Chapter 14 Alex
Alex
Alex absent-mindedly tapped the butt of his fountain pen on his office desk, his mind no longer reading the letter in his hand. It wasn’t important—a mundane list of expenses incurred after a few of the stone tiles fell from one of the empty grain storage barns.
A grain storage barn that wouldn’t be in use for another ten months, seeing as they’d sold their harvest to a grain merchant a month ago.
No, his mind was firmly concentrated on his wife.
Had he ever been happier than he had over the last few days?
He’d taken to sleeping in Savi’s bedroom with her, finding it infinitely more pleasant than being alone in his.
Waking with her curled up in his arms was better than he could have ever hoped for—even if she had forbidden him entry into her art room.
Because she was working on a surprise, apparently whatever it was left her flecked with paint almost daily. It wasn’t a complaint, merely an observation. The dark green sprinkled in her hair did, strangely, seem to suit her.
A sharp knock on the open door yanked him firmly into the present.
Lily stood in the doorway; her lips pinched together.
He hadn’t read a word of the roof repair expenses, but he had more important things to focus on. “Lily,” he said softly, glancing at her reddened eyes. “Is something the matter?”
“Have you changed your mind about Ireland?”
Alex deflated slightly. “I don’t think you should go, pet.
If you want to go…” He exhaled, choosing his words carefully.
She was 19, an adult; she no longer needed his permission to go and do things.
Thankfully, however, Lily still placed weight on his opinion.
“It’s a country you’ve never been to before, visiting a woman you haven’t seen for several years. If I were accompanying you, then—”
Lily shook her head vehemently.
Because that didn’t make him suspicious at all. “Then perhaps it would be better to wait until she and Bellamont visit Edinburgh again.”
Her chin wobbled.
Alex stood up to comfort her, but she waved him away, darting back into the corridor before he had even strode around his desk. “Lily.” He followed her with a heavy sigh, finding she had already slipped away into Silverburn’s maze of corridors.
Retreating back into his office, he caught sight of something fluttering through the windowpane.
Radiant warmth welled in his chest. Savi was walking down the path to the Dower House, a gust of wind catching the hem of her skirt. Her lehenga, as he’d learnt it was called. Another sigh left him—but this one was of contentment.
Was Savi as happy as he was? He hoped so. She seemed happy, but every once in a while, he’d notice a strange look in her eyes. Was it guilt, perhaps? But then what could she possibly be feeling guilty about?
His gaze jerked over to the telephone on his desk.
Renewed with determination, he gracelessly dropped into his chair and jammed the receiver to his ear, impatiently waiting for the click to signal the operator down in the post office had picked up.
“Where would you like to be connected?” came a young woman’s voice, dull with boredom.
“London, 2-1-0-7.”
“Putting you through now.”
Alex tapped his fingers on his desk as thirty seconds of silence passed, with the exception of the odd click, presumably as the operator plugged and unplugged wires. He gently spun his chair towards the window, hoping to catch another glance of Savi, but she was gone.
A crisp, familiar voice wrenched him back to reality. “London, 2-1-0-7.”
“Afternoon, Beckett,” Alex told Raj’s butler, having visited Raj’s Belgrave Square townhouse enough times over the years to recognise Beckett’s Scouse accent anywhere. “It’s Lord Lakenheath. Can I speak to Mr Dey?”
“Good afternoon, my lord. Mr Dey is in Cornwall at present. Can I pass on a message for when he returns?”
A pit of disappointment opened in his stomach.
What the fuck was he doing in Cornwall? “When will he be back?” he asked, before realising that Beckett, ever a stickler for the rules, wasn’t likely to divulge information about the family he served to anyone outside of it.
“It’s regarding Lady Lakenheath’s birthday next month,” he invented, trying to put a familial spin on it.
Beckett cleared his throat. “I believe they’re due back on Tuesday morning, my lord.”
Four days away. Alex tried not to roll his eyes. “And how goes the second search for the late Mrs Dey’s jewellery?” If it had already been found, he was just about ready to hop on the fast train to London there and then.
But the question was met with silence for so long he started to wonder if they’d been cut off.
“A search for jewellery, my lord?” Beckett eventually answered, bewildered.
The little pit in his stomach began to expand—not with disappointment, but suspicion.
Alex fought to keep it out of his voice.
Raj had told him the servants had scoured the house on their hands and knees.
So then why was Beckett, who managed every single male servant in that entire fucking house, acting as though this was the first he’d heard of it?
He could understand forgetting one search, but two?
“That’s right. And the collection of animal oddities in Lady Lakenheath’s old bedroom. ”
When it became clear Alex wasn’t going to provide any further details, Beckett cleared his throat. Again. “I’m afraid in the turmoil of the family’s trip to Cornwall, I can’t remember the specifics, but I shall be sure to consult with Mr Dey on his return.”
On Tuesday. “Of course.” Alex bit back his annoyance. “I look forward to hearing from him.”
Huffing out a breath, he latched the receiver back onto the candlestick with more force than necessary, coming to three separate conclusions.
The first—that Raj had likely never searched for the jewellery.
The second was that when Raj returned from Cornwall on Tuesday, he was going to find an irate Alex waiting at his front door.
The third—and most important—was that Alex wasn’t coming home to Silverburn without Sarala’s jewellery locked tightly in his grip, even if he had to take apart Raj’s house piece by fucking piece.
As garden squares went, Belgrave Square was one of the prettier ones, in his opinion.
Especially now, when the height of summer had brought the greenery to life.
The carefully landscaped square was bursting with everything from deep red dahlias to snow white roses, the colours amplified by the rays of sunlight beaming down from above.
Not even the riot of colour could lighten Alex’s mood.
He’d wanted to spend last night in bed with his wife, preferably naked but for a few specks of paint in her hair. Instead, he’d boarded the overnight train to London, intending to arrive at King’s Cross bright and early—but a fallen tree on the line had added nigh on four hours to the journey.
By the time Alex stood between Raj’s Corinthian columns and banged on the front door, he was in a thoroughly disagreeable mood.
The arched front door swung inwards. He’d expected to see Beckett standing there, but instead it was a young footman. His white-blond eyebrows hiked upwards, stepping aside to allow room for Alex to walk over the threshold. “Lord Lakenheath. Please come in.”
“Is Mr Dey back from Cornwall?” Alex asked as he entered, hearing the front door shut behind him.
“He arrived back some hours ago, but has since gone out again. We’re expecting him back soon. Would you like to wait for him in the saloon? I’d be more than happy to bring you some refreshments.”
Alex smiled, but remained where he was. “You must have just joined the household. I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.”
The lad inclined his head in a proud nod. “I’m Thomas, my lord. I joined just before Lady Lakenheath’s wedding.”
Which meant he might not yet know the rules of service as well as someone like Beckett.
Excellent. It was underhanded, but Alex was beyond caring.
“Speaking of Lady Lakenheath, I came down to London today to pick up her collection of animal oddities and the late Mrs Dey’s jewellery. Mr Dey said he put them aside for me.”
Thomas’s eyes widened until they were in danger of falling from their sockets. “I’m so sorry, my lord. I think there’s been a mistake.”
“In what sense?”
“I don’t know anything about the late Mrs Dey’s jewellery, but Mr Dey told Malcolm and me to take the animal oddities to the curiosity shop down the road.” The lad seemed to grow smaller and smaller, clearly expecting an avalanche of anger to come charging his way.
“When was this?” Alex asked, holding in his fury.
“A couple of days before Master Albert’s christening, my lord.”
He tried to keep the hope out of his tone. “Where is the shop?”
“O-on Motcomb Street. Across from the pub.”
Manners forgotten, Alex rushed back out the front door. He knew exactly where it was. A colleague in the War Office, Clarkson, lived in a flat on Motcomb Street, and they’d spent more than a few evenings after work in the pub downstairs—the Turk’s Head.
He half walked, half jogged down the pavement, darting into the road to avoid a woman pushing a pram and narrowly avoiding getting hit by a gentleman riding a bicycle.
It didn’t take him long to leave Belgrave Square behind, but all he could think about was whether the items would have been sold in the week since they’d been taken to the shop.
And if they hadn’t, how the devil was he supposed to know what he was looking for?
What had Savi said, skulls and taxidermied parrots?
Fuck.
Turning onto Motcomb Street, he saw the reassuringly familiar sight of the Turk’s Head.
The row of arched windows on both sides of the facade, the brickwork on the upper floors blackened by soot—a thoroughly working-class pub.
It hadn’t changed a jot since he’d last visited.
Did Clarkson still live in the top-floor flat?