In the Arms of a Marquess(13)

A shiver ran along her spine, curling into her belly.

She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. The heat in the pit of her stomach and the ache of longing in her chest, both dormant for so long, stirred the moment he had spoken. He merely looked at her and she was eighteen again, in the garden crying for him.

She threw back her head and sucked in a deep breath. All these years—years—should have taught her.

The carriage halted before her sister’s town house. Tavy smoothed her hair and straightened her shoulders. Abha let down the step.

“Abha, this afternoon I should like you to accompany me to visit Sir St. John at his office at the docks.”

Lines gathered upon his high, flat brow. “Memsahib, is this wise?”

“You needn’t come if you don’t like it.” She climbed from the carriage. “I am perfectly able to go searching out a shady character on my own. No one else seems to wish to help me, after all.” She strode into the house.

In the upstairs parlor, Lady Ashford sat beside Tavy’s sister, both cooing over the bundle in Alethea’s arms. It was a cozy scene and peaceful, unencumbered with high emotion. Tavy drew a steadying breath and smiled despite the roiling inside her.

“How is my nephew this morning?”

“Hello, Octavia dear.” Valerie extended her hand to squeeze Tavy’s. “He is perfectly precious.”

“Do you think so?” Alethea tucked a corner of swaddling around the sleeping infant, hazel eyes misty. After nine years awaiting the miracle in her arms, Tavy could not blame her. Alethea was such a sensible person, much more so than she herself, who had spent her childhood dreaming of traveling the world, especially of seeing India, her head constantly in the clouds. Alethea deserved her mistiness now, and Tavy must settle back into the measured temper she had so carefully cultivated over the past seven years.

“It is not merely a mother’s fondness?” Alethea asked.

“Or a father’s?” St. John entered the chamber and briefly passed his hand across the back of his wife’s thick chestnut locks. He often did that, touched Alethea in some subtle way as though conveying his attachment to her with the gesture. Each time Tavy saw it her throat thickened.

“You will always see your son as beautiful and perfect, unless he is being horrid, like mine at the moment,” Valerie said on a laugh. “Steven has been detained in Paris and will not return this week as planned. Max is threatening to stow away upon the first ship that will put him into Calais and reunite him with his father more quickly.”

“Precocious for eight,” St. John commented. “Send him to me and I will find him a berth upon a comfortable vessel.”

The viscountess grinned. “You are all kindness, sir, but when I wish for your help, I will ask for it.”

St. John’s fair good looks and phlegmatic air belied a thoughtful man of business. But when Alethea had entered her confinement while they were still aboard ship sailing north along the Spanish coast, strain had shown on his brow and in his blue eyes. Now he gazed upon his wife and newborn son with evident pleasure, the tension of so many months entirely erased.

“It has been an age since we last saw Steven.” Alethea stroked her son’s tiny fingers. “Just before we left for India, if I recall.”

“Which puts me in mind of an errand I must do now.” Valerie clasped Tavy’s hand again. “Octavia, I am having a supper party on Friday. Only a few close friends. I cannot hope to persuade your sister and Sir St. John to leave this tiny treasure for an entire evening, but you must come even so.”

“I would be delighted.”

“Splendid. Tomorrow I will take you driving in my carriage. But for now I must be off.” The viscountess pecked Alethea upon both cheeks, cast a smile at St. John, and departed.

Tavy bent and touched her lips to her nephew’s brow, then her sister’s.

“I have letters to write. If you need me I will be in the downstairs parlor.” She left her brother-in-law and sister to their private happiness.

Lal perched atop the stair rail awaiting her. She placed her forefinger inside the monkey’s gentle grip.

“St. John’s joy is too new,” she whispered, “his heart so thoroughly bound to them that in the middle of his busy day he is here at home.”

The capuchin tilted his small black and tan head as though considering.

“I cannot ask him to help Marcus. I must leave my family out of this.”

Footsteps sounded in the foyer below. Lal clucked his tongue and scurried down the banister. Marcus appeared. Lal barked a comment and went stiff.

An odd frisson of relief stole through her. “What a lovely surprise, Marcus.”

“I hope not too great of a surprise.” He watched as she descended, his handsome face shaping into a smile. He had laughing eyes, somewhat heavy in shape but bright in expression, and always pleased when he looked at her, except briefly at the theater.

“Not too great. I expected to see you today or tomorrow.”

“You did.” It was not a question, but he looked at her in that way he sometimes did, as though he expected her to say something clever or flirtatious rather than the truth. So it went with everyone she had ever known. Nearly.

“Won’t you join me in the parlor for tea?” She moved toward the door. “I was on my way there to do correspondence.”