Charles rose. “I’ll take you home in my carriage, then tell my mother and uncle the good news. We can all sleep easy tonight.”
* * *
The weather warmed on the way to London, turning the roads to a relentless mass of mud that released hooves and wheels with great reluctance. The trip from the Orchard dragged into three full days, and it took all of Alex’s stoicism not to let Fiske see how difficult he found the journey. He had the glum suspicion that the valet would be clucking over him like a mother hen for the rest of his days, and all because he’d pulled the boy out of the water once.
The lengthy trip permitted ample time for planning, and he had decided to begin his search for Christa at her cousin Suzanne’s. Alex had taken his sister to the shop once and knew the direction, and it seemed likely that Mme. de Savary would know her young cousin’s whereabouts. Christa might even be working for themodiste—she had once mentioned that as a possibility.
When they reached London, he retired immediately. Alex was still weak, and he knew he would need all his strength for the search. He had Fiske wake him at the crack of dawn next morning, having decided to get to the shop very early and wait until the owner arrived. Or even, he dared hope, Christa herself.
Fiske’s lips pursed disapprovingly when he left St. James’s Square. The valet had no idea what was behind this mad dash to the metropolis and had pointed out at regular intervals that Lord Kingsley should still be in bed, but his fool master refused to listen!
It was about seven-thirty when Alex arrived at Suzanne’s, and the air had the acrid tang of too many coal fires as the streets began to stir. He found a convenient alley directly across from the shop and leaned against the wall as he absently ate a handful of hot chestnuts purchased from a peddler. They kept his hands warm against the sharp chill of the January morning, and the viscount mused on how food always tasted better outdoors as he watched the passing parade of working people. It was an entirely different London from that of the ton.
Alex was vaguely aware of a fashionable carriage that pulled up in front of the shop; presumably some eager customer with an early morning fashion crisis. Most of his concentration was on the passersby. Christa was not very tall and might be hidden by some larger person. He was also uneasily aware that he had no idea of how she would react to seeing him. Would she be glad? Angry? Or perhaps worst of all, indifferent? He reminded himself forcibly that she might not be coming to her cousin’s at all, but it was impossible to suppress the hope.
Then suddenly Christa was walking down the street toward him, her elfin face grave above her blue cloak. Alex took a half step out of the alley and studied her hungrily. If she looked unhappy, perhaps she was missing him? He was about to cross the street to intercept her when suddenly Christa stopped, her face lit by an expression of transcendent joy.
With a rush of delight Alex thought she had seen him and that she was as happy as he. Then he realized that her gaze was not on him but on a tall blond man who had stepped out of the waiting carriage, his back to Alex.
When Alex had first met Christa, she had called him “Charles” as a desperate question. This time also she cried out “Charles!” but now there was no doubting. She was racing toward the blond man, who sprang forward to catch her up in his arms.
Alex’s vision narrowed and he felt as if he were falling away from the world. His head whirled and for a moment he blacked out. When his senses returned, he found that the alley wall was supporting him. The bricks were cold and gritty against his burning forehead, and his breathing sounded harshly in his ears. With dizzy precision he decided that Fiske was right—it was too soon to go out alone.
Most of his attention was focused on the ragged pounding of his heart as he strained for breath, but at a great distance he could hear two voices excitedly chattering in French. Something about believing that Charles had been dead, and mutual assurances of good health. Alex concentrated on nearer things, on the effort it took to remain upright, on the paralyzed numbness of his solar plexus. His knees wanted to buckle, and he was still flattened against the brick building when the carriage door slammed shut. Despairingly he heard the jingling harness as the vehicle carried Christa out of his life.
The mysterious Charles, back from the dead. Savagely, Alex wondered how darling Charles would react when he discovered just how generous his sweetheart had been to her employer, but the anger vanished as quickly as it had flared up. Christa had never said she loved him. She had merely been there when he needed her, asking nothing in return. If her Charles was any kind of man at all, he wouldn’t blame Christa for what had happened when she had believed him dead.
Alex tried to be glad that her lover was restored to her, but his grief was too raw for him to be generous. Perhaps he could wish her happy later, but not now. Not so soon.
He levered himself away from the wall with his hands, trying to decide if he were steady enough to walk. From near his right elbow a shrill voice asked, “’Ey, mister, you gonna finish them chestnuts?” Alex looked down, blinking to clear his vision, and saw the chestnuts he had dropped when he first saw Christa. An urchin looked up at him suspiciously.
“Help yourself.” Alex’s voice was unsteady. While the boy scooped up the remaining chestnuts, Alex searched in his pockets for a coin that he handed over when the boy straightened. “Will you get a hackney for me?”
The boy’s eyes widened at the size of the coin. “Yessir, right away.” He skipped off, probably assuming Alex was drunk.
After the hackney coach deposited Alex back at Kingsley House, he collapsed so completely that his worried valet called in the best doctor in London and summoned Miss Kingsley from Suffolk.
* * *
On the carriage ride to Radcliffe House, Christa kept one hand clutched around Charles’s arm as if afraid that he would disappear into the ether. While she had an intellectual belief in miracles, this one seemed too good to be true. They exchanged news at a high rate of speed, both talking at once and finishing each other’s thoughts as they had since they were children. The conversation slowed some as they neared the end of their journey, and Charles said hesitantly, “There is something you should know before we get home.”
“Oh?” She lifted her brow questioningly.
“I have told you why Lewis behaved as he did. I hope you can bring yourself to forgive him.”
Christa gave a Gallic shrug. “It was foolish of me to run off as I did. It made a great deal of sense at the time, but I should have known your uncle would not turn into a monster overnight. The last year has been . . . educational.”
With a stab of pure pain, she thought of Alex. It was one of God’s less humorous jokes that now that she had regained both station and fortune, he was lost to her. If he had loved her, she would have fought Sybil Debenham for him. But without his love, she had no more place in his future now than when she was a maid.
“I would not have missed it,” she added after a silence that was a little too long. She looked at her brother questioningly. “I expect Uncle Lewis and I may be a little uncomfortable with each other at first, but we shall get over that. Do you anticipate a problem?”
“Well,” Charles said hesitatingly, “not exactly a problem. It’s just that . . . well, you know how men are always falling in love with Mother.”
As Christa stared at him blankly, he elaborated. “Apparently Lewis fell in love with her when he was thirteen and hasn’t looked at another woman since. At least, not seriously,” he qualified. “Now that he has caught her between husbands, he has pleaded his case. She’s always been very fond of him, and now they are both smelling of April and May. I think they may make a match of it.”
The situation had been something of a shock even for Charles. After a little soul-searching, he accepted it with genuine pleasure, but he worried about Christa’s reaction. She didn’t know and value Lewis as he did, and she had reason to despise him. Charles needn’t have worried. After a moment of blank astonishment, his sister went off into whoops.
When she sobered up, she gasped, “The poor man! So mad forMamanthat he was desperate enough to consider me a substitute. It is a farce Moliere himself would have appreciated—kinfolk reappearing from the grave, longtime lover rewarded.C’est merveilleux!”
