royal theater. The newspapers decried daily the excesses of the royal class; and Prinny was as furious as ever at all the dukes present during the infamous evening of debauchery.
And still worse, Alex’s one true friend, Roman Montagu, the Duke of Norwich was still missing. All of Jack’s efforts to track him down were for naught. Alex tried not to think of it. Roman, the first gentleman to befriend him when Alex had arrived from France all those years ago, might very well be dead in a ditch, or drowned, or . . . Alex halted the painful train of thought with ruthless efficiency borne of years of experience.
Silently, Jack handed the local newspaper to Alex, and settled to the task of unpacking all the trunks that had arrived. Alex scanned the contents of the news sheet and sighed.
Of course there was mention of the Countess of Paxton gone missing, even her dog. Well, at least she was who she said she was. The column made no mention of her husband being with her when she fell from the cliff. Instead, he was quoted as suggesting his wife had been inconsolable since the disappearance of her beloved dog. While it stopped short of the notion of suicide, which would have gravely tainted the entire family, it was noted that only a blue sodden hat had been found on the rocky beachhead. A moderate reward was offered for the recovery of anything relating to the Countess of Paxton.
He exhaled.
Alex had avoided spending very much time with Roxanne the last three days, except during the afternoon and evening meals. She made him nervous with her steadfast gaze and her mind, which obviously churned with a host of very bad ideas. And he had far too many unpleasant tasks to face, such as interviewing the two foremen Jack had brought from London.
Oh, what the hell. He knew he had just been putting off contending with her.
Alex rocked to his feet and stalked into the huge library, where the housekeeper had directed him. The room was inspiring even if it did make his gut tighten in remembrance of another such room, far larger. The one in which he had spent so many hours as he grew of age in France.
He spotted Roxanne’s even profile leaning over an enormous atlas covering a large portion of the main reading desk. A single dark blond curl had escaped from its pins and now rested on her cheek.
He placed the local newspaper over a map of Scotland. “Planning your departure already?”
“Yes, now that you ask.”
“Well, it appears your dear husband is ahead of you on that score.”
Her startled blue eyes swung up to meet his gaze. And not for the first time, he was pleasantly surprised by her appearance. She was tall, and spare to be sure. Her large eyes dominated her oval, determined visage. A long, straight nose sloped to lips with a prominent bow shape. And a single freckle rested an inch below the outer corner of her left eye. The aspects of her open countenance somehow came together to make for a fascinating face.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Your funeral is set for a week from today.”
She snatched the newspaper and quickly scanned the page. “The devil. The absolute wretch of a man. And what will he bury?”
“It’s on page two. I think he means to bury your hat, unless one of the fishermen, who he has implored to search for your remains, can find you.”
“My hat? Oh, that is rich. Well, I am going to witness this. I shall scare the living daylights out of him.”
“Really? Is that how you want to play it, Roxanne?”
She sank into the embroidered cushion of the stool underneath her. “No. Of course not. But I will attend. I want to see who is there and I must hear what he dares to say.”
“I have a better idea,” he suggested. “I shall go instead. I’ve managed to avoid all the visits of the local peerage and gentry this week, but I might as well give over, make my bow, and allow the others to scrape and then depart at my leisure. And think how much your husband will wonder why I made the effort to
And still worse, Alex’s one true friend, Roman Montagu, the Duke of Norwich was still missing. All of Jack’s efforts to track him down were for naught. Alex tried not to think of it. Roman, the first gentleman to befriend him when Alex had arrived from France all those years ago, might very well be dead in a ditch, or drowned, or . . . Alex halted the painful train of thought with ruthless efficiency borne of years of experience.
Silently, Jack handed the local newspaper to Alex, and settled to the task of unpacking all the trunks that had arrived. Alex scanned the contents of the news sheet and sighed.
Of course there was mention of the Countess of Paxton gone missing, even her dog. Well, at least she was who she said she was. The column made no mention of her husband being with her when she fell from the cliff. Instead, he was quoted as suggesting his wife had been inconsolable since the disappearance of her beloved dog. While it stopped short of the notion of suicide, which would have gravely tainted the entire family, it was noted that only a blue sodden hat had been found on the rocky beachhead. A moderate reward was offered for the recovery of anything relating to the Countess of Paxton.
He exhaled.
Alex had avoided spending very much time with Roxanne the last three days, except during the afternoon and evening meals. She made him nervous with her steadfast gaze and her mind, which obviously churned with a host of very bad ideas. And he had far too many unpleasant tasks to face, such as interviewing the two foremen Jack had brought from London.
Oh, what the hell. He knew he had just been putting off contending with her.
Alex rocked to his feet and stalked into the huge library, where the housekeeper had directed him. The room was inspiring even if it did make his gut tighten in remembrance of another such room, far larger. The one in which he had spent so many hours as he grew of age in France.
He spotted Roxanne’s even profile leaning over an enormous atlas covering a large portion of the main reading desk. A single dark blond curl had escaped from its pins and now rested on her cheek.
He placed the local newspaper over a map of Scotland. “Planning your departure already?”
“Yes, now that you ask.”
“Well, it appears your dear husband is ahead of you on that score.”
Her startled blue eyes swung up to meet his gaze. And not for the first time, he was pleasantly surprised by her appearance. She was tall, and spare to be sure. Her large eyes dominated her oval, determined visage. A long, straight nose sloped to lips with a prominent bow shape. And a single freckle rested an inch below the outer corner of her left eye. The aspects of her open countenance somehow came together to make for a fascinating face.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Your funeral is set for a week from today.”
She snatched the newspaper and quickly scanned the page. “The devil. The absolute wretch of a man. And what will he bury?”
“It’s on page two. I think he means to bury your hat, unless one of the fishermen, who he has implored to search for your remains, can find you.”
“My hat? Oh, that is rich. Well, I am going to witness this. I shall scare the living daylights out of him.”
“Really? Is that how you want to play it, Roxanne?”
She sank into the embroidered cushion of the stool underneath her. “No. Of course not. But I will attend. I want to see who is there and I must hear what he dares to say.”
“I have a better idea,” he suggested. “I shall go instead. I’ve managed to avoid all the visits of the local peerage and gentry this week, but I might as well give over, make my bow, and allow the others to scrape and then depart at my leisure. And think how much your husband will wonder why I made the effort to
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