By standing next to an impoverished spinster, he didn’t say.
He didn’t have to.
“Of course.” Alexandra didn’t bother to explain that she happened to be one of the bridesmaids in the aforementioned grand wedding. Nor did she inform him of her status as one of the “toffs” to which he referred. It would have been well within her privilege as the daughter of an earl to demand he address her as “my lady” rather than “miss.”
Instead, she gathered a precious ha’penny from the carpetbag she’d acquired in Cairo, and pressed it into the young man’s glove. “Someone will be along to collect me shortly. Thank you.”
She enjoyed a bit of relief when the porter scurried away in search of peerage. Indeed, there were plenty more to be found disembarking the train.
She could attest to that, as she’d been avoiding as many as she could.
In case they’d seen her in second class.
In case they’d heard of her family’s recently reduced circumstances, and felt the need to remark upon their spinster daughter who was now too old, and too clever, to catch a husband.
If they only knew the truth. What would they say then?
It had been heavy carrying one devastating shame around for a decade. She’d underestimated what the weight of a second scandal would do to her.
It would all be over soon, she supposed. The news of her family’s financial ruin wouldn’t stay secret for long. And when what was left of her money ran out, her long-ago transgression would be revealed as a direct result.
Because if one couldn’t pay one’s bills, one certainly couldn’t pay one’s blackmailer.
Better that Francesca marry now and have the designation of duchess when the scandal broke.
And Cecelia, dear kind Cecelia, didn’t have the responsibility of a title, nor did she have the protection of one. Her reputation meant little to her, mostly because she was a rather obscure woman in all but her immediate academic circle.
But reputation was nothing next to the hangman’s noose … and they all might be in danger of that.
Pressing her hand against a pitch of dread in her stomach, Alexandra hid herself behind her meager hill of luggage. A hill because, by comparison, the piles of trunks, hat cases, and garment bags currently being carted from the train were veritable mountains rising from the mists.
The Earl and Countess Bevelstoke hurried past, tucked tightly into their furs and cloaks as an army of servants and porters—Smythe, included—conducted their things in the direction of an ostentatious coach.
Lord and Lady Bevelstoke had once been counted among her parents’ most intimate society.
Until lately.
Luckily, the train belched another whoosh of steam, further concealing her from their view.
“Alexandra? Lady Alexandra Lane? Can that possibly be you?”
Alexandra flinched at the sound of her name, but broke into a genuine smile at whom she found behind her.
“Julia? Julia Throckmorton?” she greeted.
They embraced with the exuberance of long-parted friends, and stepped apart to examine what the years had done to each other. They’d been kinder to Julia than to her, as her old school chum was bedecked in more pearls and sapphires than a traveling kit warranted.
“How long has it been?” Alexandra asked.
Julia tucked an errant golden ringlet into her stylish cap, pursing her lips together. “Six years, at least,” she recalled. “Our last drink at the café in Boston the summer my husband took us on the grand tour of New England. Then it was de Chardonne before that. Can you believe it’s been ten years?”
“I cannot,” she answered honestly. It felt like only yesterday, and yet another lifetime ago. “Where is Lord Throckmorton? You’re both here for the wedding, I presume?”
Julia’s bright eyes dimmed along with her smile. “Of course, you haven’t heard. You were in Greece two years ago when my husband passed.”
Alexandra gripped her hand. “Oh, Julia, I’m so sorry. I hadn’t heard, and when I’m in the field, I never read the papers. I’m hopeless at correspondence. Forgive me for not writing.”
“Don’t think of it.” Julia’s smile was tighter when it returned. “I know you’ve enough on your mind as it is, poor dear.” She patted Alexandra’s hand in a manner almost condescending, as though reminding Alexandra of her diminished circumstances without being gauche enough to lend them voice.
Oh, yes, this was why Julia, generally considered a friend, had never been inducted into the Red Rogues. It wasn’t the lack of the red hue in her hair, it was her propensity to be a bit priggish. Not that she had a reason to feel superior, she’d been married off to Lord Walther Throckmorton, the Viscount Leighton. A man twenty years her senior and at least double that in weight due to his excessive drinking.
“Can you imagine, a dowager at my age? Though Lord Throckmorton left me a vulgar fortune,” Julia whispered, increasing the vulgarity by mentioning it. “And now I’m enjoying jaunting about all of Christendom with Lord and Lady Bevelstoke.”
“How lovely for you.” Alexandra hoped she sounded sincere.
If Julia noticed, she didn’t mention. “How mysterious this Duke of Redmayne is. I’ve heard he’s beastly. Have you any idea to whom he’s engaged?”
“I couldn’t possibly say.” Alexandra sighed, already tiring of the gossip. Although she had to admit she’d enjoy Julia’s astonishment when Francesca was revealed as the bride.
They’d never got on.
“Lady Throckmorton,” Lady Bevelstoke called over the increasing storm from the coach. “We really should go, we’ve important society waiting upon our arrival.”
Alexandra didn’t miss the slight emphasis she’d placed upon the word.
“Let’s do catch up.” Julia kissed her on both cheeks and burrowed further into her furs as a footman held an umbrella over her all the way to the coach. “Au revoir.”
The slap of the whip sent the Bevelstoke carriage axles grinding toward one of the oldest, and perhaps grandest, fortresses still standing on British soil.
Castle Redmayne.
Alexandra scanned the storm, wondering if the castle, or the sea, was visible from here on a clear day. The weather was both peculiar and ominous. Evening darkness loomed much earlier than usual. The raucous clouds so heavy, they appeared black in some places. The storm was lively with lightning, and yet an ethereal fog clung to the ground, refusing to be dispelled by the rain. Displaced by the knees of scurrying travelers, it swirled and eddied, lending an elegance to the bustle.
The small village of Maynemouth hunkered nearby. Charming streets lined with businesses built tight to the rails. The attractive crofts, cottages, and stately homes gleamed farther up the hill, so the clamor of the train and the bustle of industry didn’t disturb their infamous Southern tranquility.
A bitter sudden gust drove little needles of rain sideways. As Alexandra and her things had been abandoned at the edge of the awning, the storm and the runoff combined their efforts with the wind to soak her threadbare travel kit clean through.
Do hurry, Cecelia, she urged, opening her umbrella against the onslaught of rain, which disappeared as quickly as it had assaulted her.
Lightning separated the clouds above, forking down toward the train with a brilliant, chaotic snap.