Alexandra quickly averted her face to hide her hurt that Jordan had for the second time accepted her grandfather’s watch and then cast it aside.
“It’s eleven o’clock,” Uncle Monty provided helpfully, pointing to his own watch and chain. “I always wear a watch,” he boasted. “Never need to wonder about the hour. Wondrous things, watches,” he rhapsodized. “One can’t help conjecturing about how they work, can one?”
Jordan slammed his book shut. “Yes,” he said bluntly, “one can.”
Having failed utterly in his attempt to draw the duke into an animated discussion about watchmaking, Uncle Monty sent another pleading look to Alexandra, but it was Sir Henry who responded. The huge English sheepdog, while utterly nonchalant about his duty to protect people, was deeply cognizant of his duty to console them, lavish them with affection, and generally be underfoot in case they had need of his attention. Seeing the unhappy expression on Sir Montague’s face, he roused himself from the hearth and trotted over to the distressed knight, whereupon he delivered two extremely wet licks to his hand. “Ye gods!” burst out Uncle Monty, leaping to his feet with more energy than he’d displayed in a quarter century and vigorously wiping the back of his hand against his trousers. “That animal has a tongue like a wet mop!”
Offended, Sir Henry cast a mournful look upon his disgrunted victim, then turned and flopped down on the hearth.
“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll retire,” Alexandra said, unable to bear the atmosphere another moment.
* * *
“Is everything in readiness at the grove, Filbert?” Alexandra asked the next afternoon, when her faithful old footman answered her summons and appeared in her bedchamber.
“It is,” the footman announced bitterly. “Not that yer husband deserves a birthday party. After the way ’e’s been treatin’ ye, ’e deserves a kick in the arse!”
Alexandra tucked a wayward curl beneath the brim of her sky-blue bonnet and did not argue the issue. She’d conceived the idea for a surprise party in honor of Jordan’s birthday the day they’d strolled out to the pavilion—the happiest day of what was apparently a short-lived period of bliss.
After days of enduring Jordan’s frigid, unexplainable disdain, her face was pale, and she was forever on the verge of tears. Her chest ached from holding them back, and her heart ached because she couldn’t find a reason for Jordan’s behavior. But as the hour for her surprise approached, she couldn’t quell the burgeoning hope that perhaps when Jordan saw what she had planned with Tony and Melanie’s help, he might either become the man he had been when they were together at the stream, or at least tell her what was bothering him.
“The whole staff’s talkin’ bout the way he’s actin’ t’ ye,” Filbert continued angrily. “Hardly speakin’ t’ ye and lockin’ himself away in his study night and day, never doin’ his husbandly—”
“Filbert, please!” Alexandra cried. “Don’t spoil today for me with all that.”
Contrite, but still determined to vent his spleen against the man who was causing the dark shadows beneath Alexandra’s eyes, Filbert said, “Don’t need to spoil it fer ye, he’ll do that if’n he can. Surprised he even agreed to go wit ye to the grove when you tolt him you had somethin’ to show im.
“So was I,” Alexandra said with an attempt at a smile that immediately became a puzzled little frown. She had confronted Jordan in his study this morning when he was meeting with Fawkes, the new assistant bailiff, and she had fully expected to have to plead with him to accompany her for a carriage ride. At first, Jordan started to refuse her request, but then he hesitated, glanced at the bailiff, and then abruptly agreed.
* * *
“Everything is in readiness,” Fawkes was assuring Jordan in the master bedchamber. “My men are stationed in the trees along the route to the grove and around the grove itself. They’ve been there for three hours—since twenty minutes after your wife suggested your little jaunt. I instructed my men to remain there, out of sight, until the assassin or assassins reveal themselves. Since they can’t leave their positions without being seen, they can’t report back to me, and I don’t know what they’re seeing. God knows why your cousin chose the grove instead of a cottage or somewhere more private.”
“I do not believe this is happening,” Jordan bit out, shrugging into a fresh shirt. He stopped, momentarily struck by the absurdity of putting on a fresh shirt so that he would look nice when his wife led him into a trap meant to kill him.
“It’s happening,” Fawkes said with the deadly calm of a seasoned soldier. “And it’s a trap. I could tell it from the sound of your wife’s voice and the look in her eyes when she asked you to ride out with her this afternoon. She was nervous and she was lying. I watched her eyes. Eyes don’t lie.”
Jordan regarded the investigator with bitter derision, remembering how deceptively, radiantly innocent Alexandra’s eyes had once seemed to him. “That’s a myth,” he said contemptuously. “A myth I used to believe.”
“The note we intercepted from Lord Townsende an hour ago is no myth,” Fawkes reminded Jordan with quiet conviction. “They’re so confident we’re ignorant of their plans that they’re becoming careless.”
At the mention of Tony’s note, Jordan’s face became as expressionless as a stone mask. As instructed, Higgins had brought Tony’s note to Jordan before carrying it up to Alexandra, and the words seared into Jordan’s brain:
Everything is ready at the grove. All you have to do is get him there.
An hour ago, the pain of reading that had nearly sent him to his knees, but now he felt—nothing. He was past the point of feeling anything, even a sense of betrayal or fear as he prepared to face his own beloved assassins. Now all he wanted was to have the thing over with, so he could somehow begin blotting Alexandra out of his heart and mind.
Last night he had lain awake in his bed, fighting the stupid urge to go to her and hold her, to give her money and warn her to flee—for whether or not she and Tony succeeded in killing him today, Fawkes already had enough evidence to ensure that she and Tony would spend the rest of their lives in a dungeon. The image of Alexandra clad in filthy rags, living out her life in a dark, rat-infested cell, was almost more than Jordan could bear, even now—when he was about to become her target in open country.
Alexandra was waiting for him in the hallway, looking as bright and innocent as spring in a blue muslin gown trimmed with wide cream ribbon at the full sleeves and hem. She turned and watched him walk down the staircase, her smile bright and eager. She was smiling, Jordan realized with a nearly uncontrollable surge of fury, because his beautiful young wife intended to rid herself of him for good.
“Ready to go?” she asked brightly.
Wordlessly he nodded, and they walked out to the carriage that was waiting for them in the drive.
Beneath the fringe of her lashes, Alexandra stole another sideways peek at Jordan’s profile as their carriage swayed gently down the path through the trees that would soon open up into a wide, lush field that bordered the orchards. Despite Jordan’s outwardly relaxed pose as he lounged back against the squabs, his hands light on the horses’ reins, she saw his gaze move restlessly over the trees bordering the path—as if he were watching for something, waiting for it.
In fact, she had just started to wonder if he had somehow found out about her “surprise” and was. expecting the revelers to burst out of the trees, when their carriage broke into the field, and Jordan’s open shock at the spectacle that greeted him removed any possibility that he was forewarned.
“What the—?” Jordan breathed in amazement as he gazed at the incredible sight before him: Colorful banners were waving in the breeze, and all his tenants and their children were gathered in the fields, dressed in their best clothing, grinning at him. Off to his left, he saw Tony, his mother, and his brother standing with Jordan’s grandmother. Melanie and John Camden had come with Roddy Carstairs and a half-dozen other Londoners of Jordan’s acquaintance. On his right, at
the far side of the clearing, a large raised platform had been set up, with two thronelike chairs and a half-dozen other, less elaborate chairs upon it. A canopy stretched above the platform, protecting it from the sun, and the Hawthorne pennants were flying from poles atop the canopy, displaying the Hawthorne crest—a hawk with its wings outspread.
Jordan’s carriage moved toward the center of the field, and four enthusiastic trumpeters officially announced their duke’s arrival—as arranged—with loud, emphatic blasts upon their horns, followed by a prolonged cheer that went up from the crowd.
Drawing the horses up short, Jordan turned sharply to Alexandra. “What is this all about?” he demanded.
The eyes she raised to his were full of love and uncertainty and hope. “Happy birthday,” she said tenderly.
Jordan simply looked at her, his jaw tight, and said absolutely nothing. Smiling uncertainly, she explained, “It’s a Morsham-style celebration, only more elaborate than the ones we used to have to celebrate birthdays.” When he continued to stare at her, she laid her hand on his arm and explained eagerly, “It’s a combination tournament and country fair—to celebrate the birthday of a duke. And to help you get to know your tenants a little, too.”
Jordan looked around at the crowd in angry bewilderment. Could this whole elaborate setting actually be a backdrop for murder? he wondered. Was his wife an angel or a she-devil? Before the day was out, he would know. Turning, he helped her down from the carriage. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“Well let’s see,” she said brightly, trying not to let him see how foolish she felt or how hurt. “Do you see the livestock in the pens?”
Jordan glanced around at the half-dozen pens scattered about the field. “Yes.”
“Well, the livestock belongs to your cottagers, and you’re to select the best from each pen, and to give the owner a prize from the ones I’ve purchased in the village. Over there, where the ropes created lanes, there’ll be a jousting contest, and over there—where the target is—an archery contest, and—”
“I think I have the gist of it,” Jordan interrupted shortly.
“It would also be rather nice if you’d compete in some of the contests,” Alexandra added a little hesitantly, not certain how willing her husband might be to mingle with his inferiors.
“Fine,” he said, and without another word he escorted her to her chair on the platform and left her there.
After greeting his friends from London, he, Lord Camden, and Tony helped themselves to some of the ale the cottagers were already enjoying and began strolling around the fairgrounds, pausing to watch the squire’s fourteen-year-old perform as an amateur juggler.
“So, my dear,” Roddy Carstairs said, leaning toward her, “is he madly in love with you yet? Shall I win our wagers?”
“Behave yourself, Roddy,” Melanie said from beside Alexandra.
“Do not dare to mention that dreadful wager in my presence!” snapped the dowager duchess.
Eager to watch Jordan from closer range, Alexandra stepped down from her ehair and descended the steps from the platform, with Melanie right behind her. “It isn’t that I’m not pleased to see him, but why is Roddy here? And the others?”
Melanie chuckled. “The others came with him for the same reason. Roddy is here. Our proximity to Hawthorne is suddenly making us quite popular with people who would normally not set foot in the country for weeks yet—they arrived yesterday, determined to have a look at how things were going with you and the duke. You know Roddy—he prides himself on knowing the gossip before everyone else does. I’ve missed you so much,” Melanie added, abruptly giving Alexandra a swift, affectionate hug, then she stood back, studying Alexandra’s face. “Are you happy with him?”
“I—yes,” Alexandra lied.
“I knew it!” Melanie said, squeezing Alexandra’s hand, so delighted that her prophecy was coming true that Alexandra didn’t have the heart to explain that she was married to a man whose moods were so unpredictable that she felt sometimes as if she were going quite mad. And so she held her silence and watched with bittersweet yearning as Jordan strolled around the livestock pens with his hands clasped behind his back, his expression suitably grave as he solemnly judged the plumpest poultry, the most promising pig, the best-trained dog, handing out prizes to their awed owners.
By the time the sun began to sink beneath the treetops, and the torches had been lit, the tenants and the nobles alike were all in rare high spirits, laughing and drinking ale together, while competing in every sort of contest from the serious to the silly. Jordan, Lord Camden, and even Roddy Carstairs, had joined in the archery contests, jousts, fencing and shooting matches. With quiet pride, Alexandra had stood on the sidelines, her heart swelling with tenderness while she watched Jordan deliberately miss his last shot in a shooting contest so that the thirteen-year-old son of one of his tenants would win. “The award goes to the best man,” Jordan had declared untruthfully as he presented the awed youngster with a gold sovereign. Then he threw off all pretense of dignity by strolling over to the turtle races, choosing a turtle from the basket, and insisting that his friends do the same. But he never once turned to glance at Alexandra. It was as if he was exerting himself to participate solely for the sake of his guests. Side by side with the children, three of London’s most illustrious nobles stood at the starting line, cheering their individual entrants, extolling them to run faster and then calling out in disgust when the turtles ignored their royal commands and retreated beneath their shells.
“I never liked turtles except in soup,” Tony joked, nudging John Camden in the ribs, “but that turtle of mine showed some mettle there for a moment. I’ll wager a pound yours stays under his shell longer than mine.”
“Done!” John Camden agreed unhesitatingly and began extolling his laggard turtle to remove his head from his shell.
Jordan watched them, his expression closed, and then he turned and walked over to a table where mugs of ale were being served by some of his kitchen maids.
“What the devil’s gotten into your illustrious cousin?” Roddy Carstairs inquired of Tony. “When the two of you were fencing, he looked like he was trying to draw your blood. Can it be he’s still jealous because his wife nearly married you?”
Deliberately keeping his attention on his turtle, Tony shrugged lightly. “What gives you the idea Hawk was ever jealous?”
“My dear boy, don’t forget I was at the Lindworthy ball the night he swooped down upon us like an avenging angel and ordered Alex home.”
“Because of that outrageous wager which you coerced her into placing,” Tony shot back, and pointedly turned all his attention to his turtle.
Helping himself to another glass of ale from the table, Jordan propped his shoulder against a tree, his expression thoughtful as he stood at the perimeter of the woods, watching Alexandra as her gaze searched the crowd, obviously looking for him. She’d been watching him all night, Jordan knew. So had Tony. And both of them were wearing the same baffled, uneasy expressions as if they expected him to be more overjoyed with his birthday celebration.
His gaze returned to Alexandra and he saw her laugh at something his grandmother said. He could almost hear the music of her laughter, and even in the encroaching dark he could almost see the way her eyes lit when she laughed. His wife. A murderess. Even as he thought it, his heart screamed a protest that his mind could no longer override. “I don’t believe it!” he bit out in a soft, furious whisper. The girl who had planned all this could not be planning his murder. The girl who had held him to her in the night, and teased him while they fished at the stream, and shyly presented him with her grandfather’s treasured watch could not possibly be trying to murder him.
“Your grace?” Fawkes’ urgent voice stopped Jordan as he straightened, intending to walk over to the shooting contests, which had become more humorous than intense as the contestants squinted through ale-blurred eyes at the target nailed to a tree. “I must insist you leave at once,” Fawkes wh
ispered, falling into step beside Jordan.
“Don’t be a fool,” Jordan snapped, completely out of patience with Fawkes and his theories. “The meaning behind my cousin’s note is obvious—they’d planned this party for me together, and that is undoubtedly why they met in secret those two times.”
“There isn’t time to argue about all that,” Fawkes said angrily. “It will be dark in a few more minutes and my men aren’t owls. They can’t see in the dark. I’ve sent them ahead to position themselves along your route home.”
“Since it’s already too late to reach the house in daylight, I fail to see what difference it makes if I stay here for a while.”
“I cannot be responsible for what happens if you don’t leave here at once,” Fawkes warned before he turned on his heel and stalked off.
“Can you believe those grown men are actually cheering their turtles on to victory?” Melanie chuckled, watching Tony and her husband. “I suppose I ought to go and remind them of the decorum required of men in their exalted positions,” she said, and carefully descended from the platform with no such intention in mind. “Actually, I want to be there to see the winner cross the line,” she confessed with a wink.
Alexandra nodded absently, scanning the open, cheerful faces of the cottagers, her gaze stopping on one disturbingly familiar face that wasn’t cheerful at all. Suddenly, for no reason at all, she found herself recalling the night she met Jordan—a balmy night just like this one—when two cutthroats held Jordan at gunpoint.
“Grandmama,” she said, turning to the duchess. “Who is that short man over there in the black shirt—the one with the red kerchief around his neck?”
The duchess followed her gaze and shrugged. “I’m sure I wouldn’t have the vaguest idea who he is,” she declared primly. “I’ve seen more of these cottagers today than I have in the entire thirty years I lived at Hawthorne. Not,” she added a trifle reluctantly, “that I don’t think your party was an excellent idea, my dear. Things have changed in England of late, and though I regret the necessity for pandering to those who serve us, it’s wise for a landholder to be on good terms with his tenants these days. One hears talk of them demanding more and more and turning quite nasty . . .”