“Good to see you, Markham,” William said, smiling. The brothers shook hands.
They were in the library and surrounded by floor-to-ceiling books. Xavier watched them, his mind drifting to Alexandra. He was dining with her in her suite tonight. He could not stop thinking about her. Her return from the dead—or the missing—was a dream come true, and he was a pragmatist who did not believe in the realization of dreams.
“How is everything on the home front?” Markham asked.
“Everything is wonderful,” William replied. Before Xavier could stop him, he told his brother about the annulment Sarah had requested. “And this might seem premature, but Xavier is marrying immediately afterwards.”
Markham stared, his smile gone. “This is sudden, is it not?”
“Sarah asked for the annulment, not I,” Xavier said.
“But you are already remarrying?”
“Yes. I shall marry as soon as possible. Alexandra and I have agreed, we do not want a big wedding, just a private ceremony here at home with Father and a very few guests. We hope to be wed within several months.” He added, “You are invited, of course, as are my cousins.”
“Alexandra? Does that name ring a bell?” Markham asked.
William smiled sheepishly at Xavier. “I was so worried about you when you returned from Barbary that I told Markham about her.”
Xavier said nothing. But he was not pleased.
Markham was more than astute. “Not Alexandra Thornton—the American woman who was also a captive in Tripoli? The woman who drowned?”
Calmly Xavier repeated the story he had already made up about Alexandra falling overboard and having lost her memory for three years. Markham was dismayed. “And are you sure this woman had had such mental illness? Did you not tell your father that she was a spy?” he demanded.
“She was not a spy,” Xavier said firmly. “There were other circumstances which misled me to make that erroneous conclusion.” He kept his tone and gaze steady. To this day, although he wished it were otherwise, he was quite certain that Alexandra had been spying, although he did not know for whom. And he still could not understand why she claimed to be a “time traveler.” In any case, the past was irrelevant. The present was all that mattered—and the future they would share.
“I don’t like this.” Markham faced William. “Let us say that this woman was not a spy. Nevertheless, she disappeared for three years. She is, at the very least, a clever fortune hunter.”
“I don’t think so,” William began.
Xavier stepped in front of Markham, furious. “Do not ever speak ill about Alexandra Thornton again.Not ever again.”
Markham paled. “I apologize.”
Xavier nodded curtly.
Markham, grim now, withdrew a sealed envelope from his breast pocket. Xavier froze, for the envelope was remarkably familiar.
“Yes,” Markham said, “it is for you and I am hand-delivering it.” He extended his arm, turning the envelope over so Xavier could see the presidential seal.
He was overwhelmed. With both dismay and curiosity. He knew he should refuse to accept the sealed missive. No good could come from it.
Yet how could one refuse a letter from the president? And he could guess the nature of the appeal that the missive contained.
But he was marrying Alexandra within the span of several months. Reverend Ascot had said that permission to annul their marriage was a matter of course.
“You cannot refuse the president,” Markham said.
Xavier recalled being embraced by Jefferson two years ago when he had gone to Washington to receive both a Medal of Honor and a special commendation for his efforts on behalf of his country. Jefferson had been charming and gracious and profusely grateful, as well. Xavier found himself reaching for the letter, his pulse racing. He promised himself that he would not do anything to jeopardize his upcoming marriage even while knowing that he was forever a patriot.
“What does he wish for me to do this time?” Xavier asked.
“He wants you to masquerade as a blockade runner.” Markham smiled benignly. “Run Napoleon’s blockade of Britain, to begin with.”
And Xavier began to understand. “And once I—or someone—reaches Britain?”
“You shall have contacts. Entrées. And the freedom to do what must be done.”
