Page 27 of Doxy for the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #7)

W hen Alexander woke, the air had cooled. The soft orange glow of the embers of the fire had been replaced by the cold, harsh light of the dawn.

He sat up and winced as a sharp pain sliced through his head. His mouth felt dry, and a bitter taste lingered at the back of his throat.

Rubbing his chin, the beginnings of stubble abrading against his fingertips, he looked around. The room was empty, save for the furniture and the clock on the mantelshelf. The pile of books beside the door was gone, and there was nothing on the tables except…

Except the two sherry glasses, empty save for a sticky residue at the bottom. He picked up the larger glass and sniffed the contents. Sherry—and another odor.

What was it?

He drew in a deep breath, inhaling the aroma—the faint, bitter afternote to match the bitterness in his throat.

Laudanum.

He leaped to his feet and stumbled toward the mantelshelf, willing his eyes to focus as he approached the clock.

It was almost half past six in the morning.

He stumbled out of the parlor.

“Charles!” he cried. “Wheeler—anyone!”

His voice echoed across the hall as he glanced about.

Then he saw it—a folded note in the dish by the door. He picked it up and read the inscription.

Alexander.

His hands trembling, he unfolded it and read the words.

Forgive me, my love. We both want what the other cannot give, and if we remained as we are, the wanting would drive us both to destruction. I pray with all my heart that you, at least, will be happy, and I trust that, in my actions, I am doing all I can to make that possible.

Mimi

Footsteps approached, and Alexander snapped his head up, buoyed by hope. But it was the butler. His heart ached at the sadness and resignation in the man’s eyes.

“Where…?” he asked, but Wheeler shook his head.

“Even if I knew, Your Grace, I wouldn’t…”

“I understand,” Alexander said, as the knot of pain swelled in his heart.

Mimi had gone.

“She sent for your clothes last night,” the butler said, his gaze wandering over Alexander’s crumpled shirt and breeches. “A fire has been lit in the guest bedchamber for you, and I took the liberty of sending Charles in with a washbowl and razor. Shall I assist you, or would you rather I send for your valet?”

Alexander shook his head. “There’s no need to disturb him. Perhaps some tea before I shave?”

“Charles is already making it.”

“I see you’re fully prepared, Wheeler.”

“Her ladyship’s orders were quite specific.”

“What were her orders?”

“To see to your every need so that you might enter the world with pride, in the knowledge that you have nothing but a bright future ahead.”

“Is that what she really said?”

The butler frowned. Then he averted his gaze, but not before Alexander caught a sheen of moisture in his eyes.

Evidently Alexander wasn’t the only one who would miss her. The stoic butler had a heart after all, even if he concealed it.

“Thank you, Wheeler,” Alexander said.

The butler raised his eyebrows in response. There was no surer sign of a breach of etiquette than a man of Alexander’s rank actually thanking the staff. But it seemed the appropriate thing to do—not just appropriate, but kind.

Since when had he, a selfish profligate, considered kindness toward others?

Since she came into my life.

He strode upstairs, then paused outside Mimi’s bedchamber—or what had been her bedchamber until this morning—before entering the guest bedroom, where Charles was already setting a tea tray on a table. A fire blazed merrily in the hearth, almost as if it had no idea of what the house, and Alexander, had lost, and a long cheval mirror had been placed in a corner beside a washstand, which bore a bowl of steaming water with a washcloth, towel, cutthroat razor, and leather strap.

Charles poured the tea—just how Alexander liked it, with a splash of milk and one spoonful of sugar—then set to work on the razor, sharpening it against the strap while Alexander drank his tea, then splashed hot water over his skin.

“Will you require assistance to shave, sir?” the footman asked, holding up the razor. The blade shimmered in the firelight, while the young servant’s hand shook.

The butler stepped forward and plucked the blade out of the footman’s hand.

“I think, Charles, His Grace would prefer to survive the morning with his throat intact. Why don’t you see to his boots?”

The butler steered Alexander to a chair beside the mirror. “Did you shave yourself when you stayed here, sir?”

Alexander shook his head.

She had shaved him, her touch lighter even than his valet’s, though he’d never admit that, at least not when Larry held the blade to his throat.

How he’d relished her touch—the soft drip of water when she rinsed the razor, then the gentle caress of the blade on his skin. The knack, she’d said, was to ensure that the blade was really sharp, so that hardly any pressure was required to remove the stubble.

And she had not cut his skin once.

No, the wound she’d inflicted was far deeper—a knife lodged in the core of his soul.

He remained still while the butler ran the razor across his skin, then inhaled sharply as the blade nicked his throat.

The butler muttered an apology, and Alexander caught the familiar odor of tincture before a cloth was dabbed against his throat. He winced at the bite of soreness.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. It’ll heal quickly.”

“No matter, Wheeler,” Alexander said. “It’s a good day when my valet nicks the skin less than three times.”

“And Lady Rex?”

Alexander stood and gestured toward the pile of clothes on the bed.

“Of course, Your Grace,” the butler said, an undertone of compassion in his voice, as if he understood that when it came to shaving a man—and many other such tasks—Mimi surpassed them all.

“Charles?” the butler said, and the footman approached Alexander and begun to undress him. “No—not like that!” Wheeler snapped as the footman tugged at Alexander’s cravat. “Let me show you.”

The butler deftly undid the knot and placed the cravat on the chair Alexander had vacated. Then, with Wheeler issuing orders, the two men undressed Alexander until he stood before them as naked as the day he was born.

The last time he’d stood naked in this room, Mimi had kneeled before him and…

Stop it!

He closed his eyes and drew in sharp breath to dispel the surge in his groin at the memory.

Memories—bloody memories. That was all he had of her, now, a memory to fist his length to at night.

“Ahem.”

Alexander opened his eyes to see the butler eyeing him with disapproval.

“Proceed,” he said, not daring to lower his gaze.

The butler arched an eyebrow, then reached for his breeches.

“On the other hand, perhaps I’ll dress myself.”

“Your Grace, are you sure?”

Alexander nodded. “I know what goes where.”

“And your cravat? Your style is somewhat intricate.”

“I…learned how to tie it myself.”

“Or perhaps you were taught by another.”

“Yes, Lady—” Alexander broke off, his throat tightening.

“Charles, clear away the tea things,” Wheeler said. “I’ll see to His Grace from now on.”

“Yes, Mr. Wheeler.”

After the footman had gone, the butler handed Alexander the rest of his clothes, and watched in silence while he dressed himself in front of the mirror, finishing with his cravat.

“A passable effort, if I may say so, Your Grace.” Wheeler stepped forward to smooth the knot and tuck the cravat into Alexander’s waistcoat. “She taught you well.”

“She taught me much.”

Alexander met the butler’s gaze in the mirror, and for a moment, the two men stared at each other.

“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but there’s no sin in missing her,” the butler said.

“You do speak out of turn, Wheeler,” Alexander said, swallowing the stab of pain in his heart. “If my valet spoke in such a manner, I’d dismiss him.”

“Then it’s as well that I’m not your valet, for I can speak the truth with no fear of reprisal. That is the benefit of not being employed by a single family.”

“What will you do now, Wheeler?”

“What I always do when a tenant vacates the premises. I’ll arrange for the outgoing tenant’s belongings to be conveyed to their solicitor, then will oversee the preparations for the house.”

“Preparations?”

“When an occupant vacates a house, it must be cleaned, dusted, and the furniture covered, to preserve it for the next occupant.”

“And the outgoing occupant?”

“I know not where she has gone.”

“But her solicitor—”

“A solicitor is bound by honor to respect client confidentiality, Your Grace. You should be bound enough by honor not to expect him to breach such confidentiality. A woman such as Lady Rex will, I’ll wager, value confidentiality and privacy more than others, given her history.”

Was it his imagination, or had the butler’s voice carried a note of accusation?

“I care not about her history, Wheeler—you must know that,” Alexander said.

“Of course, Your Grace. But nevertheless, her history has led her to this point, has given rise to events that have limited her choices in life. I’m certain that she’ll be well—or as well as she can be.”

The hard edge to the butler’s voice reeked of disapproval—and disappointment.

“What could I have done, Wheeler?” Alexander asked. “She chose her path.”

“Perhaps, sir, she believed her choice to be the best one given her circumstances—at least, the best choice out of those presented to her.”

“What the devil do you mean?”

“Your Grace, few of us are given freedom to tread on the path that we wish to take. I daresay Lady Rex took the path that she knew she must take.”

Cursed man —what the devil was he talking about?

“You speak in riddles, Wheeler,” Alexander said.

A clock struck seven in the hallway, followed by echoes from its companions around the house.

“Will you be wanting breakfast before you leave, Your Grace?” the butler asked.

“I see little point in lingering here now that she has gone.”

“Very good. In which case, there are just a few items you need to retrieve, then I can set about preparing the house.”

“Items?”

“If you’d follow me?”

Wheeler led Alexander into the hallway and Mimi’s bedchamber.

Dust sheets covered the furniture, and the vase in the window, which had always contained fresh flowers, was now empty, a forlorn silhouette in the center of the table.

The butler picked up a flat, square box from the dressing table.

“What’s that?” Alexander asked as Wheeler handed it to him.

Then he opened it and caught his breath. Nestled on a bed of thick, dark velvet was a necklace—a delicate chain bearing five diamonds, in graduating sizes, either side of a central stone. The stone seemed to shimmer with life, each facet a different shade of purple—from the rich burgundy of port wine, to the soft, cool lavender of the delicate flowers that nodded in the summer breeze and filled the air with their healing aroma. He reached out to caress it, tracing the shape with his fingertips, and flecks of light twinkled from within, as if the stone were alive.

“She left this?” Alexander whispered.

“Her instructions were to return it to you.”

“But it was a gift.”

“Perhaps it came with too high a price.”

Yes—it had come with a price. And Mimi had left knowing that she could not bear the cost.

“What have I done?”

You’ve driven away the woman who completes your soul.

Alexander held out the box. “Take it.”

The butler’s eyes widened, then he shook his head. “Sir, I cannot.”

“Consider it payment for your services,” Alexander said. “You’re a man of business, aren’t you? What man of business would refuse payment?”

“A man who understands that there are far more precious things in the world than jewels, Your Grace.”

Alexander caressed the amethyst, and it pulsed with life. Perhaps it had captured a piece of her soul while it nestled against her throat.

“It’s hardly my style,” Wheeler said, a trace of humor in his tone. “Besides, a piece so beautiful, so unique, deserves to adorn the loveliest neck in England. Wouldn’t you agree, Your Grace?”

His voice caught in his throat, all Alexander could do was nod. The butler pushed the box toward him.

“Keep it, Your Grace,” he said. “Keep it as a symbol of hope.”

“Hope?”

The butler nodded. “Hope that, perhaps, one day, you may find it in your heart to seek true happiness—not merely that which you believe will make you happy.”

Then he bowed and exited the chamber, leaving Alexander alone, clinging to the necklace.

A poor substitute it might be, but he had nothing else.