What a Lady Craves Page 8

  Francesca pouted. “I don’t like Lady Epperley, either.”

  “You don’t have to see Lady Epperley, dear,” Henrietta said. “We don’t have to go directly, either. We can go down by the beach and see if we can find some pretty pebbles. Would you like that?”

  “No,” Alexander said, “I think you had better go directly back.” He didn’t want them alone on the beach.

  Henrietta turned her head slightly to the side. “Why?”

  “Call it a feeling”—one that punched him in the gut—“but I’d prefer it. Can you trust me?”

  Her expression hardened.

  Right. Poor choice of words there. “Can you trust me in this?”

  Her tongue darted between her lips. He watched transfixed as she licked, and despite everything else, his blood shot southward.

  “Perhaps if you told me what was going on,” she said.

  He stared pointedly at the girls. “Not now.” He forced himself to keep his tone calm and steady, despite the heightened throbbing of his pulse. “You have my word I’ll tell you what I can when I return to the manor. But for now, I need you to take the girls inside, all right?”

  Henrietta gave him a slow nod, but the look in her eyes remained skeptical. Not that he blamed her there, but he would explain, even if the explanation made him appear overly cautious. He owed her that much.

  He waited until they were well on their way back up the path before turning toward the pub. Perhaps he wasn’t yet up to a journey to Falmouth, but he might not have to go so far. What if someone at the pub had spotted Tilly’s dark-skinned stranger? What if some of the Marianne’s crew had ventured this way? What if the captain had come seeking Alexander? This business could no longer wait. He needed answers, the sooner the better.

  Maybe he was stretching matters in connecting Tilly’s behavior with the missing bit of his cargo, but Alexander wasn’t about to write off the idea without a thorough investigation. He’d learned back in India not to chalk up too much to coincidence. Not since the people close to him began turning up dead. And each successive death had led closer. His wife had only been the latest in a string of victims.

  He wasn’t about to risk his daughters’ lives.

  Chapter Eight

  All the way back to the manor, Henrietta wondered what had happened between Tilly and Alexander. Tilly had been jumpy, certainly—jumpy and odd—but Alexander’s reaction was also overly strong. Some might go so far as to term it protective. And she couldn’t ask the girls about it. No need to alarm them over matters they were too young to know about. Alexander had promised to tell her more.

  If he kept that promise. In the end, it might not be any of her affair.

  At any rate, she found Lady Epperley had spirited herself off to parts unknown, so Henrietta didn’t even have the excuse of having to fulfill her duty as the old lady’s companion. It truly looked as if Henrietta had inherited the position of governess in spite of herself.

  “And what shall we do to amuse ourselves?” she asked the girls. Her mind came up short on ideas. Her girlhood had been comprised of lessons in music, drawing, and painting. She’d had embroidery to work on. She’d read the occasional novel and played with her sister. But none of those choices seemed to fit the bill for these two children, and Henrietta’s memory didn’t quite stretch so far into the past. Besides, she’d resolved not to teach them frivolities, but she also didn’t want to delve into anything too closely resembling lessons at their ages.

  “I don’t want to see Papa’s aunt,” Francesca pronounced.

  “You’re in luck,” Henrietta replied, “as she seems to be hiding. Why don’t you tell me what it is you like to do?”

  “We had a nanny in India, but she didn’t come with us,” Helena said. “Nipa used to let us dress up in her clothes.”

  “Oh, she had pretty clothes.” Francesca twirled, and her skirt belled out about her ankles. “Green and orange and blue. So soft.”

  Henrietta imagined lengths of silk and cotton in deep, vibrant colors. “I doubt I have anything so bright,” she admitted, “but we can look.”

  She hadn’t bothered bringing her ball gowns from London. Pity, that. She might have let the girls play at being grown ladies with them. About all she had with her were a few muslin day dresses in various pale hues, all gowns appropriate for the young miss that at twenty-six she no longer was.

  “I do think we ought to see about unpacking your things since we didn’t do it earlier,” she added.

  She led the girls up three flights of stairs to the nursery, immediately adjacent to her room under the eaves. The girls’ trunk lay in the corner. The servants had been in to take the draperies off the furniture, but the coverlet on the lone bed lay yellowed in the pale sunlight. The musty odor of years of disuse permeated the entire room.

  “Why don’t we decide where to put your things?” Henrietta said briskly, as much to fill the uncomfortable silence as anything. The nursery offered little in the way of possibility there. A dark hulk of a wardrobe took up one wall, with a matching clothespress standing opposite.

  The girls exchanged a look, whether of complicity or imminent mischief, it was hard to tell. Were they a few years older, they might even have rolled their eyes.

  Henrietta suppressed a sigh. She was going to be horrible at this nannying business, she just knew it. Plastering on a smile that made her cheeks ache, she knelt and opened the trunk. Muslin gown after muslin gown lay in neat piles with various trinkets appropriate to small girls nestled between the layers.

  She pulled out a necklace of clear glass beads, tinged pink and blue. “And whose is this lovely thing?”

  “That’s mine,” Helena said immediately.

  “It is not!” Francesca stamped her foot. “Mama gave it to me!”

  Oh, dear. And with their mother rather recently departed, Henrietta would have to tread very carefully. “I’m sure she would have wanted you to share.”

  “No.” Helena stomped over and took the necklace. “This one is mine.” She reached into the trunk and rifled through the cotton until she produced a duplicate string of beads. “This one is Francesca’s.”

  “How can you tell whose is whose?” Henrietta asked, baffled.

  “I just can.”

  “Right.” The girls could do with instruction in manners, but she hadn’t the first clue how to teach them. Not when she didn’t feel she had any true say in their upbringing. It wasn’t as if their father had gleaned over countless candidates for the position, read through impeccable references, and chosen her.

  Once upon a time he’d chosen her for an entirely different role. Had things worked out differently, her opinion might have counted for something real in these girls’ lives. She pushed the thought aside. No sense in dwelling on what might have been.

  She ran a hand over a thin cotton shift. All the girls’ clothes looked like dresses belonging to any other English lass. Odd, that, considering they’d been born in a completely different land. And yet, nothing of India showed in this collection of garments, unless it was the thinness of the fabrics and the utter lack of woolens.

  “I can see you’re going to need a few new things before the summer is out,” she commented. “I have the feeling you’ll find the weather quite a bit cooler than you’re used to.”

  She turned to catch Francesca pulling a face at her sister. “Here, now, what’s this?”

  “She put her tongue out at me,” Francesca said.

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  “Girls!” Henrietta clapped her hands. Good heavens, they hadn’t behaved this way in front of their father. She searched back in her memory to when she and Catherine were small—perhaps even this small—but she could not recall arguing with her sister to this extent over utter trifles. No, she and Catherine had been complicit in the main, but they’d had to be. Most of the time, they had to present a united defense against their older brother. “This isn’t the way for proper young ladies to behave
. And I’m sure this isn’t the first you’ve heard something of the sort.”

  Helena chewed at her lower lip and cast a sidelong glance at her sister. “Nipa let us do whatever we pleased.”

  Ah, yes, their Indian nanny. “Why don’t you tell me about her?” The topic seemed safe enough, safer than asking about their mother, at any rate. And perhaps she could glean some tips for dealing with young children. “Did you like her?”

  “I miss her.” Francesca’s eyes filled with tears and her lower lip quivered alarmingly.

  Henrietta stared at the girl. Should she offer a hug? Would Francesca only push her away if she tried? A glance at Helena offered no counsel.

  “Are you going to start that again?” Helena sniped. “You’re such a baby.”

  “Am not,” Francesca replied thickly.

  “Are too.”

  “All right.” Henrietta pushed herself to her feet. Clearly, she was not cut out to be a nanny. Just as clearly, the girls needed a distraction, but what? “I think we’ll leave this for the maid. How about we see what we might find in my wardrobe? If you like something, you might try it on, but only if you promise to behave like well-brought-up young ladies.”

  She headed the parade down the corridor to her chamber. Her wardrobe, a brooding piece of massive walnut, stood across from the door beyond the narrow bed. And on the matching night table—that blasted box. Once again, she’d forgotten to tell Alexander about it, and she needed to. Something about what he’d said to Tilly had tripped her memory, but she’d missed her chance to say anything.

  She wouldn’t let herself forget another time. “Girls, I’m having a terrible time recalling things lately.” More like a problem with their father distracting her, but she couldn’t say that. “Do you think you can help me remember something?”

  “When Nipa wanted to remember something she’d set out a glass and put a spoon in it,” Helena said.

  “How interesting.” Lord help her, she’d nearly said odd, but she oughtn’t criticize the poor nanny over a small habit. That was too much like something Lady Epperley would do.

  “And she’d carry the glass from room to room with her, but then she’d always forget why she had it.”

  “Well, that won’t do.” Henrietta moved over to the night table. “But look here and tell me if you’ve ever seen a box like this.”

  Francesca let out a squeak. “That’s Mummy’s secret box.”

  Helena looked at it with sober, round eyes. “How did you get it?”

  Blast. How, indeed, had she come by it? She didn’t think she ought to tell the girls their papa had been shipwrecked when he hadn’t volunteered the information himself. “I think your papa might have dropped it or lost it somehow. I found it on the beach the other day. That’s what I wanted you to help me remember. I need to give it back.”

  The girls traded a look during which an entire conversation seemed to pass between them. Henrietta recalled similar exchanges with her sister, usually after she’d done something forbidden, and she needed to convince Catherine to keep quiet. Francesca studied the floorboards.

  “Am I going to get into trouble for having this?” Henrietta asked.

  “We’re not supposed to touch,” Helena whispered. “Even if it is pretty.”

  “Yes, it is pretty,” Henrietta agreed. “Do you think your papa will be vexed with me for touching it?”

  “He’ll want it back. It was Mummy’s. And Mummy’s gone now.” Such stark, matter-of-fact words. A child so young shouldn’t have had to utter them.

  Whatever Henrietta might think about the relationship between Alexander and the girls’ mother, she couldn’t help the twinge in the vicinity of her heart. “You must miss her very much.”

  Helena nodded, while Francesca continued to inspect the floor. Her chin trembled.

  This would never do. Henrietta set the box on the bed and cast about for a distraction. Her poor collection of morning gowns seemed to pale next to the loss of a mother. Still, she went to the wardrobe. Somewhere in here, she had a few rough bits of paper and charcoal, adequate for sketching. If she could locate enough to occupy both girls, they might pass the time making their own pictures. Or learning to write their names.

  “I think I may have the very thing.” She thrust her head between swaths of muslin, groping for the back shelf. Her fingers landed on something long and thin and hard. “Ah, here we are.”

  “Francesca, you’re not supposed to touch!”

  At Helena’s cry, Henrietta whirled. Francesca had taken the box in hand. Ignoring her sister, she traced a finger along the elephant’s trunk, and did—something. Henrietta didn’t have time to spot what. Whatever the child had done, she’d tripped some sort of hidden catch. The lid swung back on invisible hinges.

  Henrietta gasped as a veritable treasure trove of gold and pearls spilled onto her coverlet.

  Chapter Nine

  The village pub was a dingy place. Alexander ought to have remembered that much. Smoke from a fitful blaze hovered about the rafters, while sunlight made a valiant effort at penetrating a heavy layer of soot on the high windows. Once his eyes adjusted, he peered into the corners. Not a leather-skinned sailor in sight, foreign or English.

  “Damn.”

  How would he find out who had rattled Tilly in such a manner? His glance alit on the owner, who was holding up the bar with his sizeable belly. Perhaps the man knew something, perhaps not—but Alexander would only find out by asking.

  Working his way between empty tables to the back of the room, he ordered an ale. The owner pulled a pint and set it on the bar. Alexander would be buggered before he’d even touch the greasy-looking mug.

  Instead, he slid a guinea across the counter. “I’m looking for someone. Perhaps you can help me.”

  The owner sent him a gap-toothed grin before swiping at the bar with a grayish rag. “See lots of someones in my line of work, I does.”

  “This is a specific person. Dark-skinned, possibly from India. May have come through not too long ago. He may have disembarked from a ship called the Marianne.”

  “Only ship through here lately sank.”

  “I’m aware, as it was mine.” He pressed his lips together for a moment. If anyone else had survived the wreck, he’d have turned up by now. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen anybody from Sanford’s Hope.”

  “That the name of the one that went down?” The owner sounded mildly interested at best. The frequent storms along this stretch of coast had likely seasoned him against the tragedy of a shipwreck. “Heard talk of a few bodies washing ashore. Haven’t seen no survivors.”

  Damn, but the news hardly came as a surprise. Alexander had seen enough of the wreckage on his first trip to the village. Survival was a slim hope at best with the ship reduced to splinters.

  “Anyone fortunate to swim ashore might’ve made it t’ Falmouth if not farther. As for foreigners”—the man spat on the floor—“I don’t stand for such in my establishment. Had one th’ other morning. Turned him out, I did.”

  Alexander narrowed his eyes at the man. “No, I don’t suppose you want such dirtying up the place.”

  The owner nodded. “They don’t hold the same standards as proper Englishmen, and that’s a fact.”

  Clearly sarcasm, not to mention irony, was lost on the man, but there was no sense in trying to educate a yokel so set in his ways. “If by chance you see another such man, you might send him along to the manor. I’d like to talk to him. For that matter, if you happen on any sailors from the Marianne, you can send a message.”

  The owner left off his wiping. “I might welcome th’ business, but I don’t see why they’d come all this way. Likely miles away still sleeping off last night’s entertainment. Or still doing th’ entertaining.”

  “Right.” This conversation was leading nowhere. With the safe arrival of his daughters, he could assume the East India Company’s cargo on the Marianne was secure, but he might well head to Falmouth to question the captain on his choic
e of sailors. Not that the man would necessarily pay heed to any disreputable dealings among his crew.

  Alexander pushed away from the bar, and a twinge of pain shot through his chest. Blast it all. Falmouth was still out. Even if he was feeling better, his ribs would not stand a couple of hours jouncing in a carriage. Nor would the journey on horseback serve him well.

  Leaving the swill on the bar, Alexander scowled as he headed for the door. He’d bloody well have to send for the captain now. Damnable notes and summons to all and sundry. He could not wait to recover from these infernal injuries.

  He made it as far as the threshold when a newcomer blocked his path.

  “Pardon me,” Alexander grumbled.

  “Pardon?” the man said. “Aren’t you the polite one?”

  At the cultured tones, Alexander looked up sharply. That accent was just as out of place in a rough village pub as his show of manners. What was more, he recognized that voice, although he hadn’t heard it in years.

  “Lindenhurst? By God, it is you.”

  Richard Blakewell, Viscount Lindenhurst clapped him on the shoulder. “Ha! I heard you were back. Although I can’t imagine why. Might have known I’d find you here. Are you hiding from that dragon you call an aunt?”

  Alexander ignored the jibe. “How could you have heard anything? I only just arrived, and I haven’t got around to sending you a note.”

  “Word of the shipwreck’s gone as far as Falmouth, and seeing how I live in the area …”

  “And you’ve come to see for yourself?” Alexander eyed his old friend warily. If Lind somehow knew of the lost ship’s connection to his investment, he might well demand compensation on the spot. Compensation Alexander was in no position to provide. “Yes, well about that …”

  “It was a risk we took.”

  Such a simple statement, but it removed a weight from Alexander’s neck. “I thank you for that. But how did you find out so quickly?”

  “Another ship limped into Falmouth the day before yesterday. The Marianne. You must know I recognized the name.”