Improper English (23 page)

I wadded up the letter and looked around my flat. Sometimes you just couldn’t win. Sometimes you didn’t even come close.

“Fare thee well, Sir Christopher! May God speed you on your way to the Holy Land.”

With a curt nod of his manly head, Sir Christopher donned his conical helmet and wheeled his mighty destrier about, putting his spurs to the great horse’s belly. So the Lady Fenella wished him Godspeed, did she? Ha! He’d not soon forget her cutting remarks about the wisdom of riding Black Demon. As if he’d give up his favorite destrier just because of a little problem with the horse’s vision. Why, just look at what a fine mettle The Demon was in as they galloped through the bailey toward the drawbridge. His head was up, his nostrils flared, his ebony mane streaming back over Sir Christopher’s hands, the very picture of a noble steed at his most glorious.

“Blast!” I glared over to where the phone was ringing, interrupting me just as I was really getting into the rhythm of my story. I knew who it was. Oh, yes, I knew who was calling me, who had been finding excuses to call me all morning, and I was on to her game. I wasn’t going to be browbeaten into hearing yet another lecture on the shambles of my life. The phone continued to ring, finally driving me to snatching it up and snarling, “Isabella, I’m busy right now!”

“Oh…Alix? Good morning. This is Bert. I just wanted to call and see how you were feeling this morning. I know it’s none of my business, but Ray and I were concerned.”

I stopped glaring at the phone, touched by the genuine kindness in Bert’s voice. “Thank you, I’m feeling much better. In fact, I was just working on my new story when you called. I had no idea you were home. Why don’t you pop up for lunch? I make a mean grilled turkey, Swiss, and bacon sandwich.”

A smile warmed her voice. “I’m glad to hear you’re writing again. I know how such a setback can affect creativity. I’d love to have lunch with you, but I’m at work, not at home. I spoke with Isabella, and she mentioned that you were still a bit blue, so I thought I would telephone.”

I snorted a particularly disbelieving snort. “Bert! I’m surprised at you!”

“I…why?”

“Allowing yourself to be used as Isabella’s tool of vengeance! Or rather, in this case, curiosity.”

“Oh, but I—”

“Isabella’s miffed at me because in the space of the last two hours she’s invited me to lunch, tea, and dinner,
as well as made offers to indulge in a cozy chat or a walk in Hyde Park. I’ve turned her down because I have no desire to hear her lecture me on
What I’m Doing Wrong with Alexander the Great
.”

Bert apologized, which made me feel guilty for snapping at her, so after I apologized and we spent a few minutes in mutual reassurances that we were both doing well, I hung up.

“Right,” I told my laptop. “Where was I?”

“My pardon, Sir Rennick,” Sir Christopher called as Black Demon suddenly swerved and slammed against his knight’s gray gelding. He pressed hard with his right knee, muttering as he did so, “To the left, Demon, the left! No, no, back to the…God’s teeth, my apologies, Sir Henry. The sun must have been in Demon’s eyes. You were not injured? Excellent. Onward, my knights! Onward to the glory of God!”

I swore an appropriately medievalish oath when the phone rang again. It would be Isabella, I was sure, calling to apologize for setting Bert on me. “Hello?”

“Freemar. Ray Binder here. Heard you’re not feeling the thing. Not still crying over Black, are you?”

“Hi, Ray. No, I’m not wasting any more tears on him. In fact, I’m in the middle of writing a scene now, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to it while the story is still fresh in my mind.”

“Ah. Good. Remount when you’ve been thrown. We’ll see you on Friday.”

Ray rang off as I fought to eliminate the picture of taking Alex’s stallion for a ride. It was touch-and-go there for a moment, but at last I wrestled my mind from
the contemplation of his nether parts and onto my story, where it belonged.

Lady Fenella rolled her eyes as her obstinate, pigheaded, “always right, never wrong” betrothed led his men off in a decidedly zigzag path. At least she wouldn’t have to put up with his self-righteous insistence that she yield all decisions to him. She was the chatelaine of Rosehill, after all! He was merely a lowly knight. True, she would miss his secret visits to her bedchamber in the dark of the night, but surely his wasn’t the only stallion in the stable.

“Now I have stallions on the brain,” I muttered, and hit the backspace key, then made an annoyed noise as the phone rang yet again. “What am I, the operator or something? Hello, yes, it’s Alix.”

“Alix, how very nice to hear your voice!”

I sighed. “Good morning, Karl. How are things in the wild, wacky world of dentistry?”

“As expected, Alix, as expected. How are you holding up? Isabella tells me you’ve had a falling out with Alex and are a bit under the weather.”

“Isn’t that just so sweet of Isabella notifying everyone I know in London to call and check up on me,” I ground out between clenched teeth. “I’m fine, Karl, just fine. Not suicidal, not crying over my broken heart, just trying to get on with my life by writing a new story. So if you’ll excuse me—”

“Ah. Yes. Certainly. Just as you say. Perhaps you’d like to go to the theater with me some night?”

“That would be lovely. Thank you for calling. Goodbye!”

I set the receiver down in the cradle with all the care of a mongoose with a ripe egg. After ten seconds, when it didn’t ring I returned to my story. Who else was left to call but Isabella herself and Alex? Alex was probably working his long, sensitive fingers to the bone and couldn’t be bothered to call me even if he wanted to, which he certainly wouldn’t after I’d told him we were finished, while Isabella was no doubt busy dreaming up new ways to torment me until I gave in and allowed her to lecture me.

Edythe, the willowy, flaxen-haired maid, burst into Lady Fenella’s solar, her naturally slender hands dancing madly as she choked out an unintelligible word. “My lady! Oh, my lady! You must come quick! It’s Sir Christopher!”

Lady Fenella glanced at the angle of sunlight streaming through the opened shutters. Surely it had only been a few moments since she had seen her betrothed off? “What about Sir Christopher, Edythe?”

The maid’s hands fluttered helplessly. “His horse has fallen into the moat, my lady! With Sir Christopher on his back! And now…oh, now, my lady…” Edythe’s hands stopped fluttering long enough to cover her eyes as she sobbed and wailed.

“What? Don’t tell me—now the horse can see?”

The phone rang. “Yes?” I snarled into it, ready to blister the ear of Isabella or Alex, whichever one had the nerve to disturb me. I’d never get the story written at this rate!

“Hello, Alix,” a soft, almost breathy voice said.

“Uh…hello.” I didn’t recognize the voice or the accent, but assumed that since the man knew my name, it
must be someone I’d had contact with. Perhaps it was one of Daniel’s friends? Someone from Maureen Tully’s office?

“This is Philippe. Philippe from downstairs.”

Philippe? Philippe was calling me? Whatever for? “Hi, Philippe. How nice to hear from you. I take it you must have received some of my mail by mistake?”

“Yes. No, I mean, yes it is nice to hear from you as well, no I do not have any of your post. Isabella—”

“Aha!” I knew it! I knew she had to be behind Philippe’s call. Why else would he call me with that distracted, worried-sounding voice? Well, I’d nip this in the bud! “Thank you for calling me, Philippe. Isabella was wrong, I’m not depressed or sad or blue or anything, I’m just fine, fine and dandy, peachy damn keen in fact, so you can go about your day secure in the knowledge that you’ve done what you could to save me from destruction.”

“Ah,” he responded breathily. “Ah. I see. Yes. Then I will ring off.”

“Thank you,” I said even as I plotted my revenge on a certain slinky landlady. “Have a nice day.”

“Ah,” he said again before I hung up. I looked at the phone. It looked back at me. I waited. I waited some more. I got tired of waiting after five minutes and went back to my story.

Edythe peeked through her fingers, her mouth an O of astonishment. “How did you guess, my lady? Yes, ’tis said that now the great black brute can see again, but oh, my lady, at what price? At what price?”

“I don’t know at what price, Edythe,” Fenella
snapped, tired of all the fuss about a mere horse. And an ugly one at that! “You must tell me.”

“Oh, my lady, the horse can see, but…but…Sir Christopher hit his head on the tapstone as he was pulled out and now…now he is blind!”

I pounced on the phone before it completed the first ring. “Isabella?”

There was a momentary pause. “Why, yes, it is me, Alix. How prescient of you to know that. I was doing a little dusting and found I have a box of Belgian chocolates that I will never eat, and thought perhaps you might like—”

It was useless, and I knew it. Isabella knew it, too. I could hear amusement in her voice. “I’ll be up at four for tea. Earl Grey. Curried chicken sandwiches. The chocolates. OK?”

“What an excellent idea! I’m so glad you want to come to tea. You can tell me all about your new book. I’ll see you then.”

“I don’t understand how you can write a novel if one of the characters is blind.”

“The characters aren’t blind,” I snorted.
“That’s
been done before. In my story, it’s not the hero who’s blind, it’s his horse. Well, actually, the hero is blind for a bit, but not for very long, just long enough for the heroine to save him from the dreaded Indigo Knight.”

“Ah.” Isabella adjusted a lovely Creamware vase of salmon-pink roses and glided over to tweak the colorful table runner on her dining room table straight. “Why is the horse blind?”

I opened my mouth once or twice while I struggled for
an answer. “It’s…uh…unique. A unique story angle.”

“And unique is good?”

“In the world of fiction, sometimes. Well, OK, not often unless you’re Stephen King or someone famous like that, but I decided that the only thing I have going for me is my dedication to writing the story of my heart, so that’s what I’m doing.”

She paused in adjusting a cluster of knickknacks residing on the top of an elegant rosewood sideboard and slid a glance my way. “Indeed? And that story of your heart concerns a man and his blind horse?”

I nodded, waiting for her to spit out what she really wanted to say.

“Indeed,” she said again, and moved off to the sitting room to fuss with the tea tray. I plodded after her, feeling about as graceless as a moose in a closet. It must be her mind ray working overtime on me. I sat where she directed me and accepted a cup of steaming tea despite the fact that it was another hot August day.

“Tell me more about this story of your heart.”

I plucked two tiny curried chicken sandwiches from the plate and sat back. “You want to know more about the storyline?”

“No, I want to understand just what it is that makes a story the story of your heart.”

“Oh, that just means the story is very near and dear to me.”

One rose-tipped finger traced the gilt rim on her teacup. “So the story is one that has meaning for you? It has a connection with you beyond merely a plot you think the public will enjoy?”

“That’s right.” I watched her finger continue to stroke
lazy circles around the rim of her cup. A faint feeling of guilt was manifesting itself, and I had no idea what caused it, but I didn’t like it. I tamped down on it and continued. “I read about this in a writing magazine. A story of the heart is something more than just an ordinary story, it’s one that has its source in the heart and soul of the writer. It’s personal, oftentimes based on real emotions and events in the writer’s life.”

“Yes, I can understand that. So this story you’ve decided to write, the one with a stubborn knight who refuses to acknowledge the importance of his lady love because it is more important that he go on a Crusade than save her from marauding rogue knights—that story has a deeper meaning to you?”

I narrowed my eyes. Suddenly I knew what she was about—she was trying to trap me into admitting that my latest book featured a thinly disguised representation of Alex and me. Ha! Other than some cosmetic likenesses, nothing could be further from the truth!

“That’s not quite true. This new novel,
A Harlot’s Love
, is a story of my heart simply because I…er…well, I know what Lady Fenella…that is, I can relate to the…uh…
stresses
she’s under…uh…trying to…well, you’ll just have to take my word that it’s not what you said. It’s just a story of my heart, and that’s all there is to it.”

Isabella raised an eyebrow at the tone of belligerence that had somehow crept into my voice. I jumped ahead before she could dissect my writing any further. “So you can just forget about trying to draw parallels between Sir Christopher the Obstinate and Sir Alex the Boob. And speaking of Alex, why don’t you go ahead and do it?”

Both eyebrows rose now. “Do what?”

I chewed my tiny triangle of a sandwich and licked a bit of curried chicken off my finger. “Lecture me. Go ahead. You know you’re dying to tell me exactly what I’m doing wrong with Alex. Oh, come on, don’t even
try
to look surprised! You know that’s the whole reason you’ve been trying like mad to get me up here, so you can tell me to back off of Alex and be a nice little doormat to keep His Puissance happy while he walks all over me. Well, sister, I’m here to tell you, that is not going to happen in this or any other lifetime!”

“Alix, honestly, I wasn’t trying to meet with you to lecture you about your problems with Alexander, and I certainly would never advise you to be a doormat.”

I made suspicious squinty eyes at her. She batted her lashes in a damned good imitation of innocence.

“If you didn’t want to tell me what I should be doing with Alex, then why were you trying so hard to get me up here?”

A warm smile spread across her lips. The sight of it made my eyes go even more squinty.

“Because you are my friend and you are troubled! I simply thought you might like to have some time away from your problems, and perhaps to take advantage of a shoulder to cry on.”