Chapter 12
Jane sat opposite her aunt in the swaying coach, her gaze fixed upon the darkened street beyond the glass.
The lamplight fell upon the slick cobblestones, and even at this late hour hawkers still cried their wares, their voices rising and falling in an uneven chorus.
The pungent tang of the River Thames clung to the night air, slipping in through the seams of the window.
Beside her, Aunt Cosima lifted a handkerchief to her nose. “The smell is rather potent tonight.”
“It is,” Jane murmured, though her eyes stayed on the bustling pavement.
The coach bounced over a rut, and for a while, the only sounds were the steady clop of hooves and the creak of the carriage springs. Then, without warning, her aunt asked, “Are you interested in Lord Alcott?”
Jane’s head turned, and she met her aunt’s sharp gaze. “Heavens, no. He and I are merely friends.”
“You two do not act like friends,” her aunt observed. “But if that is the case, I have nothing to worry about.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why would you worry?”
Cosima gave a nonchalant shrug, but there was calculation in her eyes. “I do not consider Lord Alcott worthy of you. He is only a viscount, and I believe you could do better in the marriage mart.”
“I do not care about marrying for a title,” Jane said firmly.
“That is good. I simply wish for your happiness,” her aunt replied. “And I do not believe you could be happy with Lord Alcott.”
Jane studied her. “Why?”
“It is only a feeling I have. Since you claim you do not harbor feelings for him, it is a moot point.”
Jane pressed her lips together. She did have feelings for Alistair—ones she had no intention of voicing. At least, not to her aunt. Yet Cosima’s quiet certainty left Jane oddly unsettled. What was it she thought she saw in him that could not bring happiness?
“You do not have feelings for him, do you?” her aunt pressed.
Jane summoned her most convincing smile. “No, I don’t,” she lied.
Her aunt’s answering nod was one of approval. “That is good. After all, to remain my heir, I must approve of your husband.”
Before Jane could form a reply, the coach slowed and rolled to a stop before Alistair’s townhouse. The door swung open, and a footman appeared, offering a steadying hand as they stepped down onto the lamplit pavement.
They had scarcely mounted the steps when the door opened to reveal the butler. “Lady Cosima. Lady Jane. Please do come in.”
Inside the entry hall, Jane’s breath caught as she saw Alistair descending the staircase. His gaze found hers instantly, and for one impossibly suspended moment, the rest of the world fell away. There was something in his eyes—a glimpse of the future she dared not imagine.
Good heavens, what was wrong with her?
He came to stand before her, bowing slightly. “Lady Jane. You are looking lovely this evening.”
Warmth rose to her cheeks. “This is how I always look,” she blurted, then wished she could snatch the words back.
His low chuckle sent a ripple through her. “I concur.” Turning to her aunt, he inclined his head. “My lady.”
“Thank you for inviting us to dine with you and your sister this evening,” Cosima said.
“My pleasure,” he replied. “Charlotte will be down shortly. Shall we wait in the drawing room?”
They moved into the drawing room, and Jane sat beside her aunt on the settee. Alistair settled into the chair opposite them, only for Cosima to lean forward and ask, “Are you frequently bottle-weary, my lord?”
Alistair blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you often get deep in your cups?” she persisted. “Brandy? Ale? Port? What is your drink of choice?”
His gaze flicked to Jane, silently appealing for rescue.
Jane shifted towards her aunt. “Why are you asking such a question?”
“I merely wish to know if Lord Alcott is frequently foxed,” Cosima said with an air of innocence.
Alistair gave a small, careful smile. “While I may take a drink or two on occasion, I do not overindulge.”
“That is good.” Cosima’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “And how do you feel about dogs?”
“I like them,” he said, clearly wary now.
“Another good answer.”
Jane caught his baffled look and could only shrug in reply. She had no idea what Cosima was attempting.
Charlotte’s entrance in a pale pink gown broke the odd rhythm of the conversation. “I hope you weren’t waiting long,” she said.
“Not at all. The dinner bell hasn’t rung yet,” Alistair assured her.
As Charlotte sat beside her brother, she glanced between everyone. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No,” Alistair said swiftly.
Cosima smiled. “I was simply learning more about your brother. Did you know he likes dogs?”
“I do,” Charlotte said. “We keep hunting dogs at the country estate.”
“And his feelings about cats?” Cosima pressed.
“I am not as fond of cats as I am of dogs,” Alistair admitted.
Cosima looked faintly disappointed. “That is unfortunate to hear.”
The dinner bell spared him further interrogation. “Shall we adjourn to the dining room?” he suggested.
As Cosima and Charlotte left the room, Alistair leaned towards Jane. “Why was your aunt asking such questions?”
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “But it is rather alarming you don’t like cats.”
“I don’t dislike them. It’s not as if I’d kick one,” he said dryly.
She laughed. “That is a relief.”
He offered his arm. “Your aunt is… eccentric.”
“That is a word for it,” Jane replied with fondness. “She has been kind to me, and I am grateful. She has changed my life.”
“That she has. I’m happy for you.”
She saw the flicker of pain in his eyes and asked, “Are your ribs still troubling you?”
“They are. The doctor says it will take time. It’s been a convenient excuse to avoid Vauxhall Gardens with Charlotte, though.”
“I suspect she is disappointed.”
“She is, though she keeps herself busy with her writing. She’s secretive about it.”
Jane suspected she knew the answer since she was privy to the fact that Charlotte wrote for the Society page, under the name “Mr. Fairchild.” She had discovered that information when she had searched her uncle’s study months ago.
But it was evident that Alistair didn’t know that. So she bit her tongue, knowing she didn’t want to betray Charlotte. It was not her secret to tell.
They entered the dining room together and Alistair moved ahead to pull out a chair for her—a small courtesy, yet one that warmed her more than she cared to admit. Once she was settled, he took the seat beside her.
Aunt Cosima broke the silence by asking, “Do you believe in ghosts, my lord?”
Jane’s gaze flickered to Alistair. His brows drew together, the faintest crease forming between them. “I believe,” he said slowly, “there are many things we do not understand.”
Her aunt nodded once, as if his answer had merely whetted her curiosity. “Do you sing when taking a bath?”
Jane nearly choked on the sip of water she had just taken.
“No,” Alistair replied, his tone clipped but polite.
“Have you ever been chased by a swan?”
“No.”
Aunt Cosima leaned forward. “What would you do if a goose followed you home from the market?”
Jane’s lips twitched despite herself.
Alistair reached for his glass, his expression unreadable save for the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Does this goose also grant magic wishes?”
“No, it is merely a goose,” Aunt Cosima said in all seriousness.
His smirk deepened. “Then I am afraid we would be having goose for dinner.”
Jane, sensing that the next question from her aunt might involve something even more absurd—possibly involving bunnies or runaway milkmaids—intervened. “Has anyone read anything of note lately?” she asked, forcing a brightness into her tone.
Charlotte, who had been quietly buttering a roll, looked up. “Yes, I recently read the gothic romance The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe.”
Aunt Cosima’s gaze shifted back to Alistair with sly interest. “And how do you feel about your sister reading such a book?”
“I have no issue with the books that she reads,” Alistair replied. “I think it is important for a young woman to be able to think for herself.”
Aunt Cosima’s mouth curved in approval as she murmured, almost to herself, “Good answer.”
Jane lowered her eyes to her plate to hide her smile, privately wondering whether Alistair even realized he had just passed one of her aunt’s unspoken tests. But to her surprise, he had a few questions of his own.
“My lady,” he began, addressing Cosima, “do you believe that tea tastes better if it is stirred clockwise?”
Aunt Cosima did not so much as blink. “Only if stirred with a silver spoon by a left-handed footman.”
Jane pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.
Emboldened, Alistair continued. “And if you were stranded on a deserted island with only a trunk of hats, would you wear them all at once or ration them out over the years?”
Aunt Cosima tapped her chin in thought. “I would build a signal tower entirely from hats. One must be resourceful.”
A soft giggle escaped Jane’s lips before she could stop it.
Alistair glanced at her, as though he found her laughter far more rewarding than winning the exchange. “One final question,” he said, turning back to Aunt Cosima with mock gravity. “If you could invite one historical figure to supper, but they had to be dressed as a badger, who would it be?”
Without hesitation, Aunt Cosima declared, “Julius Caesar. I have a few pointed questions about his choice of friends.”
Jane laughed outright, unable to contain herself. “You two are being ridiculous.”
“I am glad that you said it,” Charlotte remarked primly, though there was a faint sparkle in her eyes. “Perhaps we could have a more civilized conversation.”
Alistair leaned back in his chair, both palms raised in mock surrender. “Very well. I concede,” he said, his tone one of exaggerated defeat. “What, then, should we discuss?”