Hadrian (34 page)

“So you’re shuttling me offstage, keeping me from harm’s way, but aren’t you leaving Avis’s pretty flank exposed?”

Hadrian was silent and Fen’s eyes narrowed.

“For God’s sake, you aren’t setting a trap with Avis as bait?”

“She believes you innocent as well, but has it in her head that unless we solve this business of the notes, she must break our engagement. She sees that she’s sending you beyond the reach of suspicion and does not accept that she’s put herself closer to harm’s way by doing so. I could not argue her from that position.”

Fen tossed back whiskey that was likely older than he was. “God in heaven.”

“Or Lucifer in hell,” Hadrian rejoined. “Avie and I will make calls, attend services, and entertain our neighbors here at Landover, as if we’re truly anticipating matrimony—which I surely am. If the culprit does not come forward, she will thank me kindly and try to send me on my way.”

Hadrian had a creeping suspicion Avis would also send him on his way if her detractor were revealed.

“You’ll allow this?”

A whiff of honeysuckle teased Hadrian’s senses. “With Avis Portmaine, ‘allow’ doesn’t signify. I would rather send her to Manchester with you than embark on this scheme, but she’ll endure another twelve years of ostracism and vile notes unless something is done to resolve her situation.”

“Preferably something violent and permanent.” Fen held his glass under his nose, closing his eyes as if in prayer. “You think whoever is behind this will come after you, don’t you?”

“The most serious threat in those notes is to my life, not hers, and then only in the event of our marriage. The more it looks like we’re marrying, the more at risk I should be.”

“Why not send me here to Landover?” Fen took a sip of his drink then swirled the remaining contents gently. “I could keep an eye on your saintly self and keep my distance from Avie.”

Again, Hadrian was silent, and Fen’s eyes went cool.

“Because you don’t trust me after all,” Fen concluded. “You don’t want me to be guilty, but you aren’t sure I’m innocent. A man can hardly prove he hasn’t done something, unless he can discover who has done it.”

Fen referred to the Scottish verdict, unique in the British systems of justice—insufficient evidence. Not enough evidence to convict—or to exonerate.

“Avie’s safety has to come first,” Hadrian said, but it tore at him to all but accuse Fen this way. Fen had likely been judged enough in his life, maybe even enough to create an unreasoning anger at his betters. Avis, however, had been adamant that Fen must be placed beyond suspicion.

“Because in your position, I might reach the same conclusions,” Fen said, “I won’t call you out, though you should not get me drunk for the nonce, lest my sentiments express themselves in closed fists applied enthusiastically to your vulnerable parts.”

“For your restraint, I am grateful. Avis was insistent that you go, and she did not enlighten me as to her reasons. When do you leave?”

“First of the week, which assures it will be raining. Who are your other suspects?”

Was Fen’s acquiescence too easy, and why did Avis insist on his absence?

“That’s just it, we either accuse the entire shire, right down to the last gossiping goodwife, or we haven’t any other suspects, particularly not with access to the Belle Maison manor house.”

One dark eyebrow winged up. “Let me tell you something, Bothwell. Avis Portmaine could take my last groat, steal my first-born son, and slander me in the streets of London, and I’d still owe her.”

“That is a dramatic sentiment.” Sincere as well.

“But is it the truth?”

“Fen, if you can see another way, then stop pawing and posturing and share it with me. The handwriting is yours, the timing coincides with your tenure at Blessings, you’re private about your past, and you have reason to resent a woman to the manor born.”

That litany sounded damnably convincing, even to Hadrian’s ears, but he went on, because Fen had made no rejoinder.

“Avis is convinced I can’t turn this matter over to a magistrate without risking that you’ll be charged. You’re respected around here, and you wield a lot of authority. People take a certain glee when a man of stature falls low, and I doubt anyone would pass up the opportunity to drag Avie’s name through yet another scandal. Sending you south is the best we can do for now.”

“I don’t want to see your dilemma, but the magistrate would likely agree with you. Don’t expect me to thank you, though.”

Hadrian pushed away from the door to consider the note gracing his desk. Where in the bloody hell was Collins? Why didn’t his mother socialize? Why didn’t Fen volunteer a few details of his past when given the invitation?

“Sometimes strategic retreat is just that.” Hadrian had retreated to Oxford twelve years ago, retreated to the church, retreated into a marriage devoid of passionate sentiment—while Avis had had nowhere she could safely retreat to.

“Will you marry Lady Avis?” Fen asked, setting an empty glass down hard on the sideboard.

“I’ll damned sure try,” Hadrian said, crumpling Benjamin’s note. “It’s more a question of whether Avie will marry me. Now, let me apprise you of a few details regarding this trip of yours.”

“You needn’t look so guilty.” Fen checked the snugness of Handy’s girth with a definite pull. “I know what this little sortie is about, Avie, and I’m willing to go.”

Avis understood what Fen had left unsaid: Willing to go was not the same as happy to go.

He stepped back from his horse. “Don’t look at me like that. Let’s stroll in your garden and take our leave privately.”

The stable yard was swarming with grooms, porters and footmen loading the last of the wagons bound for Manchester, so Avis accepted Fen’s arm. From some window, Lily was likely watching and disapproving, about which Avis could no longer seem to care.

“You can trust Micah and Sam in the stables,” Fen began, head lowered so he could speak near her ear. “In the house, I’d trust no one, and I do mean no one.”

Avis kept her eyes front and her expression as bland. “Fen, I am sorry.”

“And well you should be, sending me away when you need your allies around you, but your situation requires a resolution, else I’d put you over my knee for this folly. You’re wise to appoint Bothwell your champion, but I cannot approve of toying with the man’s affections, Avie.”

How stern Fenwick sounded, how utterly serious.

“You encouraged me to dally with him, and now marriage to me could put Hadrian in danger.”

“I encouraged you to dally, yes.” Fen bent to snap off a white rose, but the blossom fell apart before he could bring it to his nose. “Dallying is good for morale, and you weren’t inclined to take advantage of my generous nature, but
he’s
not dallying, Avie. The poor sod loves you and probably has since boyhood.”

“Poor sod?”

“Any man who’s facing rejection from the woman he loves is a poor sod, so don’t argue with me. Before I go, I will have your assurances that you’ll take every precaution, listen to Bothwell, and trust no one save him, Micah and Sam.”

“Not even Lily?” For Lily would tell Avis not to trust Fenwick.

“You already keep a certain distance from dear Lily, though I’m not sure why. She’s honestly devoted to you.”

Lily was devoted to finding fault, scolding, and keeping the internal scales tipped to the side of fear, probably as a result of a vicarage upbringing. Why had it taken Avis so long to see that?

“Devotion can be a burden. I’ll miss you, Fen.”

“Not as much as you think you will. Bothwell will see to that.”

Was this jealousy? Teasing? Whatever it was, Avis didn’t like it. “Hadrian is an old friend, and you are another old friend.”

“Dear heart,”—Fen’s smile turned piratical—“come here.”

They were shielded by trees and foliage, so Avis stepped into his arms and let him embrace her. He knew how to hold a woman, knew how to comfort with bodily closeness and gentle strength, and that’s exactly how he lured her in.

Without Avis quite knowing how, though, he was kissing her. A buss to each cheek, then her forehead, then softly settling his lips on hers.

He was skilled. Stealthy, easy with his overtures, and careful not to hold her too tightly. When his tongue touched her lips, though, Avis put an end to his nonsense.

“What in blazes do you think you’re doing, Ashton Fenwick?” She stepped back and would have left his embrace, but he held her easily.

“Want to slap me?”

“Yes, in fact.” Though she wouldn’t slap him hard. This was Fen, and he was a friend, and she could make allowance for one kiss that apparently had some didactic purpose.

“You don’t want to slap old Bothwell when he kisses you, do you?”

“Fen, that is private.” Also true.

His embrace shifted, became less intimate without him moving. “Avie, you love him.” His voice was quiet, his tone patient or…despairing.

“Hush.” She should stomp away in high dudgeon. Instead, she hid her face against Fen’s broad shoulder, breathing in horse and new hay.

“You want to slap me when my kiss is a little too friendly, but you want to shed your clothes and devour Bothwell when he kisses you. Am I right?”

“What I want doesn’t matter.” When had it ever?

“What you want, my dear, is all that matters,” Fen said. “And you want him.” He gathered her closer, as if he could will the words to settle in her brain, and then he kissed her cheek again. “Wish me safe journey, and don’t get married without me on hand to instruct the groom and kiss the bride.”

She kept her arm linked with his as they turned back to the stables.

“I know you are trying to make a point by kissing me like that, and I understand you mean well.”

“But don’t do it again.” He patted her knuckles. “I won’t and you’re right: I overstepped to make my argument, and I will not do so again. I won’t need to.”

He said not another word to her, but parted from her at the mounting block, swung up on Handy and cantered off. Avis lowered herself onto the mounting block and watched the chaos of loading the wagons for long moments, letting the commotion swirl around her.

If Fenwick were smart, he’d keep right on going when he reached Manchester. More than anyone else, suspicion could all too easily fall on him. And yet, Fenwick had seen what Avis hadn’t wanted to admit:

She loved Hadrian Bothwell.

The next weeks saw Avis drawn into a campaign to restore her standing in the community.

Hadrian went hacking along the bridle paths with her, added a call on the vicar, then escalated to calling on those most likely to receive her cordially—the widower barons who could talk hounds and horses with him, the tenants of both estates, the recent arrivals to the area who’d have no first-hand knowledge of Avis’s past.

As they made one call after another, something in Avis relaxed, like the land eased out of the grip of winter into the benevolent embrace of the summer sun.

With Hadrian by her side, she was accepted as she hadn’t been for twelve years. She still suffered nerves when they stood at somebody’s front door, waiting for that eternity between knocking and being admitted, but Hadrian would merely smile at her, or tuck her hair behind her ear, or squeeze her hand, and the anxiety calmed.

While an entirely different uneasiness grew.

Hadrian was invariably polite, affectionate, and otherwise attentive, but he hadn’t made love to her again, and Avis didn’t know how to bring it up.

“Will you join me for tea?” Hadrian asked as the horses trotted up the long drive to Landover. “It’s early yet, and we have plenty of time to walk you home.”

“Let’s picnic,” Avie suggested. A picnic at least put them together on a blanket in private.

He slowed the horses to a walk. “Up at the pond?”

“I had somewhere else in mind.”

“As my lady wishes.” Within a half hour, they were walking through the back gardens, a hamper between them, a blanket on Hadrian’s shoulder.

“Where are we going, Avie?”

The question of the hour, day, week, month and season. “To the mare’s paddock.”

His pace slowed. “I would not have chosen that spot, but I bow to your judgment.” They set up under some trees, across the meadow from the crumbling remains of the cottage where Avis had been assaulted.

Not quite raped, not in the classic definition of the crime, but intimately assaulted.

The view was picturesque, as if the cottage were a folly or a ruin purposely designed to decorate that particular vista. Mares and foals napped, grazed, or swished at flies in the sun; harebells the same color as Hadrian’s eyes grew along the pasture fence.

Avis yanked off her boots, then her garters and stockings, angry because the very landscape had been violated by Hart Collins and his crime.

“I’ll burn it if you like,” Hadrian said, wrestling with his own boots. “Burn it, bury the ashes, and plant a rowan tree or whatever you please.”

“I would like that.” Avis made up her mind as the words left her lips. “I would also like it if you made love with me, right here, right now.”

The idea had percolated along the edge of her awareness every time she’d walked or ridden this direction with Hadrian over the past few weeks. She’d had no specific intentions when she’d asked Hadrian to escort her here, though a sort of tension had been coiling more and more tightly in her heart, in her spirit—and in her body.