“Children cry when they see me, Vale.” Munroe stated it as an unemotional fact.
“Do you even go to Edinburgh now?”
“No. I go nowhere.”
“You’ve imprisoned yourself in your castle.”
“You make it sound like a tragedy on the stage.” Munroe’s mouth twisted. “It’s not. I’ve accepted my fate. I have my books, my studies, and my writing. I am . . . content.”
Jasper looked at the other man skeptically. Content to live in a big drafty castle with only a dog and a surly manservant for company?
Munroe must’ve known that Jasper would argue the point. He turned back toward the mansion. “Come. We haven’t broken our fast, and no doubt your wife waits for you inside.”
He strode ahead.
Jasper cursed and followed. Munroe wasn’t ready to leave his safe nest, and until the stubborn Scot was ready, there was no use arguing. Jasper only hoped that Munroe would budge in this lifetime.
“THAT MAN IS sorely in need of a housekeeper,” Melisande said as their carriage drove away from Sir Alistair’s castle. Suchlike’s head was already nodding in the corner.
Vale shot an amused look at her. “You didn’t approve of his linens, my heart?”
She pinched her lips together. “The musty linens, the dust on every surface, the nearly empty larder, and that horrible, horrible manservant. No, I certainly did not approve.”
Vale laughed. “Well, we’ll stay on clean sheets tonight. Aunt Esther said she was eager to see us on our return trip. I think she wants to hear gossip about Munroe.”
“No doubt.”
Melisande took out her embroidery and sorted through her silks, looking for a shade of lemon yellow. She thought she must have a few strands left, and it was the perfect shade to highlight the lion’s mane.
She glanced at Suchlike to make sure the maid was asleep. “Did Sir Alistair tell you what you wanted to know?”
“In a way.” He stared out the window, and she waited, carefully threading her needle. “Someone betrayed us at Spinner’s Falls, and I’ve been trying to discover the man.”
She frowned a little as she placed the first stitch—no small feat in a bumping carriage. “Did you think Sir Alistair was the man?”
“No, but I thought he might help me figure out who was.”
“And did he?”
“I don’t know.”
The words should’ve held disappointment, but Jasper seemed cheerful enough. Melisande smiled to herself as she worked the lion’s mane. Perhaps Sir Alistair had given him some peace.
“Blancmange,” she sai‹man lid a few minutes later.
He looked at her. “What?”
“You once asked me what my favorite food is. Do you remember?”
He nodded.
“Well, it’s blancmange. We had it every year at Christmas when I was a girl. Cook colored it pink and decorated it with almonds. I was the youngest, so I had the smallest dish, but it was wonderfully creamy and delicious. I looked forward to it every year.”
“We can have pink blancmange every night for supper,” Vale said.
Melisande shook her head, trying not to smile at his impulsive offer. “No, that would spoil the specialness of it. Only at Christmas.”
A happy thrill went through her to be planning a Christmas with him. There would be many Christmases with him, she thought. She couldn’t think of a more wonderful prospect.
“Only at Christmas, then,” Vale was saying across from her. He was solemn, as if settling a business contract. “But I insist that you have an entire bowl for yourself.”
She snorted and found herself smiling. “What would I do with a whole bowl of blancmange?”
“You could make a pig of yourself,” he said, perfectly seriously. “Eat the entire thing at once if you like. Or you can hoard it, just looking at it and thinking how good it will be, how creamy and sweet—”
“Nonsense.”
“Or you can eat but one spoonful every evening. One spoonful, and me sitting across the table looking on with envy.”
“Won’t you have your own bowl of blancmange as well?”
“No. That’s why yours will be so special.” He leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest, looking well pleased with himself. “Yes, indeed. I pledge an entire bowl of pink blancmange to you every Christmas. Never let it be said that I am not a generous husband.”
Melisande rolled her eyes at his foolery, but she smiled as well. She was looking forward to her first Christmas with Jasper.
They made good time that day and were at Aunt Esther’s house well before supper time.
In fact, as their carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Edinburgh town house, Aunt Esther was seeing off another couple she’d no doubt had for tea. It took a moment to recognize Timothy and his wife. Melisande watched him, her first love. There had been a time when the mere sight of his handsome face had made her catch her breath. It had taken her years to recover from losing Timothy. Now the pain of his loss was muted and somehow apart from her, as if the broken engagement had happened to some other young, naive girl. She looked at him, and all she could think was, Thank goodness. Thank goodness she’d escaped marrying him.
Beside her, Vale muttered something under his breath, and then he was bounding from the carriage.
“Aunt Esther!” he cried, seemingly oblivious to the o‹ivi bother couple. He strode toward her, and somehow, someway, bumped against Timothy Holden. The shorter man staggered, and Vale went to help him. But Vale must’ve knocked against Timothy again, because he landed on his rear in the muddy street.
“Oh, dear,” Melisande muttered to no one in particular, and scrambled from the carriage before her husband killed her former lover with his “kindness.” Mouse jumped down as well and ran to bark at the fallen man.
Before she could get there, Vale had offered his hand to help Timothy up. Timothy, the blind idiot, took it, and Melisande nearly covered her eyes. Vale pulled a trifle too hard, and Timothy popped off the ground like a cork and staggered against Vale. Vale leaned his head close to the other man, and Timothy’s face suddenly went an ashy gray. He leapt back from Vale and, declining any further help, hurried his wife into their carriage.
Mouse gave one last self-satisfied bark, happy to have chased him off.
Vale bent and petted the dog, muttering something to Mouse that made his tail wag.
Melisande breathed a sigh of relief and strolled to the two males. “What did you say to Timothy?”
Vale straightened and turned entirely too-innocent eyes on her. “What?”
“Jasper!”
“Oh, all right, but it wasn’t much. I requested that he not visit my aunt.”
“Requested?”
A satisfied smile was playing about his mouth. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing Mr. Timothy Holden or his wife here again.”
She sighed, secretly pleased at his concern for her feelings. “Was that entirely necessary?”
He took her arm and replied softly, “Oh, yes, my heart, oh, yes.”
Then he was leading her toward Aunt Esther and calling, “We have returned, Aunt, and we bring news of the reclusive Sir Alistair!”
Chapter Seventeen
The next day, the king announced a final trial. A golden ring was hidden in a cavern deep underground and guarded by a fire-breathing dragon. Well, Jack put on his suit of night and wind and took up the sharpest sword in the world, and soon enough he stood at the entrance to the cavern. The dragon came roaring out, and Jack had quite a battle, I can tell you, for the dragon was very big. Back and forth they fought, all through the day. It was almost nightfall when the dragon finally lay dead and Jack held the golden ring in his hand. . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
A week later, Melisande walked in Hyde Park with Mouse. They’d arrived back in London only the night before. The journey from Scotland had been uneventful—saving for a horrible meal of cabbage and beef on the third day. Last night, Melisande had made a pallet in a corner of her room, and Vale had slept with her there all night. It was an odd a�abbrrangement, she knew, but she was so glad to have him with her, sleeping next to her, that she didn’t care. If she had to make her bed on the floor for the rest of her life, it would be fine with her. Suchlike had given the pallet a curious glance but hadn’t said anything. Perhaps Mr. Pynch had informed her of Lord Vale’s strange sleeping habits.
The wind fluttered her skirts as she walked. Vale had gone to speak with Mr. Horn this morning, probably about Spinner’s Falls. Melisande frowned a little at the thought. She’d hoped that after talking to Sir Alistair, he’d give up the chase, perhaps find some peace. But he was just as intent as ever. Most of the ride back to London he’d theorized and plotted and told and retold her his ideas of who the traitor might be. Melisande had sat and worked her embroidery, but inside, her heart was sinking. What was the likelihood that Vale could discover the man after all these years? And if he couldn’t find the traitor, what then? Would he spend the rest of his life in a fruitless search?
A shout interrupted her gloomy thoughts. She looked up in time to see Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s little boy, Jamie, embracing Mouse. The dog licked the child’s face enthusiastically. Evidently he remembered Jamie. His sister carefully bent to pat Mouse’s head as well.
“Good day,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam called. She had been standing a little apart from her children. Now she strolled over. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
Melisande smiled. “Yes, it is.”
They stood side by side, watching the children and the dog for a bit.
Mrs. Fitzwilliam heaved a sigh. “I ought to get Jamie a dog. He begs for one most piteously. But His Grace can’t abide animals. They make him sneeze, and he says they’re dirty.”
Melisande was a little surprised at the casual mention of the other woman’s protector, but she tried to hide it. “Dogs are rather dirty sometimes.”
“Mmm. I expect so, but then so are boys.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam wrinkled her nose, which only made her lovely face more adorable. “And, really, it’s not as if he visits us very much anymore. Hardly once a month in the last year. I expect he has gotten himself another woman, like an Ottoman sultan. They keep ladies like sheep in a herd—the Ottomans, I mean. I believe they call it a harem.”
Melisande could feel herself blushing, and she looked down at her toes.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. “I’ve embarrassed you, haven’t I? I’m always saying the wrong thing, especially when I’m nervous. His Grace used to say that I should always keep my lips firmly together, because it spoiled the illusion when I opened them.”
“What illusion?”
“Of perfection.”
Melisande blinked. “What an awful thing to say.”
Mrs. Fitzwilliam cocked her head to the side, as if considering. “It is, isn’t it? I didn’t realize it at the time, I think. I was very much in awe of him when we first met. But then I was very young too. Only seventeen.”
Melisande truly wished she could ask the other woman how she had beco“ow seme the Duke of Lister’s mistress, but she was afraid of the answer.
Instead, she said, “Did you love him?”
Mrs. Fitzwilliam laughed. She had a lovely, light laugh, but it was tinged with sadness. “Does one love the sun? It’s there, and it provides us with heat and light, but can one truly love it?”
Melisande was silent because any answer she gave would only add to the other woman’s sadness.
“I think one must be equals to love,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam mused. “Equal on some fundamental level. I don’t mean in wealth or even status. I know of women who truly love their protectors and men who love the women they keep. But they are equal on a . . . a spiritual level, if you see what I mean.”
