Azalea Page 11

  "Apples, mostly," replied Jonathan, then proceeded to describe his father's orchards and the surrounding countryside in some detail.

  Azalea took little part in the discussion, content to watch with some amusement the conversation between her cousin and her erstwhile best friend. Marilyn leaned toward him, asking question after question, appearing genuinely fascinated by the topic. In fact, she was so absorbed in the conversation that she scarcely flirted at all.

  Without her assumed airs, she appeared even more attractive than usual, Azalea thought. Her fine blue eyes sparkled, and as she leaned forward she displayed an eagerness that seemed genuine rather than contrived.

  Azalea did not mind Marilyn's monopolization of her old friend —on the contrary, she was delighted. For all of Jonathan's outrageous compliments the night before, Azalea knew he would never see her as more than a little sister grown up. And at least one of her problems would be closer to a solution if Marilyn were to form an attachment for Jonathan, in lieu of Lord Glaedon.

  As if on cue, Smythe entered the parlour to announce his lordship. Marilyn looked up with a brilliant smile, her affections obviously not yet engaged to the point of whistling an earl and his fortune down the wind.

  Azalea felt her heart beat faster as she stole a glimpse at him, looking handsome as ever in a rust-coloured coat and fawn buckskins, then quickly turned her attention back to her plate.

  "My lord, how good of you to call," Lady Beauforth exclaimed delightedly. "Pray take a seat while I ring for a fresh pot of tea." After only the briefest hesitation, Lord Glaedon seated himself in the remaining empty chair, which happened to be next to Azalea.

  "How do you do, my lord," she murmured, not quite meeting his eyes. She was remembering their rather heated "discussion" last night and was suddenly embarrassed. How forward he must think her! And then there was that hint she had thrown out about his deceitfulness, perhaps undeserved.

  Or perhaps not. She stiffened her spine and raised her head to attend to the conversation.

  Marilyn was enthusiastically recounting one of the anecdotes Jonathan had just shared, apparently forgetting for the moment the Earl's dislike of America and its inhabitants. He did not seem especially put out, however, listening with polite interest as she concluded and Jonathan took up the story where she bad left off.

  Marilyn's unusual animation did not escape Christian's notice any more than it had escaped Azalea's, and he was just as able to make a shrewd guess as to its cause. He was surprised to realize that the idea did not disturb him in the least. Instead, he was aware of a distinct sense of relief that it was Marilyn and not her cousin who drew Mr. Plummer here.

  Clearly he had not engaged Miss Beauforth's affections to the extent she had led him to believe. Of a certainty, he had never been able to evoke the animation of spirits she was evincing now at the rustic tales of this colonial.

  To be fair, the fellow seemed likable enough, and did tell a good story. But who was he? Plummer? Christian couldn't remember ever having heard the name before last night. A friend of Miss Clayton's, Lady Beauforth had said.

  He listened more closely to the conversation in hopes of discovering more about him—and, perhaps, about the intriguing, maddening Miss Clayton as well. Though she sat in silence beside him, he was profoundly aware of her nearness.

  "So you see," Plummer was saying, "my grandfather had to be obeyed, even if it meant travelling halfway around the world for my education when there was a perfectly adequate, probably superior, university within walking distance of my home."

  "And what school might that be?" asked Christian, raising one brow sceptically. He seriously doubted that any "higher education" the colonies had to offer could compare to Cambridge or Oxford.

  "Why, the College of William and Mary, of course!" the other man answered with some surprise. "like Azalea, I am from Williamsburg," he said carefully. "We both grew up practically in the shadow of the College. It so dominated our lives that it is difficult to remember that there are those, especially here across the Atlantic, who may be unaware of its very existence." He regarded Christian rather strangely.

  "No, not quite that, I assure you. As a matter of fact, my father had a very close friend who, I believe, was a professor at that school."

  Mr. Plummer glanced at Miss Clayton, who seemed completely absorbed in examining the lace edging of her sleeve. "Who might that have been, my lord?" he asked after a moment. "I knew several of the faculty, and I believe Azalea was well acquainted with nearly all of them through her grandfather, who also taught there."

  Christian turned to the young woman at his side, but she still did not look up. Lady Beauforth began hastily to clear her throat, apparently preparatory to changing the subject, but Christian answered the question without hesitation.

  "A Reverend Gregory Simpson," he said. "He teaches, or taught, mathematics, I believe."

  "Well, if it ain't a small world!" exclaimed Mr. Plummer. He looked again at Miss Clayton, who this time was moved to speak.

  "He was my grandfather, my lord," she said quietly, meeting Christian's eyes for the first time since his arrival. "He died last spring, which is why I find myself in England. I—I knew of his friendship with the late Earl, but there seemed no opportunity, or reason, to mention it before this." She looked as though she were about to say more, but then decided against it.

  "I'm sorry, Miss Clayton," he said sincerely. "Believe me, I had no wish to distress you with painful recollections."

  He continued to regard her intently for a moment and was startled to see her colour rise. His own body began to stir in response and his pulse quickened.

  Christian had done his best to put Miss Clayton from his mind since last night's ball, and he'd thought he'd succeeded. But now, in her presence, he found himself more disturbed by her face and voice as ever. It was almost as though a part of him, deeply buried, was linked to a similar part of her. It made no sense.

  At this point, Lady Beauforth broke in with an observation on the decorations used at the Queesley's ball and Jonathan joined in determinedly, giving both Azalea and Christian a chance to reflect while appearing politely interested in the conversation.

  Azalea had known it was inevitable that the bond between their two families would come out in conversation sooner or later. She had even hoped for an opportunity to bring it up so that she could watch Lord Glaedon's expression for evidence of deception.

  His face had told her precisely nothing.

  He seemed genuinely sorry for her loss, and had betrayed not the slightest consciousness at the disclosure. For a moment, there had been something else in his eyes, a warmth that went beyond sympathy, but then it was gone.

  Now he merely looked thoughtful. Either Lord Glaedon was such an accomplished actor that he could give Edmund Keane a run for his money, or he honestly had no recollection of his weeks in Virginia.

  Or I'm losing my mind, and the marriage never took place.

  No! She had the papers to prove it.

  Christian, meanwhile, was every bit as preoccupied as the girl sitting beside him.

  Had his father mentioned Simpson's granddaughter? Was that why her name seemed familiar to him? It seemed the most probable explanation yet. He recalled that their disastrous trip to America was to have included a visit to Simpson's home, and she would likely have been mentioned in that context, though she could have been little more than a child at the time.

  But what of that elusive familiarity? Was it possible that Reverend Simpson had sent a likeness of the girl to his father and that he himself had seen it years ago? He could not remember such a thing among the old Earl's belongings. He resolved to go through them more carefully when he was next at Glaedon Oaks. He had to discover why she affected him so strongly.

  When Lady Beauforth had exhausted the subject of last night's decorations and began criticizing the refreshments served, Lord Glaedon rose and rather absently took his leave.

  Azalea was not sorry to see him go. She tr
ied to enter more fully into the discussion so that her companions would not notice her distraction, but Jonathan seemed well aware of the constraint in his friend's manner. He shot several significant looks her way, particularly when Lady Beauforth mentioned Lord Kayce's visit, making Azalea wonder if he knew something about her uncle.

  When Jonathan rose to leave, she quickly asked him to accompany her to the library to see a letter she had just received from a mutual friend in Williamsburg. He acceded willingly and to her relief, neither of her cousins seemed inclined to join them.

  His first words when they were alone, however, had nothing to do with Lord Kayce. "Say, 'Zalea, that fellow who just left, Lord Glaedon —isn't he the one who came to visit you in Williamsburg? I thought for certain it was when I first saw him, but then when he started talking, I wasn't so sure."

  Azalea froze. She had totally forgotten that brief meeting with Jonathan all those years ago. Swiftly, she made a decision. "No, that was his brother, who died in the recent war. I'm told they looked very much alike."

  To her relief, Jonathan appeared to accept her fabrication. She hated to lie, but she was completely unprepared to offer an explanation for Lord Glaedon's memory lapse, especially since she herself did not know what had caused it. Before he could ask any more questions, she changed the subject.

  "Tell me, Jonathan, what do you know of my uncle, Lord Kayce? You looked startled, even displeased, when Lady Beauforth mentioned him." Azalea realized that a man was more likely to have accurate information than even the best-informed female, and Jonathan moved in circles that would allow him to hear more than Mr. Timmons might ever discover.

  Jonathan looked uncomfortable. "I'll admit I have heard a few unpleasant things about him. Kayce has a reputation as a hard man, for all that soft front he puts on. And there are rumours that, well, cast doubt on his integrity."

  "Rumors?" Azalea asked sharply. "Have you specifics?"

  "Nothing's been proven, mind you," Jonathan replied. "But poor Jim Sykes challenged him to a duel last year over some business deal where he claimed Kayce cheated him, and was found dead— killed by footpads, it was said— before the meeting ever took place. My guess is Kayce didn't want to risk his precious person any more than his honour. Don't trust him, Azalea."

  "Thank you, Jonathan, I won't. Don't bruit it about just yet that he is my uncle, please. And let me know if you hear anything that you think I should know."

  She wished suddenly that she could ask him about Lord Glaedon, too. No doubt Jonathan could find out what sort of reputation he had and perhaps other things about him, as well. But she could not, not without giving explanations that she was not yet ready to give.

  Preoccupied with such thoughts, she bade him farewell.

  "Mr. Plummer seems a fine young man," declared Lady Beauforth when Jonathan had gone.

  "Did you not say he was but a year older than yourself?" asked Marilyn. "He seems far older, somehow. Doubtless due to his life in the wilds of America." A smile played about her lips.

  "And grandson to Lord Holte!" continued her mother. "Why did you never tell us before last night that you were acquainted with such an eligible gentleman, Azalea?"

  "Eligible, ma'am?" asked Azalea, startled to hear Jonathan mentioned in those terms.

  "Oh, quite!" Lady Beauforth assured her. "And he seems greatly taken with you, I notice. I doubt not with a little encouragement, he could be brought to make you an offer."

  Marilyn's delicate brows drew down in a quick frown, but Azalea almost choked on a laugh. "An offer? From Jonathan? I assure you, ma'am, that he regards me with nothing more than brotherly affection. Why, we practically grew up together!"

  Immediately, Marilyn's expression cleared. "Yes, Mama, you speak foolishness, surely," she said with something suspiciously like relief.

  Azalea did not hear Lady Beauforth's reply, for she was struck by the sudden realization that some gentleman might very well make her an offer if she continued to go on as she had last night, flirting and accepting dances as though she were in fact seeking a husband. It would not at all do to forget, amid the excitement of making new friends in London, that she was already a married woman.

  She would be more careful from now on, she vowed, and not encourage any such expectations. On no account would she risk breaking some poor man's heart. She knew only too well how that felt.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 8

  "I'm sorry, my lord. I have looked into every point of law that could be even remotely relevant to our case, but there is nothing we can do. The girl's claim cannot be doubted. Timmons, her man of business, has all the necessary proofs."

  "Yes, yes, you told me that before. That's why I called on her today." Lord Kayce eyed his fat solicitor with disfavour. "I pay you an exorbitant fee to protect my interests, Mr. Greely. Those interests are now threatened by a mere slip of a girl—a girl whose existence you somehow failed to apprise me of until last month. I must wonder whether you are worth your keep after all."

  The lawyer mopped his brow with an already damp handkerchief. "My lord, her claim against the Kayce estates is insignificant in comparison to the total. Your interests—"

  "That is not the point," snapped Kayce. "Why was I never informed that my fool of a brother had offspring? Is that not the sort of thing I employ you for? I dislike surprises, Mr. Greely."

  "It is usual that such heirs make application to the estate upon the decease of the holder, my lord. I have no idea why Miss Clayton or her representatives never wrote to us after your brother's death. Naturally, I assumed—"

  "I do not pay you to assume. What we must do now is figure a way out of this predicament. While the money involved may represent but a fraction of my holdings, I would prefer not to lose that particular acreage. If you recall, I had made certain arrangements that might be an, ah, embarrassment if they came to light."

  Mr. Greely paled visibly. "The right of way. I had forgotten, my lord. And if your niece contests the property, there will certainly be a full investigation." He appeared to think hard for a moment. "I cannot think she will care overmuch whether she receives the land itself, my lord. Perhaps she can be bought off. If you were to offer her a fair price for the acreage, she'd likely take it, particularly if she is as short of funds as you say."

  Kayce nodded slowly. "Perhaps. She would not be sending her maid to buy gowns for her in Soho were she well-fixed."

  Heartened, the lawyer went on eagerly. "She must surely be grateful for the way you have increased her inheritance over the years. It may even be possible to induce her to accept the original value rather than what it is worth now. That seems only fair. The extent of the Kayce holdings, to include her small piece of it, is solely to your credit. You had little enough to work with when your father died."

  That much was true. Though he had successfully forced his elder brother, Walter, to leave England permanently after their father's death, Simon had still struggled to bring profit out of the estates. The fourth Baron's gaming and spendthrift ways had all but depleted his resources. Simon had succeeded beyond anyone's expectations. He rather regretted that his father, who had always favoured Walter, could not have lived to see it.

  Word of Walter's death had changed nothing for Simon, except that he could now claim the title he had already felt entitled to by his brother's long absence. The fact that he had precipitated that absence himself was yet another matter he preferred not come to light. Not even Greely knew of it.

  With the entire fortune indisputably his, Kayce had redoubled his efforts accordingly, with spectacular results. Until last week, it had never occurred to him that his unmourned brother might have left anything behind beyond the estates and title.

  Today Simon Clayton, sixth Baron Kayce, was one of the wealthiest men in England —and one of the most feared. His reputation for ruthlessness was well deserved; he had let no foolish considerations of compassion or even the the law to stand in the way of his advancement. He lived for the power that came wi
th great wealth —and now found himself in the position of losing a galling amount to this upstart niece, unless she could somehow be disposed of.

  "It would be well if we could possess ourselves of those proofs you mentioned. Timmons, you said?"

  "Yes, at the Law Offices," Mr. Greely confirmed.

  Kayce nodded absently, his agile mind toying with the options. "I had thought a discreet accident might be necessary —indeed, certain arrangements have already been made that may bear fruit. But now I am entertaining other ideas. My niece is actually quite a beauty, I have discovered. I almost hate to see such a commodity go to waste if I could possibly turn it to my advantage."

  "Of course!" exclaimed Mr. Greely, struggling to sit up straighter in the overstuffed library chair. "Miss Clayton is but twenty years old!"

  Kayce began to smile. "Precisely. Who more appropriate for the role of guardian than her closest living relative? And as her guardian, it would be up to me to say where she weds."

  "If the girl is as attractive as you say, you might get two or three times the price of her inheritance in a marriage settlement," said the solicitor.

  "That and more, I should say." Kayce lapsed into thought. "Yes, that will do nicely, I think. Greely, ring for my valet. I believe a few discreet enquiries are in order."

  * * *

  Two afternoons later Azalea was still wrestling with her options, along with her latest attempt at embroidery. The Beauforth ladies were gossiping with Lady Mountheath and her acid-tongued daughters, who seemed to take an unholy glee in the shredding of reputations. Azalea had therefore retreated to needlework to avoid embarrassing her cousins with another outburst.

  English ladies appeared to consider needlework an absolutely necessary accomplishment for any woman with pretensions to quality, so Azalea had spent several fruitless hours since her arrival in London trying to master that feminine art. After much frustrating effort, she had finally reached a point where she could appear to be occupying herself with a canvas, so long as the observer did not examine her rather unusual designs too closely.