Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
“It’s the queerest thing, my lord, “Jervis began, looking up from polishing one of Rafe’s boots.
“Indeed,” Rafe said absently, as he sipped his coffee and browsed his morning paper. He was sitting in the one of the guestrooms at Moreham House, trying to ignore the sounds of workmen pounding and banging down the hall, an easier task than tuning out Jervis.
“I’m leaving the Melbournes’ this morning, and I sees this man skulking about, pasty fellow in drab suit and an old bagwig.
And I say to myself, Jervis, that man looks mighty familiar.
So I follow him around a bit. He’s checking out the house you see, eyeing all the doors and windows, watching how the servants come and go.
And as he’s doing all this I’m thinking I know this fellow, I’ve seen him before. ”
Rafe regarded Jervis over the edge of his paper. “Jones I assume this story will arrive at a point sooner rather than later.”
Jervis rubbed his nose, smearing a streak of bootblack across it. “My point is I do recognize him. Damned if it isn’t the fellow you clocked with the candlestick at Madame de La Brou’s.”
Rafe put down the paper, his expression suddenly intent. “You’re certain of this?”
Jervis nodded. “I’d remember that face anywhere. And as I was watching, an old flower seller bumped into him, and he let loose with a powerful string of French curses. I followed him back to a nasty little inn. Appears he’s just arrived in town; told the innkeeper he’ll be here for just a bit.”
Rafe said, more to himself than to Jervis, “I’m riding with Alix tomorrow afternoon. Shall I tell her then, or shall I keep her from worrying until we know more?”
“You want me to keep an eye on your lady?” Jervis asked.
Rafe nodded.
Lamartine sat in the pub, taking his bread and cheese with a bit of warm ale.
What he wouldn’t give for a good bottle of French wine, he thought, as the bitter drink washed down his throat.
He’d spent the morning and much of the afternoon observing the comings and goings of Melbourne House.
He’d learned a great deal about the routine of the servants, and he recalled with a satisfied smile, towards mid-afternoon, he’d seen Madeleine de Rabec de La Brou traipse down the front steps and into one of Lady Melbourne’s carriages.
As soon as he’d seen the carriage disappear around the corner, he’d strolled up to the front door and rung the bell.
A sour-faced butler had answered the door, looking him up and down with obvious displeasure.
Lamartine offered the letter he’d prepared, saying in his most unctuous tones that he’d just arrived from France and would be most grateful if it could be delivered to the comtesse.
The letter, he explained, contained important news for Madame regarding her estates.
“If Madame la Comtesse will be so kind as to receive me, I shall return later this afternoon for a response.” The butler’s bushy white eyebrows rose, as if Lamartine had offered to perform some improper act on the front steps.
“We shall see what can be done,” he’d said disapprovingly as he closed the door.
Lamartine dabbed delicately at his mouth with a fine handkerchief he’d taken from one of the previous inn’s guests.
Perhaps to pass the time, he’d stroll over to Oxford Street and look about the shop windows.
A slow smile crept across his pale oval face.
When he had the titles in hand, he’d celebrate with the order of a new suit, perhaps even a new wig.
He deserved it, he thought, tossing the barkeep a thin coin.
Madeleine de La Brou did not get to her pile of notes, cards, and invitations until midmorning the following day.
Sitting up among her pillows, sipping her morning cocoa, she perused the accumulated correspondence, tossing calling cards and invitations at her feet in piles she mentally labeled, unacceptable, acceptable, and very interesting.
She noticed a card from Lord Rothwell; flipping it over, she saw he’d scrawled a brief note inviting her to go riding next week.
She dropped it on top of the very interesting pile with a smile.
The London season, though just beginning, was looking most promising.
She reached for a cream-colored envelope amidst the pile on the silver salver and paused, letter opener in hand.
The handwriting seemed somehow familiar.
She removed the letter and read quickly, a delicate frown creasing her smooth white brow.
Placing it in on her tray, she reached over and pulled hard on the bell cord next to her bed.
It took several flurries of maids before Madeleine had the Melbournes’ dour-faced butler standing at attention at the foot of her bed.
“This letter,” she demanded, waving it about like a cream-colored moth, “how was it delivered?” He squinted across the four-poster and Madeleine impatiently thrust the envelope at him. The butler turned it over in his gloved hands then passed it back to her.
“It was delivered, Madame la Comtesse, by a low person. He returned yesterday afternoon and I told him you were not at home and suggested he try again this afternoon.” He handed the envelope back to Madeleine, folded his hands behind his back and looked beyond her at the wall.
Madeleine stared at the letter distastefully for a moment, then said, “Should he appear again, you may show him in.”
“Will that be all, madame?” the butler asked.
“Yes, Morris, that will be all.” She hesitated as he turned to go. “Will you let Mademoiselle Alix know that I would like to see her?”
“Very good, madame,” Morris responded as the door closed noiselessly behind him.
When Alix arrived she found her mother sitting up in bed, tapping an envelope against her open hand. She cast Madeleine an inquisitive look.
Madeleine gestured for her to sit. “I have here a letter from your father’s steward, Robert Lamartine. It appears he is in London and has some urgent news for us concerning your father and the titles to his estates.”
Alix’s mind raced. “My father,” she said, not daring to hope, “is he alive?”
Madeleine shook her head, “I’m sorry, my dear, Lamartine says he did everything in his power to rescue your father from the mob, but Paul is, indeed, dead.”
Alix twisted her hands in her skirts. Though she wasn’t surprised, somehow hearing the news was almost as painful as losing him again.
Madeleine continued. “Lamartine claims to have some information about your father’s last wishes, a letter in fact, and desires to deliver it in person so that he may speak with us about its contents.
” She cast a look at her daughter’s bowed head and said gently, “The future of the de La Brou estates concerns you, much more than I; it will be the inheritance of your children. I think it would be best if you are present when I meet with Monsieur Lamartine.”
Madeleine paused, then added with studied casualness, “I understand His Lordship, the Earl of Moreham, will be riding with you this afternoon. Should you care to have him present when Lamartine arrives, I would not take it amiss.”
Alix nodded, her mind at sea with questions, her hand unconsciously toying with the gold chain around her neck.
What, she wondered, had brought Robert Lamartine to England?
Was he seeking a job, some repayment for services to the family, or perhaps, she thought with a faint leap of her heart, he’d found a way to save Valcour?
Alix’s mind was still on Lamartine’s visit during her ride that afternoon with Rafe—Louisa and Elizabeth trotting a respectable distance behind.
“Come now, Alix, I have twitted you twice on your very smart, but still very gray riding habit, and you have responded without so much as a flash of your lovely eyes, much less an acerbic comment on my tastes. Perhaps I might have a better chance of attracting your interest if I were to begin declaiming in verse.” Rafe paused.
“Let me see, how about Ode to a Gray Gamine.”
Alix glanced over at him, startled. “I beg pardon, Rafe, my mind was elsewhere.” She gave him a puzzled look. “Were you saying something about verse? I confess, I hadn’t really thought you a poetical spirit.”
Rafe smiled. “There is much you have to learn about me sweetheart, but never mind the verse, it was of no importance, a simple ploy to gain your attention.”
Alix gave him a thoughtful look. There it was again, that indecipherable something in his eyes. He had been increasingly attentive lately, and she’d heard nothing about him spending time in Lady Anne’s company.
“Perhaps I can help with what’s bothering you,” he said gently.
Trusting him, she mused, was as dangerously tempting as his body.
After a moment, she gave way. “There is a servant, the steward of my father’s estates, who has sent my mother a letter indicating that he has some information for her and would like to meet with us this afternoon.
I can’t help wondering what’s brought him here and what he wants. ”
Rafe’s mind turned immediately to Jervis’s report about the Frenchman spying on Lady Melbourne’s home.
If he were a betting man, he would lay odds that he and the comte’s steward were the same.
But he didn’t want to alarm Alix; perhaps it was all quite innocent.
“Would it help if I were to join you when he arrives?” he asked.
Alix had been worrying over this question as well.
Truth be told, since they were married, the estates were as good as his.
And yet, he’d never even been there. He’d never seen the way the summer sun struck the peaked roofs of the towers, turning the worn stone the color of ripe apricots.
He’d never walked its wide lawns, or seen its formal gardens in full bloom.
Alix felt a pain in her chest, as if her heart had brittle edges.
What difference did it make? She’d probably never see her father’s lands again.