Lord Stanton's Last Mistress

‘Your solitude is about to be interrupted anyway. Why didn’t you join them? Don’t you like gardens?’ he asked, more bluntly than he might have intended, but Miss James didn’t appear to find anything strange with his question. She answered it as given, glancing down guiltily at the book she held.

‘I do, but I love books more. Please don’t tell Lady Albinia, I know how she adores her gardens and I would hate to offend her.’

‘Of course not. You are more than welcome to use the window seat when you wish, whether I am at the Hall or not. The only time I am afraid the library is out of bounds is when we will be busy with the negotiations in the stateroom, which is through those doors. Other than that you are welcome here.’

He wondered what on earth he was doing, trying to make her comfortable when the last thing he wanted was to have his privacy invaded any more than absolutely necessary. As they watched, the group in the garden turned on to the lake path.

‘Well, you have just earned another half hour. My aunt is probably taking them to see what remains of the water lilies on the lake. So, what are you reading? Won’t you sit down?’

Embarrassment was often very useful. Now that he was overcoming his initial discomfort he resolved to make the most of hers. People revealed more when off balance and he wanted to know what he was dealing with here. He indicated the window seat again, using his superior height to press her back. She sat down but her eyes narrowed at the manoeuvre. She was a peculiar combination—her expression was cool and calm, but something in the blue depths contradicted that assessment. He stepped back and pulled over a chair, suddenly noticing she held Bruce’s Travels to Discover the Source of the Nile. The veiled nurse had had a preference for agony columns, he remembered.

‘This is a rather unusual choice of reading material. There are shelves of novels in my sisters’ parlour next to the conservatory, you know.’

‘I love novels, sometimes I think they are the anchors of my sanity. But I love tales by people who have seen the world and been stretched to their limits. I hadn’t even realised how much time had gone by.’

Her face had descended into a serious look, but then another smile dispelled it almost immediately. It was like light reflecting off conflicting currents in a lake, confusing hints of forces at work beneath the surface, shifting as soon as the eyes settled on them. Once again his concentration shattered, but the certainty that had struck him when she had first spoken was fading. Her voice was already her own and he couldn’t for the life of him remember if it resembled that young woman of six years ago or whether it had been a trick of his own memory. Perhaps he should just ask her...what? Were you the girl who saved my life? Remember? I’m the idiot who made a fool of himself and asked you to run off with me?

‘That has effectively stifled all conversational gambits, hasn’t it?’ she said into the silence, the amused self-mockery in her deep voice rousing him from another round of uncharacteristic stupor. He shook his head, trying to keep to the surface of the conversation. It should have been easy, but he felt himself struggling to find the anchor of polite patter that was second nature to him and usually took up no more than a tenth of his mental effort while the rest of his mind was engaged on more momentous matters.

‘Does the Princess share your interest in tales of adventure?’

‘No, she is much saner than I. We are currently reading Mrs Carmichael’s Hidden Heart. But you wouldn’t like her.’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ he asked. But his hope that the conviction in her statement might indicate an admission of familiarity faded with her next words.

‘Most men despise novels, don’t they?’

‘Just as most women love them? Isn’t that simplistic? I have very little time for fiction, unfortunately, but with two sisters I have been exposed to more novels than I can remember and I certainly don’t despise them. Hers haven’t come my way, though. Are they any good?’

‘I like them; they are almost as good as my dreams.’ Her words ended on a little surprised sound as if she had remembered something or merely realised that she was being a tad too honest. She stood up abruptly and handed him the book.

‘Thank you for the use of the library and your book.’

He stood up as well, taking the book automatically. Between his bulk and the chair he knew he was impeding her exit, but he wasn’t quite ready to conclude this conversation.

‘Formally it is my father’s library. Why are you convinced it is not his book as well?’

She had to look up at him, her head tilted back, accentuating a very stubborn chin. Then she smiled again.

‘I guessed,’ she said simply and slid past him in the manner of a child slipping past a strict parent and he found himself turning as if he could capture her scent as she passed.

This time it was his memory that took precedence, just a flash, a moment from when he had still been caught in the fever of the wound, perhaps the first time he had really been conscious of her, or of her scent. He hadn’t thought of it since, but the memory had somehow remained—like a soap bubble that had formed years ago about the girl’s essence and had only now burst. Wildflowers deep in the woods. At his desk he placed the book on the blotting pad and smoothed unseen wrinkles on the leather binding. It was warm and supple, as leather is after being handled, not surprising if she had been curled up with it in that sunny corner.

Almost as good as my dreams... What a strange thing to say, whether she was that veiled nurse or not. What on earth would she have done if he had asked her to describe those dreams? She might be peculiar, but that would probably have stymied even her. Possibly. Maybe not.

He pushed the book to the edge of the desk. He had work to do before he had to play host to his problematic guests. Whatever she was made no odds. He had a task to complete and that was the sum of his interest in the King’s affairs or employees.

Damn Oswald.

Chapter Four (#u27a96bdb-6347-5195-9026-b229e81fbf41)

‘Mint and valerian.’ Lady Albinia smiled, patting the empty spot on the sofa as Christina entered the drawing room in the wake of the King and Princess. Christina sat down with relief, happy to escape another direct encounter with Lord Stanton as he came forward to greet the King. It took her a moment to register Lady Albinia’s strange comment.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Earlier today you asked if I happen to grow horsetail and hyssop, but then we were distracted by his Majesty’s interest in impatiens and periwinkles for the castle gardens. If you need horsetail for stomach ailments, mint and valerian might do, as well. I am not familiar with hyssop’s qualities.’

Christina smiled.

‘Thank you, both will do very well. It is actually for a tisane I sometimes prepare for the King when he has trouble sleeping. I saw you have cowslip and chamomile and woodruff which are wonderful. On Illiakos I grow bird’s foot and pennyroyal, as well.’

‘My mints are mostly down by the lake,’ Lady Albinia replied, leaning forward as if to guard a secret. ‘They are thirsty things, the dears. My pennyroyal never took, but I shall bring you some spearmint if you like. Very soothing.’

Lady Albinia’s faded face was lit from within and Christina almost regretted the topic had ever been broached. Herbs had been her father’s passion and she continued to tend the herb gardens he had planted, but for her they were instrumental, not the passionate occupation they appeared to be for Lady Albinia. By her vague expression Christina guessed the current Marquess’s sister was very used to spending hours propping up walls whenever events at the Hall required her attendance in the absence of Lady Wentworth herself. In thirty or forty years Christina might become much the same at the Castle. Once Ari married perhaps her herb garden would be all that was left to comfort her on Illiakos. The thought terrified her, but she stifled it.

‘That would be very kind, Lady Albinia.’

‘It would be my pleasure. So few people appreciate herbs. Flowers are always popular, but most people find herbs rather dull,’ she said wistfully and Christina smiled.

‘Herbs are often more potent beneath the surface, but even the most beautiful flowers can have hidden depths, like foxgloves, for example. I believe we should judge each plant on its own merits.’ She cringed a little at her pedantic response, but Lady Albinia’s smile warmed.

‘I cannot decide which you are.’

‘Which what?’

‘A flower or an herb. Usually I can tell right away. You have elements of both. I shall reserve judgement.’

She sounded so serious, Christina restrained her urge to laugh and looked around the room, forcing her gaze to skim past Lord Stanton as swiftly as possible. Even a brief glance told her he was magnificent in evening wear, the contrast of black and white accentuating the austere perfection of his features. But it also confirmed that although she had been too shocked by his sudden appearance that afternoon to assess their encounter calmly, she had been right about one thing—he had changed. Or perhaps she had. If she didn’t know better she might have assumed this was that man’s older brother. Incredibly like him in looks, more virile, but less swashbuckling. Just...different. The alternating sardonic charm, flirtatiousness and irritability were gone, replaced by watchful politeness. For a moment in the library he had even appeared a little confused. He had probably been thinking about something else and her presence had been unwelcome, but his manners had prevailed.

He was still the most attractive man she had met, but at least she hadn’t made as much of a fool of herself as she might, especially after being discovered huddled in that corner in her stockings. She flushed again at the memory and pushed it away. She had survived that meeting quite well, certainly better than anticipated. It was a relief that he made no connection between Miss James and his newspaper-reading nurse. And really, why should he? She had been negligible then and was negligible now.

She glanced again in his direction. He stood with the King and Princess, his head bowed slightly towards Ari’s who was laughing at something he said, her silver-and-white fan clutched in her hands in a gesture Christina knew betokened excitement. They looked beautiful together, a perfect melding of north and south and at least outwardly it appeared the King might realise his ambition, but Christina couldn’t help being worried, and not merely because of the lingering damage to her own heart. Lord Stanton might be leagues beyond any of the men who came to pay court to Ari at Illiakos, but she didn’t know if he could make Ari happy. He might have changed, but she remembered bitterness and anger under the flirtatious charm five years ago that she doubted would have just disappeared. None of that was in evidence now, but there was something distant about him despite the charm of his smile and the appealing curiosity he had exhibited while talking with her in the library and which he was clearly exerting on Ari even now. Beyond that something else lay, but she had no idea what it was and it scared her a little.

She drew herself up at that wholly ridiculous thought. He was merely an English diplomat whose only agenda was to secure a treaty with Illiakos. Fear had no place here.

Lady Albinia gave a slight sigh and patted Christina’s arm as the butler entered to announce dinner.

‘Come along, child, we have a long evening ahead of us.’

Christina followed her into the adjoining room. She was accustomed to splendour after years of the King insisting she accompany Ari to all state dinners, so when she entered the Stanton dining hall she was impressed, but not cowed. It could clearly accommodate several dozen people, but the central table had been shortened to fit their modest number and the elaborate silver epergne shaped like an eastern temple had been moved to a side table and replaced by a China bowl bursting with flowers. It was a peculiar touch amidst the sparkle of crystal and silver and gold-embossed dinnerware, both modest and lively. Christina thought the arrangement was not only tasteful but clever. It tied the group together in a warm intimacy and masked their antagonistic agendas.

Lord Stanton was seated at one end of the table and the King at the other, flanked by the Austrian and Russian envoys. Christina noted this concession to the weaker parties as she took her seat between Ari, seated to Lord Stanton’s right, and the Russian Tsar’s envoy, Count Razumov.

Again Christina felt her kinship with Lady Albinia. The older woman sat on Lord Stanton’s left, and as he listened to Ari’s happy chatter, she occupied herself with her food and a calm oversight of the servants who moved about, placing and removing covers with silent efficiency. Had Lady Albinia ever dreamt of being anything else but what she was? Of a family and home of her own? She had a pleasant face and she was not unintelligent. Had life just slipped past her while she tended her herbs and her brother’s family? She didn’t appear unhappy, but was that just resignation or true contentment?

‘...Miss James? Miss James!’

Christina turned at the King’s peremptory use of her name. He was frowning and the envoys were staring at her in surprise and for one mad moment Christina wondered if she had committed some horrid social solecism, but could not for the life of her think of anything she had been doing other than meandering through her own less-than-optimistic thoughts.