip by water be good for me, but I said I’d meet Gilly and Ally there. Lady Annabelle and the usual clutch of other young ladies overheard the plans, applauded them, and said they’d meet us by the boat slip. Wonderful as I am, I can’t please all of them by myself. Care to come along?” Drum saw the sudden light spring to Eric’s
eyes. “It might be interesting,” he added, watching his friend even more closely.
But now Eric’s defenses were in place. “Indeed?” he said as he went back to his breakfast.
“Yes,” Drum said, grinning like a boy. “Because it will be my maiden flight on my crutches, at least in public.”
Eric looked up, surprised.
“I can’t wait to see their faces,” Drum confessed. “I didn’t tell anyone but I’ve been practicing alone so I wouldn’t make high comedy of the moment by falling on
my
face. At first I thought I might need splints for my underarms. The damned crutches are agony on the underarms, would you believe it? The things one learns by being crippled. The doctor said I’d become accustomed. I did. But I can’t wait for the day I can toss them away like a pilgrim at Lourdes. It will be soon, but not soon enough for tonight. Still, I won’t complain—much. At least now I can be upright at last, which is a major step forward—forgive the pun. Coming?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Eric said, pulling apart a biscuit to mop up the last of his eggs. “The ladies are brave, and Grimes is bold, but whatever you say about how good you’ve gotten at walking with sticks, someone has to catch you in case you were only bragging.”
Alexandria threw back her head in the joy of the moment. The boat wasn’t going that fast—the boatman couldn’t paddle as quickly as she wanted—but the breeze was strong, the Thames sparkled in the sunlight, and she hadn’t felt as young and free in years.
“My father must have been a sailor,” she said to Gilly’s amused look at her obvious bliss.
She’d told Gilly the circumstances of her birth early in her visit, in case the Daltons didn’t care for such a lowly guest. She’d wanted to be able to leave if it was a problem for them. But Gilly had endeared herself forever by only saying, “Pooh. Who cares? It’s not who made you, it’s what you make of yourself, is what I always say.” Her husband had agreed, and Alexandria had been easy in their company ever since.
Now they sat in a long, low boat as the riverman rowed them toward Vauxhall. Usually Gilly went out on the town with a footman or a maid, but her husband accompanied them today. Damon Ryder took no chances with his lovely wife. Escorting her on a journey by water was a thing he didn’t trust to anyone but himself.