Hadrian (12 page)

For a moment, Harold let jealousy tear at him. Louise and Finch had made children together, they’d endured an arranged match together, and planned their respective escapes from it—together. Such closeness had a lasting, unassailable quality that Harold envied.

Then he saw how the breeze snatched at Andy’s hair, and let the jealousy flutter away on the morning sunbeams.

“I have no regrets,” Harold said. “Hadrian would no more approach Avis while I was on hand than you’d approach me with him looking on.”

“I love being able to approach you,” Finch said, covering Hal’s hand with his own. “I love not having to lock doors and wait for the servants to go to sleep, or having always to make certain I’m back in my own rooms before the chambermaids stir.”

“I can’t believe it’s real,” Harold said, closing his fingers around Finch’s.

Finch smiled the smile of a beloved conspirator. “It’s real, but you’re worried for your brother.”

“No, actually.” Harold had to look away from that smile, much as he’d had to look away from gulls wheeling in the direct path of the sun. “I was worried, when he went haring back to university, no longer set on a cavalry commission, but spouting fancies about the church.”

“One can see how that might cause you to worry.”

“Not for me.” The gulls were back, flapping to a landing on the gunwale, then folding their wings as if settling in for a listen. “I was worried for Hay. He’s too genuine for the church, too uncomplicated, unsubtle, and yet he’s smart enough to put those qualities on for a time, as needs must.”

Finch kissed Harold’s knuckles. “Nobody gets through life without a little dissembling.”

“A little, maybe, but we both know what a steady diet of pretending to be something you’re not does to a person’s soul.”

Finch studied their joined hands. “We do.”

“I thought Hadrian would offer for Avie before he went back to finish his studies, but something happened, I know not what, and they parted company.”

“Sometimes it’s life happening.” Finch closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun. “I shall become as sunburned and wind-chapped as all these Danish sailors, and swill good beer, and sing like they do.”

“You’ll get wrinkles.” Harold would adore those wrinkles too.

“Character lines.” Finch opened his eyes and grinned. “They’re good-looking fellows, those sailors.”

“Tramp.” Harold couldn’t keep the affection from his voice.

“Just making an observation.” Finch closed his eyes again. “What will your vicar do?”

“What he’ll probably do is be a perfect gentleman. I raised him to be a perfect gentleman.”

“Probably?”

“What he ought to do is dally with a willing lady, assuming Avie has as much sense as I think she does, and see where matters go.”

“He might hurt her. Badly.”

“He might get hurt, badly, and he might not. Avis can tell him she’s not interested, and then he can do that perfect-gentleman business.”

“So write to him, Harold. You warned him about Collins, now write him something to remind him his big brother is still on the job.”

“Write him about the dallying?”

“Romance, my love, is romance, and loneliness is loneliness, and sex is sex. He’s your brother, your only family, and he’s asking for your guidance.”

“I suppose he is. Fancy that.”

“The vicar is trying to stray.” Finch crossed his arms and settled back against his chaise. “You’ve given him a clear and worthy example—once again.”

Fenwick glared from the back of his unprepossessing horse. “It’s your fault my hands have been smelling like bloody damask roses and comfrey these three days and more. I hope you’re pleased with yourself, Bothwell.”

“My fault?”

“Avis and her salves and liniments and whatnots.” Fenwick’s mount stomped a back hoof, as if in sympathy with his owner. “Next she’ll have me carrying a fan.”

“She sent some salve over to Landover,” Hadrian countered, while Caesar stood like a perfect gentleman. “Considerate of her.” Though who was considerate of Avie, besides Fenwick in his backhanded way?

“She’s kind. But roses, Bothwell? You might have kept your gloves on when she came calling and spared us both.”

“She likes roses, and writing letters while wearing gloves is awkward.” Caressing a woman’s cheek while wearing gloves would be awkward too.

“She likes you, and fussing.”

Avis probably liked Fenwick too—as did Hadrian. “Let her fuss. I’ve something to discuss with you.”

“My petty complaints and indignities can be cast to the wind while I await your every word, fairly panting to know what I might do for you.”

Nobody talked to their vicar that way, more’s the pity.

“As you should be,” Hadrian rejoined, “
humbly
awaiting. I wish I did not have to raise this topic, for your complaints are always at least colorful, but the discussion is necessary.”

The bantering light died from Fen’s dark eyes, and he nudged his horse forward. “Say on.”

Hadrian let Caesar fall in step beside Handy. “My brother has made inquiries on his journey regarding Hart Collins.”

“The sodding bastard who raped Lady Avie?”

Blunt masculine speech was also something Hadrian hadn’t heard much of while tending to the Lord’s flock. He hadn’t realized until that moment how much he’d missed it.

“That would be he. Collins decamped to the Continent on the end of Harold’s boot twelve years ago, though Harold never said as much, but the baron slinks back occasionally, or so Harold says.”

“Harold has kept track of Collins all these years?”

“He has, or he, Benjamin, and Vim have between them and their various correspondents. According to Harold, Collins is pockets to let and reported to be on his way back into the country.”

“This is good news,” Fenwick said, sitting up straighter in the saddle. “Now we can kill him.”

How refreshing. “As simple as that?”

“Among some indigenous peoples, when a woman is violated, her community considers itself violated, and the entire village is justified in seeking revenge. A quaint concept, but it effectively discourages that particular trespass against women.”

“Alas, there’s that bit about thou shallt not kill among my people—another quaint concept. Even if the Almighty didn’t take a dim view of murder, Avie would hear of it, and if one of us stood trial for it, she’d suffer.”

Fenwick shifted his gaze to the heavens as if praying for patience. “There you go again, thinking things through when what’s wanted is a little spontaneous violence.”

“Spontaneous violence is how Avie was hurt in the first place.”

Fenwick drew his horse up. “Choir Boy, you are in error. She was hurt as a result of premeditated violence, planned, complete with accomplices, and executed in cold, if semi-inebriated, blood.”

Fen’s characterization was accurate. “She’s spoken to you about it?”

“Never once, and yet it’s present at many points in our conversations.”

From what Hadrian had observed, the past loomed over Avie’s every waking moment, and probably her sleeping moments too.

That was untenable, and yet, Avie could not remedy matters on her own.

Fenwick went ahead where the path narrowed, held a branch back, then let go so it smacked Hadrian in the chest. “She danced with me at the shearing party.”

“One noticed this. You dance well.”

“For a lumbering ox? A person can’t survive in the Scottish Highlands making a racket the game will hear a hundred yards off. But yes, I danced with her. Did you notice how all eyes followed us and how that Prentiss creature fretted?”

“I did. You and Avis are a handsome couple and Avis is the lady of the manor.” Hadrian wasn’t entirely sure what Lily Prentiss’s function was.

“We’re handsome
friends
,” Fenwick said, allowing Hadrian to take a turn going first. “That one dance will cost her months, possibly years of gossip.”

“Because she danced with somebody who works for her family?”

“Because she danced
at all
. She deserves to dance as much as you, me, Gran Carruthers, or old Sully, but she hasn’t, not a waltz, not since I’ve known her. The Prentiss woman can dance with you all night, and she’s simply being gracious to a widower, but if Avie dances, she’s thrown herself at her partner, shown a lack of restraint, and flirted with ruin all over again.”

Placed as he was, above the menials, below the best society, Fen would hear the talk, and his words confirmed Hadrian’s sense of the situation.

Hadrian held a branch back for Fen, and did not let it go until Handy had passed before it.

“The small-minded few will always find someone to prey on with their gossip,” Hadrian said. “I am more concerned with the threat from Collins, should he decide to destroy Avie’s peace.” Hadrian was concerned about Avie’s reputation and her safety, in truth, and the solution to those problems lay within his grasp.

“Collins won’t show his face around here.”

“His seat is not five miles distant, Fenwick.” More significantly, if Harold had charged Hadrian specifically with protecting Avie from this threat, then the threat was real. “You are not to do anything rash without a choir boy at your side.”

“What would the bishop say?”

“He’d say, ‘Pray devoutly, but hammer stoutly.’”

“Smart fellows, those old bishops.”

“Some of them, at least when sober. I haven’t joined you on your morning ride for the sheer pleasure of your company, Fenwick.”

Fenwick batted his lashes. “How you do flatter a fellow. I take it you’re on your way to call on Avie?”

“I am.” Despite the knowledge that while Avie had danced a
ländler
with Hadrian, she’d danced the waltz far more publicly with Ashton Fenwick—who viewed avenging her honor with reckless glee.

Fenwick gave his horse a loud, whacking pat. “About time you showed the colors, Choir Boy. I’ve told Avie my money is on you. You’ll do her a power of good, if she allows it.”

Hadrian certainly hoped so. “You aren’t concerned about gossip, old scandal or worse?”

“You’ll be discreet or I’ll cut your balls off,” Fenwick said easily. “Word of friendly warning, though?”

“That wasn’t a warning?”

Fenwick’s smile was sweet, though Hadrian had reason to know the knife ever present at his side was lethally sharp. “That was a promise, love. The fair Lily will cut your balls off even if you are discreet, should she learn you intend to build on your friendship with Avie.”

“Harsh.” But friendly enough on this lovely morning. “Lily seems devoted to Avie, and the perfect lady’s companion.” If a bit fretful.

They turned onto the trail that led to the Blessings stable yard. “You’re not after ladylike behavior from our Avie, are you?”

“One doesn’t admit such a thing. I’d have Avie decide what she wants and doesn’t want.”

“This time, you mean. That’s the entire point of the exercise, isn’t it?”

Hadrian added penetrating insight to Fenwick’s short list of good qualities, rare bouts of penetrating insight.

“May I ask why you haven’t given Avie the opportunity to choose, Fenwick?”

“What makes you think I haven’t?” Fenwick’s sleepy, sensuous, satisfied smile made Hadrian’s fingers itch to hold a sharp knife against certain parts of Fenwick’s anatomy.

Which impulse deserved consideration, because in several years of marriage, Hadrian could never once recall being jealous of Rue.

“You haven’t made Avie any offers,” Hadrian said. “She would not be as relaxed and trusting of you if you had.” Would never have danced with him in public, either.

“She doesn’t view me as anything other than an unruly brother, and she’s needed that more than a doting swain, at least up to this point.”

Fenwick’s explanation made sense, though it felt incomplete. He’d been on the property for years, which could make dallying convenient, but also, when one wanted privacy, solitude, or an end to the dallying, mortally inconvenient.

“You’re making it too complicated,” Fenwick said as they turned into the Blessings stable yard. “I’m Avie’s friend and her steward, and I’ll be her henchman should Collins show his ugly, evil face, but she’s weighed me in the scales and found me wanting, Bothwell. Not so, you.”

A fine speech—complete with a reference to the book of Daniel, chapter five, verse 27—though fundamentally mendacious.

“You’ve weighed yourself in the scales and come up with the idea you’re wanting,” Hadrian said, “but there’s more to this situation than you can perceive, and discretion forbids that I share it with you.”

“Have to get you drunk then, for the tale wants telling, and I’d take it with me to my grave.” He winked at Hadrian, then hopped off his horse, landing as softly as a kitten.

Hadrian decided on a sneak attack and went around to the back of the Blessings manor house, thinking to use an entrance other than the front door. He came upon Avie denuding a bed of pansies of its fallen soldiers, a tartan blanket spread beneath her knees.

He dropped beside her and pulled off a dead blossom. “You should be wearing a hat, shouldn’t you?”

Avie smiled over at him, momentarily disorienting him, for her eyes held a shy greeting and maybe a hint of challenge. “Shouldn’t you as well?”