pay my respects to a woman with whom I was unacquainted.”
“You do not know him. He will decide you came as a sign of respect to offer condolence to a fellow nobleman.”
“Well, I should like to see the fellow. Say a few words. Assess his performance, and look for weakness. And perhaps something a little more.”
“A little more?” Her expression perked up. “I have an idea.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Chapter 4
T he morning of the Countess of Paxton’s funeral was as blue and cloudless as the day she had died. At least that was what her husband had to say as tears poured in unrelenting rivulets down his ashen cheeks. He told everyone who would listen—and that was all eighty mourners—gathered at the cemetery overlooking St. Ives, that he would never be able to be happy again on a sunny day. Amazingly, not one of them laughed.
Alex had to give Roxanne credit. Her husband was every bit as good an actor as she had insisted. And he cut as dashing a figure as she had claimed, too. Dark hair, light eyes, muscular of frame, and not one, but three ostentatious white orchids attached to his lapel. Roxanne had not been funning him when she’d suggested the man had a partiality to flowers.
Alex had not failed to notice that more than half of the mourners were young females of the neighboring families. They were rather like sleek black buzzards circling for the kill. The only problem was that half the time these same birds of prey were looking in his direction too, curiosity and interest lacing their brows.
Alex had taken care to stand far back from the proceedings. He was only close enough to hear the earl’s words.
All of it unfolded with the utmost decorum. Everything and everyone was proper in all respects.
Except for one tiny thing. One tiny, little detail.
He spied the edge of a granite headstone propped against a tree far from the gathering crowd. He slowly sauntered over to take a gander as the vicar began the recitation of the final words.
Alex knew little about funerals. In fact, he avoided them on every occasion. But he did know that it would take quite a while for a stone carver to produce the gaudy, flowery wording on this monument to Roxanne’s life. The Earl of Paxton had obviously not spared a day before ordering this travesty of clichés.
Roxanne Vanderhaven née Newton
Countess of Paxton
1784 – 1818
Beloved wife of the
Sixth Earl of Paxton
Taken all too soon from
his grand lordship’s side,
leaving him broken-hearted.
She died a noble, courageous
death and she will
be missed by all who knew her.
Forever may she
rest in peace.
A shadow appeared at his side, and Alex supposed he had known all along what would happen. He glanced sideways only to find Roxanne Tatiana Harriet, standing next to him glaring at the headstone. Oh, no one else would guess it was she, for she looked like a he. Like a thin man, who dug graves at the cemetery. Her hair was completely covered by a large woolen cap, and her dingy pantaloons were belted too high, the frayed hems an inch too short.
“Oh, I’ll rest in peace, all right,” she whispered furiously, one side of her false moustache slightly unglued. It looked very like the one his damned valet sported on occasion. “I’ll rest in peace so loudly, he will be happy to see the sun shine again!”
“I’ll not ask where you managed to find that fetching ensemble,” he replied. He paused before continuing. “I knew I could count on you to keep to our bargain.”
“What bargain?”
“You know, the one where you stay on the Mount and I go to the funeral.”
“That was but a Faustian bargain—a suggestion I chose to ignore. A person should be allowed to come to their own funeral if they can.”
“Absolutely,” he said, to diffuse her.
“Well,” she said, running out of steam. “Now what?”
“You were the one who said you had an idea.”
“I do,” she said lightly. “But that comes later. Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“They’re
“You do not know him. He will decide you came as a sign of respect to offer condolence to a fellow nobleman.”
“Well, I should like to see the fellow. Say a few words. Assess his performance, and look for weakness. And perhaps something a little more.”
“A little more?” Her expression perked up. “I have an idea.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Chapter 4
T he morning of the Countess of Paxton’s funeral was as blue and cloudless as the day she had died. At least that was what her husband had to say as tears poured in unrelenting rivulets down his ashen cheeks. He told everyone who would listen—and that was all eighty mourners—gathered at the cemetery overlooking St. Ives, that he would never be able to be happy again on a sunny day. Amazingly, not one of them laughed.
Alex had to give Roxanne credit. Her husband was every bit as good an actor as she had insisted. And he cut as dashing a figure as she had claimed, too. Dark hair, light eyes, muscular of frame, and not one, but three ostentatious white orchids attached to his lapel. Roxanne had not been funning him when she’d suggested the man had a partiality to flowers.
Alex had not failed to notice that more than half of the mourners were young females of the neighboring families. They were rather like sleek black buzzards circling for the kill. The only problem was that half the time these same birds of prey were looking in his direction too, curiosity and interest lacing their brows.
Alex had taken care to stand far back from the proceedings. He was only close enough to hear the earl’s words.
All of it unfolded with the utmost decorum. Everything and everyone was proper in all respects.
Except for one tiny thing. One tiny, little detail.
He spied the edge of a granite headstone propped against a tree far from the gathering crowd. He slowly sauntered over to take a gander as the vicar began the recitation of the final words.
Alex knew little about funerals. In fact, he avoided them on every occasion. But he did know that it would take quite a while for a stone carver to produce the gaudy, flowery wording on this monument to Roxanne’s life. The Earl of Paxton had obviously not spared a day before ordering this travesty of clichés.
Roxanne Vanderhaven née Newton
Countess of Paxton
1784 – 1818
Beloved wife of the
Sixth Earl of Paxton
Taken all too soon from
his grand lordship’s side,
leaving him broken-hearted.
She died a noble, courageous
death and she will
be missed by all who knew her.
Forever may she
rest in peace.
A shadow appeared at his side, and Alex supposed he had known all along what would happen. He glanced sideways only to find Roxanne Tatiana Harriet, standing next to him glaring at the headstone. Oh, no one else would guess it was she, for she looked like a he. Like a thin man, who dug graves at the cemetery. Her hair was completely covered by a large woolen cap, and her dingy pantaloons were belted too high, the frayed hems an inch too short.
“Oh, I’ll rest in peace, all right,” she whispered furiously, one side of her false moustache slightly unglued. It looked very like the one his damned valet sported on occasion. “I’ll rest in peace so loudly, he will be happy to see the sun shine again!”
“I’ll not ask where you managed to find that fetching ensemble,” he replied. He paused before continuing. “I knew I could count on you to keep to our bargain.”
“What bargain?”
“You know, the one where you stay on the Mount and I go to the funeral.”
“That was but a Faustian bargain—a suggestion I chose to ignore. A person should be allowed to come to their own funeral if they can.”
“Absolutely,” he said, to diffuse her.
“Well,” she said, running out of steam. “Now what?”
“You were the one who said you had an idea.”
“I do,” she said lightly. “But that comes later. Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“They’re
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