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‘I am a connoisseur, a truffle hound through the wilderness of a Continent after a great war.’
‘Poseur,’ Mr Rivers said.
‘Of course.’ Alex’s ready agreement was disarmingly frank. ‘I do have my reputation to maintain.’
‘But forgive me,’ Tess ventured, ‘is that not business? I thought it was not acceptable for aristocrats to engage in trade.’ And perhaps it was not acceptable to mention it at all.
‘Social death,’ Grant Rivers agreed. ‘So those of us who cannot rely upon family money maintain a polite fiction. I keep a stud for my own amusement and profit and sell to acquaintances as a favour when they beg to share in a winning bloodline. Alex here is approached by those with more money than taste. Gentlemen are so very grateful when he puts them in the way of acquiring beautiful, rare objects from his collection to enhance their status or their newly grand houses. Naturally he cannot be out of pocket in these acts of mercy. Gabe is a gambler, which is perfectly au fait. It is strange that he rarely loses, which is the norm, but you can’t hold that against a man unless you catch him cheating.’
‘And does he?’
‘He has the devil’s own luck, the brain of a mathematician and the willpower to know when to fold. And he would kill anyone who suggested he fuzzes the cards,’ Alex explained. ‘And before you ask, Cris is the only one of us who has come into his title. The rest of us are merely heirs in waiting. He’s a genuine marquess.
‘And you, little nun? Given that we are being so frank between friends.’
He knew perfectly well that she was not a nun, but perhaps if she ignored the teasing he would stop it. ‘I, on the contrary, have not a guinea to my name, save what Mother Superior gave me for food and the stagecoach fare in England.’ Tess managed a bright smile, as though this was merely amusing. It had been quite irrelevant until Mother Superior’s little discussion a week ago.
Dear Teresa had been with them for ten years, five since the death of her aunt, Sister Boniface. She had steadfastly declined to convert from her childhood Anglicanism, so, naturally, she had no future with the convent as a nun. Equally obviously, she could not go to her, er...connections in England. And then Mother Superior had explained why.
Teresa was twenty-three now, so what did she intend to do with her life? she had asked while Tess’s understanding of who and what she was tumbled around her ears.
I must have looked completely witless, Tess thought as she gazed out of the carriage window at the sodden countryside. She had been teaching the little ones, the orphans like herself, but that apparently had been merely a stop-gap until she was an adult. And, she suspected now she had a chance to think about it, until Mother Superior was convinced no conversion was likely.
But it was all right; even if there was no money left from the funds Papa had sent to her aunt, she would manage, somehow. The dream of a family in England, people who might forgive and forget what Mama and Papa had done, had evaporated. She would not repine and she would try not to think about it. She could work hard and, goodness knew, she wasn’t used to luxury.
Heavy clouds rolled across the sky, making it dark enough outside for Tess to glimpse her own reflection in the glass. What a dismal Dora! This bonnet doesn’t help. She sat up straighter, fixed a look of bright interest on her face and tried to think positive thoughts.
* * *
What was wrong with the little nun? Alex watched her from beneath half-closed lids. Beside him Grant had dropped off to sleep, and he was weary himself after a hard night of cards, brandy and talk, but something about the woman opposite kept him awake. If she was not a nun, what was she doing going to a convent, dressed like a wet Sunday morning in November? Her accent was well bred. Her manners—when she was not ripping up at him—were correct and she was obviously a lady.
A mystery, in fact. As a rule Alex enjoyed mysteries, especially mysterious ladies, but this one was not happy and that put a damper on enjoyable speculation. There was more to it than her sprained ankle and irritation over missed boats, he was certain. Tess was putting a brave face on things whenever she remembered to. No coward, his little nun.
Alex grinned at the thought of his nun. The nunneries he was acquainted with were very different establishments. She raised one slim, arching dark brow.
‘Comfortable, Miss Ellery?’
‘Exceedingly, thank you, my lord...Alex.’ Yes, that smile was definitely brave, but assumed.
‘Ankle hurting?’
‘No, Mr Rivers has worked wonders and there is no pain unless I put weight on it. I am sure it is only a mild sprain.’ She lapsed into silence again, apparently not finding that awkward. No doubt chatter was discouraged in a nunnery.
‘So what will you be doing in London? Making your come-out?’
She had taken her bonnet off and he remembered how that soft, dark brown hair had felt against his cheek when he had lifted her to carry her to her bed. It was severely braided and pinned up now, just as it had been last night, and he wondered what it would look like down. The thought made him shift uncomfortably in his seat and he wrenched his mind away from long lashes against a pale cheek flushed with rose and the impact of a pair of dark blue eyes.
His... No, Miss Ellery laughed, the first sound of amusement he had heard from her, albeit with an edge to it. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth, which was a pity because it was a pretty mouth and it was prettier still when curved.
‘My come-out? Hardly. No, I will stay at the London house until the Mother Superior there finds me position as a governess or a companion.’
‘With a Roman Catholic family?’ That might take a while, there were not that many, not of the class to be employing well-bred young females of her type. Rich merchants were a possibility, he supposed.
‘No. Not only am I not a nun, I am also an Anglican.’
‘Then, what the bl—? What on earth are you doing in a nunnery?’
‘It is a long story.’ She folded her hands neatly in her lap and seemed to feel that ended the discussion.
‘It is a long journey,’ he countered. ‘Entertain me with your tale, please, Miss Ellery.’
‘Very well.’ She did not look enthusiastic. ‘I will make it as concise as possible. My father’s elder sister, Beatrice, converted to Catholicism against the violent disapproval of her parents and ran away to Belgium to join an order of nuns.
‘But Papa, after he came of age, started writing to her. My parents enjoyed travelling, even though there was a war on, and besides, it was often cheaper to live on the Continent.’ She bit her lip and her gaze slid away from his. A prevarication? ‘So just after my thirteenth birthday we were in Belgium and Papa decided to visit my aunt.’
‘And that was when?’ How old is she? Twenty? Alex tried to recall what was happening seven years past.
‘Ten years ago. I am twenty-three,’ Tess admitted with a frankness no other unmarried lady of his acquaintance would have employed.
‘1809.’ Alex delved back in his memory. He had been seventeen, half tempted by the army, finally deciding against it for the very good reason his father would probably have had a stroke with the shock of his son and heir doing something his parent approved of for the first time in his life. ‘Most of the action was towards the east at that time, I seem to recall.’
‘I think so.’ Tess bit her lower lip in thought and Alex crossed his legs again. Damn it, the girl—woman—was a drab little peahen for all the rainwater-washed complexion and the pretty eyes. What was the matter with him? ‘Anyway, it was considered safe enough. We arrived in Ghent and Papa visited the convent and was allowed to see my aunt, who was Sister Boniface by then. But there was an epidemic of cholera in the city and both Mama and Papa... They both died.’
She became so still and silent Alex wondered if she had finished, but eventually, with a little movement, as though shaking raindrops off her shoulders, she gathered herself. ‘When Papa realised how serious it was he sent me to my aunt with all the money he had. I have lived there ever since, but now I do not want to become a nun and the money has run out, paying for my keep, so I am ready to make my own way in the world.’
‘But your grandparents, your aunts and uncles—surely you have living relatives? Cousins?’
‘There is no one I could go to.’
There had to be, surely? Her gaze slid away from his again and Tess stared out of the window. There was some story here, something she wasn’t telling him, and she was too honest to lie. Alex bit his tongue on the questions. It was no concern of his. ‘And the convent was not for you?’
Tess shook her head. ‘I always knew I was not cut out to be a nun.’ She managed a very creditable smile.
There must be relatives somewhere, Alex thought, forcing back the query. Perhaps the runaway aunt had caused the rift, which was hard on Tess. He understood what it was like to be rejected, but he was a man with money and independence, and these days, power of his own. He knew how to hit back and he’d spent more than ten years doing just that. This was a sheltered, penniless young woman.
‘Now I know you better I can tell that you’re not suitable for the cloister,’ he drawled, intent on teasing her out of introspection. ‘Too much of a temper, for one thing.’
Tess blushed, but did not deny the accusation. ‘It is something I try to overcome. You did provoke me excessively, you must admit, although I should not make excuses.’
‘Go on, blame me, I have a broad enough back.’ Alex smiled at her and noticed how that made her drop her gaze. Not at all used to men. A total innocent with no idea how to flirt. Behave yourself, Tempest. But she was a charming novelty.
‘I will spend December and perhaps January at the London convent, I expect. I do not imagine anyone will be looking to employ a governess or a companion just now.’ She fiddled with the fringe on the edge of the rug. ‘A pity, because it would be wonderful to spend Christmas with a family. But still, it is always a happy season wherever one is.’
‘Is it?’ Alex tried to recall the last Christmas he had spent with his family. He had been almost eighteen. His parents had not been speaking to each other, his batty great-aunt had managed to set the breakfast room on fire, his younger siblings had argued incessantly and at dinner on Christmas Day his father had finally, unforgivably, lost his temper with Alex.
There are some things that a mature man might laugh off or shrug aside as the frustrated outpourings of a short-tempered parent. But they are usually not things that a sensitive seventeen-year-old can accept with any grace or humour. Or forgive. Not when they led to tragedy.
Alex had left the table, packed his bags, gone straight back to Oxford and stayed there, taking care to extract every penny of his allowance from the bank before his father thought to stop it. When the news had reached him of just what his father’s outburst had unleashed he’d settled down, with care and much thought, to convince his father that he was exactly what he had accused him of being, while at the same time living his life the way he wanted to.
‘You will be going home for Christmas, surely?’ Tess asked.
Alex realised he must have been silent for quite some time. ‘I am going back to my own home, certainly. But not to the family house and most certainly not for Christmas.’
‘I am sorry,’ she said with every sign of distress on his behalf.
Beside him Grant gave an inelegant snort and woke up. ‘Christmas? Never say you’re going back to Tempeston, Alex?’
‘Lord, no.’ Alex shuddered. ‘I will do what I always do and hole up in great comfort with good wine, excellent food, brandy, a pile of books and a roaring fire until the rest of humanity finishes with its annual bout of plum pudding–fuelled sentimentality and returns to normal. What about you?’
‘I promised to call on Whittaker. I was with his brother when he died in Salzburg, if you recall. He lives just outside Edinburgh and I said I’d go and see him as soon as I was back in Britain.’ Grant shifted his long legs into a more comfortable position. ‘Can’t stay too long, though, I’ll go straight from there to my grandfather in Northumberland.’
‘How is he?’ Grant was the old man’s heir and he’d be a viscount in his own right when he went, given that his father had died years ago.
‘He’s frail.’ Grant was curt. He was fond of his grandfather, Alex thought with an unwelcome twinge of envy.
‘He will be helped by your company at Christmas,’ Tess said warmly.
‘He’d be glad to see Grant at any time.’ Alex managed not to snap the words. ‘What is it about Christmas that produces this nonsense anyway?’
It was meant as a rhetorical question, but Tess stared at him as though he had declared that it rained upwards. ‘You are funning, surely?’ When he shook his head she announced, ‘Then I will remind you, although I cannot truly believe you are really such a cynic.’ She paused, as though to collect her thoughts, then opened her mouth. ‘Well, first of all there is...’
Please, no, Alex thought despairingly. If there was anything as bad as Christmas it was someone who was an enthusiast about it.
‘Evergreens...’ the confounded chit began. ‘Cutting them and...’
Alex glowered.
Chapter Three (#ulink_3b5327bc-e232-55b7-bec6-6ff8a00c8059)
‘And it is so cold, but that is part of the fun, everyone wrapped up and the snow crunching underfoot, and that gorgeous smell of pines.’ Tess closed her eyes, the better to recall it. Memories of those wonderful English Christmases from many years ago, before Papa had said they must go abroad. There hadn’t been much money and it had been a different village each year.
She had never asked why they kept moving; she had simply taken it for granted, as children do. Now, from an adult perspective, she realised they had probably been keeping one step ahead of recognition and scandal and that was why they’d left the country—the Continent was cheaper and there would be less gossip.
But we were happy, she thought, recalling snowball fights at Christmas and unconditional love all the year round. When she opened her eyes again Alex Tempest’s mouth was pursed as though he had bitten a wasp. Grumpy man.
She pressed on, ignoring him, all the precious memories bubbling up, unstoppable. ‘And planning what presents you can give your friends and finding them or making them. That’s almost better than receiving gifts. There’s all the fun of hiding them away and wrapping them up and watching the other person’s face when they try to guess what’s in the parcel.’
Mr Rivers was smiling, even though his eyes were still sad. Tess smiled back. ‘And all the food to prepare. And church on Christmas Eve and the bells ringing out and being too excited to sleep afterwards and yet, somehow, you do.’
Lord Weybourn, Alex, looked as though he was in pain now. What was the matter with the man?
‘Have you done your Christmas shopping already, Miss Ellery?’ Mr Rivers asked. ‘You seem to be someone who would plan ahead.’
‘I had to leave my gifts with the nuns to give out. I sewed most of them and my stitchery is not of the neatest.’ She wished she believed the cliché about it being the thought that counts, but she could imagine Sister Monica’s expression when she saw the lumpy seams on her pen wiper. There was never any danger of Tess being asked to join the group who embroidered fine linen for sale, or made vestments for Ghent’s churches.
‘But next year I will have wages and I will be able to send gifts I have purchased.’ There, another positive thing about this frightening new life that lay ahead of her. She had been saving them up and had almost reached ten. Living with a family. A family. The word felt warm and round, like the taste of plum pudding or the scent of roses on an August afternoon.
Tess left the thought reluctantly and pressed on with her mental list. A room of my own. Being able to wear colours. Interesting food. Warmth. London to explore on my afternoons off. Wages. Control of my own destiny.
She suspected that the last of those might prove illusionary. How much freedom would a governess’s or companion’s wage buy her? She glanced at Alex, but his eyes were closed and he was doing a very creditable imitation of a man asleep. He really did not enjoy Christmas, it seemed. How strange.
Mr Rivers continued to make polite conversation and she responded as the light drew in and the wintery dusk fell. Finally, when her stomach was growling, the carriage clattered into an inn yard and, as the groom opened the door, she caught a salty tang on the cold breeze.
‘Ostend. Wake up, Alex. You sleep like a cat, you idle devil.’ Grant Rivers prodded his friend in the ribs. ‘May I take the carriage on down to the docks? You’ll be staying here the night, I’m guessing, and I’ll send it right back.’
Alex opened one eye. ‘Yes, certainly have it. Higgs, unload my luggage and Miss Ellery’s, then take Mr Rivers to find his ship.’ He uncurled his long body from the seat and held out his hand to Tess. ‘If you can shuffle along to the end of the seat, I will lift you down.’
She was in his arms before she thought to protest. ‘But I must find a ship, my lord.’
‘Tomorrow. We will both take a ship tomorrow. Now you need dinner, a hot bath and a comfortable room for the night. Now, don’t wriggle or I’ll drop you.’
‘But—’
‘Goodbye, Miss Ellery.’ Grant Rivers was climbing back into the carriage and men were carrying a pile of beautiful leather luggage, topped with her scuffed black portmanteau, towards the open inn door. ‘Safe voyage and I hope you soon find a congenial employer in London.’ He pulled the door shut and leaned out of the window. ‘Take care, Alex.’
‘And you.’ Alex freed one hand and clasped his friend’s. ‘Give Charlie a hug from me.’
‘Who is Charlie?’ Tess asked as he carried her into the inn. It was seductively pleasurable, being carried by a man. For a moment she indulged the fantasy that this was her lover, sweeping her away...
‘His son.’ Alex’s terse answer jerked her out of the dream.
‘Mr Rivers is married?’ Somehow he had not looked married, whatever that looked like.
‘Widowed.’ Alex’s tone gave no encouragement for further questions.
Perhaps that was why Grant Rivers’s eyes were so sad. She closed her lips on questions that were sure to be intrusive as the landlord came out to greet them.
‘LeGrice, I need an extra room.’ Alex was obviously known and expected. ‘A comfortable, quiet chamber for the lady, a maid to attend her, hot baths for both of us and then the best supper you can lay on in my private parlour.’
‘Milord.’ Known, expected and not to be denied, obviously. The innkeeper was bustling about as though the Prince Regent had descended on his establishment. Perhaps she would see the Prince Regent when she was in London. Tess was distracted enough by this interesting thought not to protest when she was carried upstairs and into a bedchamber.
The sight of the big bed was enough to jerk her out of fantasies of state coaches and bewigged royalty, let alone thoughts of romance. ‘Please put me down.’
It must have come out more sharply than she intended. Alex stopped dead. ‘That was my intention.’
‘Here. Just inside the door. This is a bedchamber.’
‘I know. The clue lies in the fact that there’s a bed in it.’ He was amused by her vapours, she could hear it in his voice, a deep rumble that held a laugh hidden inside it.
Her ear was pressed against his chest. Tess jerked her head upright. ‘Then, please put me down. You should not be in my bedchamber.’
‘I was last night when I put you to bed.’
‘Two wrongs do not make a right,’ she said and winced at how smug she sounded.
‘Nanny used to say that, did she?’ Alex walked across to the hearthside and deposited her on a chair.
‘Sister Benedicta,’ Tess confessed. ‘I sounded just like her, how mortifying.’
