That question again. Are you all right?
He asked because he’d been there. He’d seen her that night with blood on her gown and her innocence shattered into a million pieces.
He’d helped her cover her crime. To piece her life together. And for that, Alexandra would always be thankful.
“I’m very well,” she answered him in French, accepting the hastily folded letter he held out to her. “It’s good to see you.”
Alexandra avoided his alert, worried gaze as she broke the Red Rogue wax seal and opened the letter. Why she should feel awkward around him, she couldn’t say, but his presence brought too many memories to the surface.
Because he always watched her with the same soft pity as he had since that night in the garden. To him, she was always that helpless girl.
The one she’d tried so hard to leave behind.
Alexander,
I sincerely beg your forgiveness of my presumption, but with all that’s transpired we simply couldn’t bear to think of you alone and so far away. I’ve sent dear Jean-Yves to keep watch over you from a discreet distance. I didn’t tell you because I know you’d refuse, but it was the only way to keep Frank from booking passage on the ship and making a nuisance of herself on your honeymoon. Jean-Yves will be staying at the Hotel Fond du Val along with the others from the dig, and he is at your disposal.
Sir Ramsay has been investigating the gunmen. I’m told he’s not convinced of the intended victim as of yet. Though Frank insists it’s her, I cannot shake this impending premonition she’s utterly mistaken.
Do be careful out there, darling Alexander. Stay close to Redmayne, I feel that he’ll keep you safe.
I hope your travels are wondrous and your honeymoon full of unexpected pleasures.
All my love,
Your devoted Cecil
Tears of longing sprang to Alexandra’s eyes as she read the letter again, and once more. Dear, devoted Cecelia, voluptuous and vigorous and ruthlessly brilliant.
Possessed of the gentlest heart in the empire.
She ran a finger over the bottom of the page where an overlarge inkblot belied Cecelia’s contemplation before the words “unexpected pleasures.”
Her friend had been worried about her wedding night but, ever the supposed vicar’s daughter, was too circumspect to say so.
Unexpected pleasures. Those words could certainly be used in conjunction with her wedding night.
Among others.
“Duchesse,” Jean-Yves prodded. “You are distraught? Your husband, does he hurt you?”
Alexandra grasped his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You may report to your mistress that I am very well,” she said. “My husband has not hurt me in the least.”
Rather, it seemed, she was the one to cause him pain. Enough pain to spill over into anger.
“I must go find him,” she explained.
“Of course.” Pleased, Jean-Yves bowed over her knuckles. “I will be nearby.”
Releasing him with a grateful smile, Alexandra ventured toward the stairs that would take her down to the second-class decks, and perhaps below to where great loads of cargo were being wheeled out in preparation for incomprehensibly large cranes to load them onto the docks.
“Your Grace!” a dim feminine voice called. “Duchess!”
She’d been so distraught by the events of last night, so plagued by nightmares, and dejected at waking up in an empty bed, that she didn’t mark the call as addressing her.
A hand seized her elbow, and she whirled to find Julia Throckmorton, resplendent in a crisp white sailing kit, holding on to her magnificent hat as the wind tried to rip it away from her luxurious curls.
“You little minx!” she crowed as she threw her arms about Alexandra, crushing her breath from her lungs before releasing her abruptly. She motioned to her companions, Lord and Lady Bevelstoke, with wild, excited gestures as she spoke almost too rapidly to follow. “There she stood on the train platform in absolute rags and let me speculate for hours as to the identity of the new duchess and gave not a single clue it was her all along!” Julia elbowed her meaningfully. “How cruel you are to an old and dear friend.”
Alexandra made a pathetic attempt at a winsome smile. Is that what they were, old and dear friends? Or was that how Julia wanted to shape reality now that Alexandra had become a duchess? They’d not conversed for hours on the train platform. It would be kind to speculate that they’d chatted for minutes.
Lord Bevelstoke, a man of superfluous wrinkles and distracting chin waddle for a man in his mere fifties, had made his blustery apologies right before he’d been called upon to walk her down the aisle.
Lady Bevelstoke, however, stepped forward to render her kisses on the cheek as though she were approaching royalty. “How fare your Lord and Lady Bentham, Your Grace?” she asked in her tight, tiny voice. Alexandra had used to quip unkindly with her brother, Andrew, that the woman resembled her precious Pekingese in more than just her looks, but her voice and temperament as well. “I shall call upon your parents upon my return to Hampshire first thing.”
Alexandra offered them a polite nod, feeling as though another attempt to smile at these people would crack her face like ancient pottery. “I’m certain they’d appreciate that, Lady Bevelstoke. If you’ll excuse me, I—”
Julia cut off her anxious attempt at a polite escape. “Off to your honeymoon, I see. Where are you going? I’m desperate to know. Oh, I’ve guessed it. It’s obvious you’ve not had your wedding trousseau yet. Is Redmayne taking you to that genius seamstress in Rouen? She’d give one of her fingers to drape you, as you could make sackcloth and ashes look couture. You’re such a beauty. That’s where we’re headed before our Continental tour, her shop in Rouen. I could lend you one of my appointments! We’ve added Italy to our schedule, and I needed extra gowns, isn’t that right?”
Her head spinning from the speed of Julia’s conversation, Alexandra glanced down at her simple day dress. It was one of her favorites. A light frock the color of the Egyptian desert at sunset, with sturdy braided cord at the bodice and hem to weight it against the sand and wind. It just barely occurred to her that most of her clothing was more suitable for an archeologist than an aristocrat.
“Actually.” She nudged her chin up a notch. “The duke is conducting me to an archeological dig in Normandy. Redmayne ancestors are thought to be buried there.”
At least, she hoped that was still the plan, if he hadn’t thrown himself overboard in the night rather than honeymoon with her.
“Just where is that mysterious husband of yours?” Julia queried, making a great show of looking around the deck. “I tried and tried to meet you at the masque and the wedding, but the two of you were surrounded by scads of people. With Francesca and Cecelia glued to your side, I couldn’t get close.”
Alexandra found it overwhelming that Julia tended to discuss two or three subjects at once, so she decided to answer her first question.
“His Grace has gone for … coffee,” she lied. “I’m to meet with him soon to disembark.”
Julia threaded her arm through Alexandra’s. “Let’s take a turn about the decks until then, shall we?” Her voice was a suggestion, but the arm locking Alexandra to her side gave no room for a polite extraction. “Pardon us schoolmates for a moment, won’t you, Lord and Lady Bevelstoke?”