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Authors: Theresa Romain

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BOOK: Season for Surrender
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This time, Lady Audrina wore a silk-lined cloak and held a large pepper grinder in her arms. Four men sat on chairs, each rowing a broom like an oar. Jane Tindall, now wearing a green hooded cloak, jumped from behind the edge of the screen and thrust a lit taper at them.
Lady Audrina shook the pepper grinder over Jane, and Jane blew out the taper and collapsed. Channing seized the bearskin from the door, then took Lady Audrina's hand and helped her onto his chair.
Xavier drew the screen back across the actors. “End of the second tableau.”
Before he followed the actors out of the room, he glanced at Louisa again. Remarkable eyes he had, Lady Irving noted. Gray as slate. When those eyes fixed on a woman—well. She was done with all that nonsense. But as one corner of the earl's mouth curled into a subtle smile, she could almost wish she were young again.
Louisa's cheeks had gone pink again by the time Xavier departed. “It really is warm in here, isn't it?”
“No,” said Lady Irving. “Must be your imagination heating you up. Did you figure out the tableau?”
Louisa frowned.
“Frowning is vulgar, my girl.”
“So is public chastisement,” Louisa muttered. “And yes, I figured it out,” she added more loudly. “It was Medea.”
“Well spotted,” called Lord Kirkpatrick. “She slew the dragon so that Jason could take the Golden Fleece. Like an avenging angel!”
Ninny. “Someone needs a new figure of speech,” said Lady Irving.
“That was a Golden Fleece?” Mrs. Protheroe laughed. “That poor bearskin will never be the same again.”
Sylvia Alleyneham asked, “So what is the letter? M for Medea?”
Louisa shrugged. “Or J for Jason, or A for Argonauts.”
The actors paraded back into the room then, preventing further reply.
The third tableau was easy to guess, even for Lady Irving, who'd never fancied herself a scholar. Lockwood wore pieces of the beleaguered suit of armor and held a large pillow. The other actors stood in a line in front of the extended screen, and Lockwood mowed them all down with his pillow. He then slammed the pillow into the screen, knocking it over, and stood triumphantly with his foot on the body of Mr. Channing.
The dead bodies all rose, righted the screen, and filed out behind it.
“That one is obviously Troy,” said Lord Weatherwax as soon as the actors had left.
Lady Irving turned to stare at the old drunkard; around the room, fabrics rustled as everyone else did the same.
Weatherwax drained his goblet. “Well, I mean to say, it was obvious. Walls falling down, you know.” He smothered a hiccup. “Never would have seen Lockwood as Aeneas, myself. Not exactly the hero type.”
Louisa snorted.
“Snorting is vulgar,” Lady Irving reminded her below the growing hubbub. Nearly everyone was speculating about the secret word now that there was only one tableau left.
“B-A-T?” called Sylvia Alleyneham. “He could be talking of bats?”
“Or a bath,” said Louisa. “Though I can't imagine why.”
She went pink again, which no doubt meant she was imagining Lord Xavier in the bath.
“Hmmm.” Lady Irving gave her the Skeptical Eyebrow as the actors returned for the last time.
In the final tableau, Lady Audrina wore the leaves of a hothouse plant pinned across her gown. Again, a wreath sat upon her head, and she held hands with Mr. Channing, who looked uncomfortable with leaves pinned across his pantaloons. Freddie Pellington stood on a chair, holding a broken branch from a miniature orange tree in each hand.
Lockwood crouched behind him in a dark cloak, peering out every few seconds and putting out his tongue. He reached under his cloak and drew out an apple, setting it on one of Pellington's arms. Then he tapped Lady Audrina on the shoulder and knocked the apple neatly into her outstretched hand.
“That's our last tableau. Does anyone have a guess?” Xavier asked.
There was a good-humored gleam in his eye. And Louisa was leaning forward like she could eat him up with a spoon.
Hmph
, thought Lady Irving. The earl was staring at Louisa's bosom now. Didn't look so smile-faced all of a sudden. If he wasn't careful, everyone would notice that he was watching her as if she were the only woman in the world.
Everyone
should
notice. She, Estella, Lady Irving, had never seen that look on his face before. And she'd kept a close eye on a series of rakes, ever since she'd first overseen Louisa's debut.
But the flurry of activity among the actors—not the smoldering looks their host was flinging about—had caught everyone else's attention. Pellington stepped down from the chair, and Channing began unpinning the leaves from his pantaloons at once.
“These are dashed heavy, I say,” Pellington said, setting the branches down. “Anyone want an orange? Probably killed the tree, and whatnot.”
“It's the garden of Eden!” Honestly. A woman of Sylvia Alleyneham's age should have more dignity than to squirm about like a puppy.
“Yes, but what is the secret word?” Lady Irving barked. “I had B-A-T before this, and now what? B-A-T-G spells nothing. Is the answer Adam? Or the serpent? B-A-T-S?”
“The second letter has to be A,” agreed Lord Kirkpatrick. “That's the only way to get a word that makes sense.”
Xavier's smile widened. “The answer is not
bats
, but I can't give you any clues.”
At Lady Irving's side, Louisa was lacing and unlacing her fingers. “The first clue—what could it be? There's B or C for the boar, and A for Artemis or Atalanta. What else was in the scene?”
“I've no inkling, my girl. You're on your own with that guess.” Lady Irving flexed her ankles again. “How about another log on the fire, Xavier?”
A wood fire for Twelfth Night. Positively sumptuous. Louisa could do worse than marry him. If Lady Irving didn't mistake the matter, there was something suspicious about this whole game. Positively designed to capture Louisa's attention, it was.
Which meant there was no reason on earth the solution should be
bats
, or
bath,
or anything nondescript like that.
“Keep thinking, my girl,” she urged Louisa in a low voice. “Xavier looks too smug, so we must be wandering far from the truth. Who else was in the hunt for that boar? That flour-headed fellow.”
“Channing's role?” Louisa bent her head, though her eyes never left the tall form of Lord Xavier. “He was Laertes, I think. The father of Odysseus.”
Xavier must have overheard. His head turned; he caught Louisa's eye.
And then he nodded. “Miss Oliver has come the closest with her guess. The first letter is O. The first clue represents Odysseus, since his father helped slay the boar.”
Two dozen guests stared at him blankly. “So the word is . . .” Lady Irving prompted.
“
Oats
,” replied Lord Xavier, the wicked smile gone from his face.
Jane Tindall made a sound of protest, and Xavier stepped backward onto her slipper.
The earl lifted his brows, his hands, his shoulders. The perfect gesture of innocent supplication. “What else could it be? I am taking an increasing interest in the farming capabilities of my estate.”
“Are you
serious
?” This from Lockwood, who'd played the serpent with such glee. “Damned dull of you, Coz.”
“Language!” called Sylvia and Mrs. Protheroe at once.
“
Cazzo
,” said the reclining opera singer, speaking for nearly the first time since the game had begun. From the divan, she blew a cloud of smoke in Lockwood's direction.
“That's right. Farming,” Xavier said. “A new year, a new direction. Now. Shan't we applaud our wonderful players? And have more cake. More brandy. More—well, whatever seizes your fancy.”
He gave the room a very bright smile, then tugged Miss Tindall and Freddie Pellington aside and began speaking to them in a quick, low patter of words.
There most certainly was something odd going on. Louisa would figure it out with that big brain of hers. For her own part, Lady Irving would distract the remainder of the guests so Louisa could think. “Whatever seizes our fancy, eh? Well, if any of you are willing to dip into your pockets, I wouldn't mind a game of whist before we turn in.”
“Ten pounds a rubber?” Lockwood had turned his squint on Lady Irving.
“Chicken stakes,” she replied. “Come up with some real money.”
With swift efficiency, she organized three tables, three quartets. She lingered behind, never joining a rubber, so she could slip back to Louisa once the games had begun.
Her niece was still perched on the arm of the chair, her beaded gown glimmering like a snowflake.
“What's that young rogue talking about?” Lady Irving nodded at Lord Xavier, whose mysterious conversation seemed to be winding down.
“I've no idea. Aunt, it doesn't make sense. Oats? Odysseus wasn't on the hunt for the boar.”
“Well, it wasn't his father. Xavier put paid to that idea right enough.”
Louisa sat up so quickly that she teetered on the chair arm.
“What? What is it?”
Louisa stood and gripped the back of the chair. “It
was
his father. Don't you see? Xavier looked so smug until I guessed Laertes, and then—then he ended the game.”
“So the answer is—what? Honestly, girl. I shouldn't have to ask this question more than once in an evening.”
Louisa's voice sounded toneless. “Laertes. Which tells us he's taking a classical focus. Ovid, then, for the second tableau. Ovid wrote a famous version of Medea, though it's been lost to the ages.”
“Well, then. It could be an M for Medea.”
Louisa shook her head. “No, because of what comes next. Virgil wrote about the sacking of Troy.”
Lady Irving understood in a flash. “And Eden for the final clue.” She sank again into her chair, her troublesome ankles unable to hold her.
Love.
He'd professed his love through a code, and left it for Louisa to decipher.
Damnation. He wasn't a ninny, after all.
Chapter 28
Containing Another Dreadful Imitation of a Stag
“Oats, indeed. Utter tosh. Everyone ought to have recognized that at once.”
Lady Irving sniffed her disbelief from the depths of her armchair, yet a prickle of uncertainty raced between Louisa's shoulder blades.
She might be wrong in her answer. Oats sounded like the sort of thing Alex
would
be interested in. Though it had been Lord Xavier at his Lord Xavier-est who'd organized the game.
Her aunt beckoned their host to her chair, a martial set to her jaw. “You. Rapscallion. Over here.”
Apparently not even a laughing earl could gainsay this summons. He strode to the countess's side and bowed. “My name is pronounced
zay-vee-er
, dear lady. But I presume you had something more in mind than a refresher in elocution?”
Lady Irving shot an arm out and grabbed his neckcloth. She worked her beringed fingers into the starched linen folds and yanked his face down to the level of hers. “We know the secret word, and it wasn't
oats
.”
He made a choking sound. “Please, dear lady. Have a care for my
trone d'amour.
”
She released him with a shove, and Alex straightened, rubbing at his jaw and stretching his neck. This cavalcade of fidgets was sufficient to cloak any change in his expression, Louisa realized.
But then his eyes caught hers, and he dropped his hand to his side. “I should like very much to speak with your niece.” The words were for Lady Irving, but his gaze remained fixed on Louisa's face.
“Does my niece wish to speak with this man?” Lady Irving turned to Louisa, her lips pursed.
Bless Aunt Estella. Louisa gave her hand a quick squeeze. “I suppose I could stomach the idea of speaking to him for a bit.”
The countess snorted. “I suppose you could, at that.” She removed her turban, fluffed her hair and replaced the headgear. The fine lines around her mouth, her eyes, looked more pronounced as she concentrated on this ritual.
Finally, she composed herself again and nodded. “I'll give you an hour alone, and I'll create such a diversion that no one notices your absence.
But
”—she raised a forefinger, staring Alex in the face, then Louisa—“you two had better come to some sort of understanding. No more of this shilly-shallying about.”
“I'm more than ready for an understanding,” Alex said.
Dreadful man. He was nothing of the sort. Hadn't he transformed love into a game?
“I have a great deal to say to the earl,” Louisa said in her sweetest voice. “Though I'm not sure he'll care to hear it.”
Lady Irving rolled her eyes. “Spare me the romantic patter, you two lovebirds. You obviously have much to discuss. Go on, then. Go.
One hour
.”
It was more than Alex had hoped for: an hour alone with Louisa, with her aunt's blessing. He strode down the corridor, dragging her by the arm, unwilling to waste a single precious second.
As soon as he locked the library's heavy wooden door behind them, Louisa shook herself free of his grasp. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was breathing fast with rising emotion.
“You're ready for an understanding? You—you—hid me behind an oat!”
It wasn't funny. It wasn't. He kept his face carefully sober. “Louisa, I hid
myself
behind an oat. I didn't want to confess my feelings before a crowd, no. Considering you and I have not had a single conversation of substance since you returned to my house, I had no idea how you would respond.”
Just as he'd counted on her love of puzzles to help her through the game, he counted on her sense of fairness to hear him out. After a pause, she nodded, though her jaw was still set. “That makes sense.”
Cool relief shot through him. But this was only the beginning. “To be honest, you're right, too. I
did
hide you. That is—I knew you would figure out the right answer, but I didn't want to make a spectacle of you by revealing it before everyone. That could have been embarrassing for us both.”
“That . . . makes sense as well.” Her brows were knit.
“I told Jane and Pellington the truth, so they'd be interested enough to go along with the game. But for everyone else—well, I thought it would be more shocking to speak about land management than romance. New leaf, new year, et cetera.”
Her posture began to loosen. “You showed them Alex. Just a bit.”
“Just a bit,” he agreed. “They weren't impressed, were they?”
She gave a little shrug. “It'll do for a start.”
“There's—there's something . . .” He had to clear his throat. “There's something I wish to show you, too.”
He fumbled for the tail pocket of his coat and found the heavy gold circlet within.
He'd chosen this ancient ring from among the collection of jewelry belonging to the earldom. Embossed on the broad band were a tiny goddess, a stag, and a dog tearing out the poor animal's heart, a blood-red ruby. The story of Actaeon; a man unmade for love.
He held it out, tongue locked. Hoping she had the usual feminine love of shiny objects and would draw nearer.
She did. Her hand stretched out, touched the ring, and then whipped back to her side as though the gold had burned her fingertips.
“You have a ring.”
“I . . . yes, I do.” Didn't she understand?
She blinked at him. “It's hideous.”
Before his stomach could turn more than one sickening flip, she folded his fingers over it, closing it away. “Alex. Not—not yet. There are some things we need to discuss.”
“Very well. Begin.”
“No. You must begin.” She moved around the chaise longue, facing him across its golden width. “Please, tell me why you sent me away in such an ugly manner. You shamed me before a dear relative. Why?”
He knew he had hurt her, but hearing it from her own lips was more dreadful than he could have imagined. And there was no Numbered Expression to help him now; nothing but a slow bleed of regret through his body, clutching at his heart.
He'd once told her he didn't have one. Though he'd been teasing, he had never known what it was capable of. He hadn't known it could pound so hard as to roar in his ears; he hadn't known it could batter against his ribs and unmake him from the inside.
“I meant well,” he began stupidly.
The explanation was more difficult than he'd expected. He wound up telling her about the text Lockwood had decoded; the implication about his parentage.
“Not that it could have endangered my title,” he finished. “But it made me simply—well, not worth associating with anymore.”
“Wasn't that for me to decide?” Her jaw was set. “Let me see if I've got this correct.” She raised a forefinger. “All of your—what shall I call it? Pride? Hubris? Asinine behavior?”
He folded his arms. “You can continue with your sentence at any time.”
“Fine, we'll leave it at asinine behavior. All of it was because of a few lines in that encoded book? Your pride was hurt because you thought Lockwood had a hold over you, and so you gave him even more power over you.”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “His power over me never came from that book.” Oh, damn. There was surely a right way to say this, and he was not going to be able to think of it. “Muffin,” he said desperately, “his power over me was because of you.”
She flapped her hand at him. “Yes, yes, the wager. I know. It didn't bother me, truly. I could tell you had something more within you than a rotten core.”
“Much obliged, I'm sure.” He sketched her a little bow. “But you misunderstand me. Lockwood, for all his faults, is a fairly perceptive fellow. And once he realized striking at my reputation would no longer be the greatest blow imaginable, he set out to discover what would. And he soon found it. You.”
“You are saying that Lockwood tried to hurt you by hurting me in some way?”
“It would have been most painful to me.” Somehow, he managed a light tone.
“More so to me, I've no doubt.” She slid her hand across the back of the chaise, then moved idly around the room. To the table where they'd first sat and formed an alliance. To the shelf where he'd laid a volume of Dante he was embarrassed to admit he treasured.
“I'm sorry I made that wager,” he blurted. “Well, partially sorry. If I hadn't made it, you wouldn't have come to the house party.”
“True.” She bit her lip. “Alex, I don't mind that you wagered on me. As you say, we'd never have come to this point if you had not. What I mind is that you let yourself be manipulated into it. Why did you ever allow a nonentity like Lockwood to badger you so?”
The final question was unspoken, but Alex heard it all the same.
Will it happen again?
There was the crux of it.
He gripped the ring harder, letting the warm circlet imprint his skin. “Because I let everyone badger me.”
It was nothing to be proud of. “Louisa, might I sit?”
She nodded, and he sank onto the edge of the chaise. She remained standing. Watching. Listening, thank God.
So he explained the truth he'd come to terms with. “I was orphaned as an infant—I don't tell you that for sympathy, but so you understand that I've raised myself, for better or worse. I had all the money in the world, plus a title. There was no tutor I couldn't manipulate, no friend I couldn't impress.”
Tighter, he clutched the ring. He studied the roughened back of his hand. “I got in some . . . habits, let's say. I was always the one with money, or influence, or outrageous ideas. But that meant I could never
stop
having those things. Do you see?”
The cushion of the chaise sank; she'd seated herself at the other end. “You were trapped.”
He nodded. “Dante doesn't interest the
ton
. Nor human frailty such as illness, nor simply a desire for quiet.”
“Oh, I'm aware of that,” she said drily.
He looked up. She was smiling at him, rueful and sweet. “I've lived that story, too. But do finish. Please.”
Grimly, he did so. “That's it, in essentials. I agreed to Lockwood's wager because I always agreed. Because if I didn't pretend all the time—if I wasn't exactly what the scandal sheets wanted for their columns, or I didn't keep filling the betting book at White's—then no one would give a damn about me.”
She was quiet for a long moment. “And what about all your women? The affairs—what purpose did they serve?”
Her smile was gone now; her eyes deep and bruised.
Aha
. Sometimes she
did
react in the common way. She was worried, even jealous.
He scooted closer to her and pulled her feet into his lap. With his empty hand, he tugged off her ivory kid slippers, one after the other. “I don't think you realize how much of my life has been a lie, especially where women are concerned.”
“Admitting deceit? That's an unconventional way to convince me of your trustworthiness.” She stroked the velvet upholstery, her hand sliding back and forth, her eyes carefully averted.
And he realized she wasn't jealous. She was afraid.
Afraid she wouldn't be enough, maybe; that he'd lived a worthless life for so long, nothing could be worthwhile to him. He'd once been afraid of that, too, in the deepest depths of his jaded pretense.
His heart squeezed, painful and tight, as though embracing her. But all he could do was explain. He toyed with her stocking-clad toes, grateful for the distraction of this small intimacy. Grateful that she permitted it.
“Louisa. Look, I'm not untouched, but . . . I've been untouched for a long while. Rumor feeds itself, and it's simpler not to interfere with its appetites.”
BOOK: Season for Surrender
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