Page 70 of Surrender to Love

Had the words been flattering lies when he had whispered, “I think I desire you, Alexa, more than I have desired any other woman I have met.” And she had said foolishly, “Even more than you desired your...” and could have bitten through her tongue the next moment.

“I never desired my wife as a woman. When I took her it was with lust, and even that was because in a drunken state it’s easy to imagine doing anything to anyone. Didn’t I tell you that in Rome when I related my life history to you? Is there anything else I omitted?”

“I’m sorry. I had no right to pry and I didn’t really mean to. You always sound so bitter when you speak of her, though. As if you...as if you hated her, even though you blamed yourself for everything.”

“And I suppose it was for that reason that I hated her. For making me feel guilty, for being taken by Indians, for everything, in fact, that the poor girl had no control over. And most of all—do you understand, damn you?—most of all for not dying long before, as she was supposed to. For surviving long enough—God knows why—until I had to be the one to kill her.”

In spite of the fire’s heat Alexa gave a slight shiver that made Mr. Meeks glance at her worriedly and wonder if she had a fever. How flushed her cheeks had become suddenly! He wished that his employer, who would certainly know what to do, would get rid of his long-winded country squire quickly, and wondered the next moment if he should inquire if there was something she needed. But it wasn’t his place to intrude, of course. Especially when Lady Travers seemed so deep in thought that she seemed quite unaware of her surroundings as she continued to gaze fixedly into the fire. He wondered, before he turned back to his work with a sigh, what she saw in there, a woman as young and as pretty as she was. Was it a man’s face, perhaps?

The face Alexa saw in her mind came so sharply etched into her memory that it seemed more familiar to her than the face of any other person she had ever known—the shade and color of his eyes, the hard line of his jaw, and the harshly uncompromising slant of his lips when he scowled. It was the hardest and sometimes the most cruel face she had seen, although she knew, and her ringers had traced, every line and plane of it. The face of a throwback to one of the ruthless Spanish conquistadores that did not belong here in London where gentlemen were supposed to abide by certain civilized conventions and rules. “The Spaniard,” Charles had laughingly called him once. He had called himself a “Californio.” And had admitted to being a murderer as well, although she had tried, belatedly, to stop him from telling her, not wanting to learn anything more—anything worse. But he had pulled her even more closely against him, arms tightening about her even while she protested again that she was sorry she had said anything to bring up what was obviously a most personal and painful subject.

“Why? After all, I suppose I was the one who first brought up the subject of my wife to you, and I can still detect some curiosity lurking in you, sweet Pandora. Surely you want to hear the end of that particular tragic tale?”

“Nicholas, please don’t. You don’t have to...”

“I don’t have to, but perhaps I must.” She remembered that he had an arm about her shoulders while he spoke and that she had turned her head slightly to press her face and her lips against it, and she remembered every word he had used as if they had been printed on a page in her brain.

“Did I tell you before how many years it had been? I suppose it doesn’t matter. Sometimes I cannot remember myself! But after the first year and all the searching and the questions, she was already dead in my mind, poor creature—and in the minds of everyone else. Her family had masses read for the peace of her soul and added her name to those already engraved in the marble of the family crypt. And then, having been put to rest officially, she was forgotten—conveniently I suppose, and especially for me— until an unfortunate coincidence occurred. We have family connections in Mexico, and there had been a reward offered for any information. Only, who would have expected it to be claimed so many years later?” Alexa could remember all too clearly the sound of his indrawn breath before his voice became suddenly devoid of all emotion, sounding flat and hard as he went on. “When I saw her I felt relieved—and angry because I had had to postpone my plans to rush off on a wild goose chase. The woman I saw lying on a filthy straw pallet was a pitifully emaciated old hag with thin, greying hair chopped off short in the Comanche fashion; and she was dying. They had not even left her with clothing—whoever had owned her last. Only a dirty rag of a blanket that hardly covered... Then she said—my name. She had lost most of her teeth along with everything else, but she was alive and she was still my wife and here we were reunited in the middle of nowhere. An old mountain man’s cabin with a makeshift lean-to, and it had taken me three days to get there from the nearest squalid town. I couldn’t get near her for the stench, and I did not think I could bear to touch her. I looked at her and heard what she was trying to tell me through that sunken hole of a mouth and I wished her dead before I had ever arrived there. I didn’t want to hear her story nor her moans of agony when the pain of her disease became strong. She had stayed alive until now in spite of every use and abuse she had been subjected to because she was afraid to kill herself. And now, since everything that had happened to her was my doing, she had her revenge at last when she begged me to do it for her. I suppose I should have had the sense to leave her to die on her own, as she would have. All I had to do was pay the old man who had traded a pelt or two for her enough money, and he might have done it himself. But instead I gave her enough of the rotgut whisky I had brought with me to put her to sleep and then I shot her through the temple.”

How could he have spoken so dispassionately, Alexa was able to think now, although at the time, while his words dropped against her one by one like cold pebbles, she had felt numb. And while she was still searching for words she couldn’t find, he had said mockingly, “Sweet, tender Alexa! Had you imagined some dramatic, vastly different story filled with passion, jealousy and rage, perhaps? Are you disappointed?” And he had begun to caress her and to whisper Spanish words of love in her ear, and then to make love to her, just as if that terrible story he had related to her had been of no consequence at all. And perhaps that was true, and the only reason he had told her anything might have been to exonerate himself, since Lord Charles had already let it slip that he had killed his poor wife. The real story might be very different indeed; and she must keep firmly in her mind that Nicholas Dameron had, by his own admission, killed several unfortunate men in duels he had engaged in, a barbaric custom still popular in Louisiana and other backward places in America, she had been made to understand. She should also understand, Alexa reminded herself carefully, that he was a man who thought first of himself and what would best serve his ends, completely selfish where he was concerned and completely thoughtless of others. Why else would he have kept her out all night in a well-known house of assignation without the slightest consideration for her reputation? Worse still, he had let her fall asleep trustingly in his arms; and as soon as he was sure she slept soundly he had made a hasty departure, leaving her behind like a piece of discarded merchandise he had used and found flawed.

He had only meant to use her and had done it very cleverly too, her Aunt Solange had told her cuttingly— among other things. Blunt, ugly facts of life that Alexa had tried to ignore or gloss over because she... Oh God, why not admit it to herself at least? Because she could not help wanting him as strongly and as passionately as she felt she could hate him!

“You silly, stupid little fool! What were you thinking of to let him use you like a bloody whore without a brain in her head? Brains—intelli

gence— merde! Here’s the rich Lady Travers with her big mansion in Belgrave Square with all its bedrooms and her maids to wait on her—and she spends the night here, where her fine gentleman brings all of his fancy pieces. Well, my dear, you must admit I’m an expert in that field, so why don’t you climb out of that bed he left you in when he’d had enough of you and let me take a look at you! I could tell you how you compare with some of the others he’s fancied, if you like.”

Alexa winced slightly at the memory of opening her eyes when the covers were yanked off her body and seeing Solange looking down at her with angry disgust written all over her face. She had wished, in fact, that she could run and hide somewhere, if there was anywhere to hide from those scathing, accusing words that seemed to bare her to herself by stripping away all the excuses she had been using.

“You’d do better to stand up and face me, my girl, than lie there on your back with your legs spread just in case he might decide to return, because he won’t today, I’ll tell you that! But there’s been others asking after you just in case you haven’t had your fill yet. Ah! So he’s left you with enough strength to stand up straight? And a pretty little bauble to remind you of last night—or in payment? He’s generous, at least. I’ve heard he paid an extravagant price for your maidenhead without a squabble.” Until then Alexa had forgotten about the gold chain that encircled her hips, thin, with flat links that seemed to flow into each other. Her night’s wages in advance, he had told her as he fastened the catch. At the time it had seemed—part of the game they played. But when, under her aunt’s cynical eyes, Alexa had glimpsed herself in a mirror, she saw a pagan symbol of slavery, a reminder that she was a possession of the man who had put it on her. Instinctively, her fingers had sought the clasp, and Solange had laughed harshly. “The only way you’ll take that off is to have it sawn through by a goldsmith, cherie. I’ve seen a few like that before with those tricky clasps that can’t be undone once they’ve been fastened. It must have amused him, I’m sure.” And then, eyes narrowing as though she could see into her niece’s mind, Solange said:

“ del! One hopes that in addition to this act of stupidity you have not completely lost all of your senses? There’s nothing wrong with playing harlot for some man if it is what you enjoy also and you are suitably discreet. But to allow yourself to be guided not by your head but by what you have between your legs—that is unforgivable stupidity! And how the old witch your grandmother must be chuckling to find how easily gulled you were after all. Lord Embry brings you here openly and uses you for a night; and this morning, my dear, he’s told Lord Deering and even Newbury that since you’re here and obviously available they might just as well have the use of his latest whore too!”

“Lady Travers?”

“Oh!” Alexa did not realize that she had put her hands up to her ears until she heard her name repeated anxiously; and the sound of another voice startled her for an instant, until she thankfully recollected where she was and why. Poor Meeks was staring at her in a most peculiar fashion, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed awkwardly before stuttering, “Oh, beg pardon I’m sure, Lady Travers, and I did not mean to...to...”

“Ah! My dear Alexa, you’ll accept my apologies for keeping you waiting? Some of my clients need every detail explained at least three times over, and thank God you’re not like that or I’d have retired before now and driven my poor wife into a nervous decline. Come in!”

There was a warm fire in his office too, and comfortable leather-covered chairs with plump cushions and extra comfort. With a conspiratorial wink, Mr. Jarvis offered her a small glass of sherry while he invited her not to bother, with formality. “We’ve been wondering how you were, you know. And I’ve had several matters I wanted to discuss with you, but Margery keeps telling me I should let you find your feet first and have enough time in which to enjoy yourself. You have been doing just that, I hope?” The shrewd eyes that scanned her over gold-rimmed pincenez were almost impossible to evade, and Alexa began to search frantically in her mind for words, or for a beginning at least. And then, taking some of the burden from her, Mr. Jarvis said in a gentler, more serious tone of voice: “My dear, if there’s anything I have learned from life it’s to spit out what’s bothering me, if you’ll excuse the vulgar expression. And there is something the matter, is there not? And that is why you came?”

Once she had started to speak Alexa found it easier to continue with her somewhat jerky narrative. She had to speak to someone, do something, or go mad! And Mr. Jarvis, bless him, did nothing but nod his head occasionally to encourage her to go on and pour her more sherry when her throat seemed to become too dry. There was no condemnation in his attitude or his voice when he finally spoke; but he kept, thank God, the kind of objectivity she needed desperately. And he neither exaggerated nor played down the weakness she had shown and the foolish risks she had taken. In fact, his calmness immediately made her feel calmer and more self-confident.

“Well, as the saying goes, no use crying over spilt milk, is there? Which means, my dear, that no matter how foolish you’ve been, you’re better off thinking and planning for what might be ahead of you as a consequence instead of wringing your hands over what’s done. Now, let’s think about the worst consequences first and then what we will do to prevent them, shall we?” It was the only time, until then, that he had looked at her a trifle severely. “You ought to have learned by now that panicking and showing you’re afraid is the very worst thing. You’ve been out hunting wild game in the jungles, haven’t you? Seen what can happen if a hunter loses his head when he’s charged by his quarry? Ah, of course you have! You don’t want to be the one to panic or start running, do you? If you’ve got something to face then my advice is face it at once, while they expect you to run. Be the one to attack first, but always remember to have some form of defense to fall back on.” Leaning back in his chair, Mr. Jarvis gave Alexa a rather droll smile and a shake of his head. “I get carried away, don’t I? It’s no wonder Margery tells me I should have been a general.”

“But how can I possibly face everyone? That is, if he...if I only knew! Was everything he said and did part of a carefully calculated plan? For God’s sake, why did he give me his own signet ring and insist that we must be engaged? After all, there was no need...”

“Ah, but perhaps there was, eh? To keep you mollified and quiet until a final plan was decided upon? I don’t believe in speculation, generally; I prefer to deal in facts. But it is a fact that the Times tomorrow is to carry an announcement of the engagement of Lady Helen Dameron to the Viscount Embry. And that is a fact, my dear, for the editor is a friend of mine. I’m sorry.”

There was a pause, then, while those words reechoed in Alexa’s mind—and her aunt’s words as well. “You’re only allowed one mistake, my dear, and that is if you’re damn lucky. And if you don’t learn from that, you deserve what you get. Mine was Newbury, and after that it was always the thinking side of me in control. The best whores, cherie, are those clever enough to use the men who think that they are the users. There is no room for sentimentality, and as for what is known as love—pah! It doesn’t exist, my girl. You’ll learn that soon enough if you haven’t already.”

Finally Alexa lifted her head and looked steadily across the desk. “Sorry? Why should you be? For telling me the truth? It makes everything fit in too, doesn’t it? But what am I to do now? If Charles and Newbury know already...?”

“But don’t forget that you hold the trump cards. Never forget it and never let them forget it either. And remember that on their side it’s the Dowager Marchioness who directs everything. Now, you want to hear what I suggest? Only suggestions, mind, because you’re the one to make the decisions every time.”

This time at least she had made some decisions. This time... God knows how many times she had told herself that and had allowed herself to be made weak. But never, ever again. She had made her one mistake and the next was not going to be hers. As the carriage made its way through streets that w

ere as crowded as usual, Alexa wondered who was following her and what they looked like. But from now on she was prepared, and Mr. Jarvis was making arrangements that would insure she would be watched over at all times by men he knew and trusted and who had worked for him before. Not only that, but he had given her a small, prettily engraved pistol that would fit easily into a reticule and was capable of firing two shots. Tomorrow, she thought, she would buy one or two larger and more efficiently deadly pistols to keep beside her in the carriage and in her house. And she knew already what else she had to do to prevent a reoccurrence of what had happened.

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