The Impostors: Complete Collection Page 49

  The Rambling Botanist, Trees and Ferns, ABC and XYZ of Bee Culture, Culpeper’s Complete Herbal, Hortus Cantabrigiensis: A Catalogue of Plants, British Botany, and Harold Glover’s Book of Botany…

  That one, she decided, because it was Glover’s work that most inspired her, along with Nicholas Culpeper’s. Someday, Alexandra hoped a proper woman would join their ranks. And meanwhile, she discovered precisely what she was searching for within the pages of Harold Glover’s tome. Satisfied, she settled in to read…

  The common name for heliotropium was Indian heliotrope. Species: H. indicum; family boraginales.

  And yes, indeed, it did have medicinal properties, although it did appear to have a cumulative toxic effect upon the liver.

  Occasionally, the leaves were used as a vegetable, but with disastrous results. However, the proper uses were many—in the treatment of warts, inflammation, tumors. It also served as an analgesic to ease rheumatic pain, and then, too, as a diuretic. A decoction of the entire plant could be used to treat thrush, control menses and dyspepsia.

  Additionally, mixed with a bit of coconut oil and a very minute amount of salt, the leaves might be administered to children as a remedy for grippe and cough.

  Moreover, a poultice made from the leaves could be applied to wounds and to insect bites.

  Fascinating.

  She only wished she had her sketchpad.

  Itching to draw, she got up to search the escritoire, discovering an amazing mechanical pencil and a single sheet of paper. With both in hand, she sat again, placing the sheet atop the book, and putting her pencil to paper, trying to remember the precise form and texture of the leaf from the garden.

  If she dared to brave the weather without her pelisse, or the chance of bumping into Ben, she might have gone back to pluck another, but, really, no need… the pencil moved of its own accord… outlining and shading. And yet, much to her surprise, once she lifted the pencil to examine the rendering, she gasped to find it wasn’t a leaf she was sketching at all. It was…

  Speak of the devil, who should appear… certainly not a chubby and plump, jolly old elf…

  Benjamin Wentworth opened the library door, peering within. “Oh!” Alexandra exclaimed, and immediately concealed the evidence of her reverie. “Ben! What are you doing here?”

  He lifted a brow, only this time, it hadn’t a trace of contempt, only perhaps surprise. “I could ask the same of you.”

  Wholly embarrassed, she folded the drawing and slid it into the book, then hid the book between her hip and the arm of the chair. “I was… well… hiding,” she confessed.

  “From?”

  You, she longed to say.

  “The mistletoe. It’s everywhere.”

  “I see,” he said, and rather than leave her be, he sauntered into the room, closing the door behind him.

  Alexandra’s heartbeat quickened painfully. “What are you doing?”

  “The same as you,” he said. “Hiding.”

  Alexandra found herself entirely flummoxed. “But really, in here?” She asked desperately. “Why? Can’t you find your own hiding place… elsewhere?”

  “Actually,” he said. “I’m here for the same reason you chose this room.”

  Alexandra tilted him a suspicious glance. “Why?”

  He grinned. “Because there’s no mistletoe in here, why else?”

  Alexandra blew out a sigh, only grateful that he didn’t ask about the book. Only now she wholly regretted having convinced him to leave the mistletoe up.

  Seemingly without a care in the world, he slid into one of two red, leather wingback chairs, and then stretched his legs, reclining comfortably. Alexandra couldn’t help but note the sinew of his thighs—so apparent even through the fabric of his too-tight trews.

  Now what?

  “Do you plan to stay… there?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Why?” It was all she could do not to come off sounding as though she were whining, because indeed she was.

  Ben tilted her a curious look. “I’ve already said.”

  Alexandra pleaded again. “Ben, please! Can’t you find another room?”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know… perhaps the garden?”

  “It’s snowing in case you haven’t noticed.”

  Alexandra gave him a huff of frustration and began to tap her fingers restlessly atop the arm of the chair.

  “Am I making you nervous?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you tapping? Or is that a new habit?”

  Alexandra tilted him a long-suffering glance. “Like smoking?”

  He smiled again and slid a hand into his jacket, then said, “Speaking of which…”

  Alexandra put up a hand. “Please… do not!”

  He gave her a half-hearted smile, and said, “Anything for you… Turtle Dove.”

  Alexandra’s cheeks flushed at hearing his nearly forgotten term of endearment—but it also upset her, because she couldn’t tell if he were being facetious. “Please don’t call me that,” she said.

  “As you wish.”

  The two fell silent, though while Alexandra had the good grace to look away—at literally anything else in the room except for Ben—Ben seemed to be staring at her, and every time her gaze returned to his face, he was still watching her.

  “You’ve been hiding quite a lot,” he said.

  “Yes.” It was a simple word, devoid of any defensiveness. She was, indeed, avoiding him, and so she believed he must be avoiding her as well. It was a very keen arrangement, and she only wished he would go back to it forthwith, instead of sitting there, watching her with that ever-so-slight devil of a smirk on those sinfully beautiful lips.

  “Because of me?”

  “Only partly.”

  “Then, I must apologize, Lexie. I wasn’t myself.”

  “Who were you then?”

  He sighed. “Some angry bloke who mistook a lady for her father.”

  “And now you are?”

  “Myself?”

  Alexandra nodded very warily.

  Ben lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, the look on his face oh, so glum. Of late, she felt that way rather often as well, so perhaps they were not so far apart, after all.

  They fell into silence, only this time something about Ben’s demeanor drew Alexandra out. The words came out in a rush. “I feel as though I don’t belong here,” she confessed.

  “So much has changed,” he said.

  “Indeed.”

  “But you don’t sound as though you like the changes?”

  “Some, I do,” Alexandra confessed.

  “Same,” he disclosed. “Our dearest Claire is off to be Queen, and we are left… alone… to communicate by letters, and perhaps to see her only on occasion.”

  Alexandra swallowed hard, flattening her hand atop the arm of the chair, a bit of a haze clouding her vision. She didn’t want to weep anymore. She wanted to be sober and mature, but everything Ben was saying was perfectly true, and it called to the child within her. Once upon a time… she and Claire… and Ben… they had been a team. Alexandra would be hard-pressed to say which Wentworth was her closest confidante… sometimes Claire… sometimes Ben.

  “Alexandra,” he said, and his tone sounded entirely too sober.

  Suddenly, Alexandra was wholly afraid of what he would say. “Please,” she begged.

  “I really don’t blame you,” he said, sitting upright and crossing his legs, wiggling his foot a bit nervously. This was the old Ben, she realized… and though it warmed her heart to see him, it terrified her as well. “Lexie… I don’t suppose you will forgive my rudeness?”

  “I do,” she said. “Can you forgive mine?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said gently, and Alexandra nodded dumbly.

  “And nevertheless,” she said, “I am so sorry for all that my father did to you, and what he tried to do to Claire. I only wish I had come to say it sooner.” She looked away.
“I was… embarrassed.”

  “I understand,” he said. “I think I would have been as well.” And there was no censure in his words, only candor. They sat a while, discussing the ordeal, why Alexandra believed her father had done all the things he had done—a sense of just desserts, perhaps, or anger over her mother’s judgment. In the end, none of it was any sort of comfort or excuse. And yet, it was a good conversation, perhaps the most sober discourse she and Ben had had in years and years.

  “Do you like him?” she asked.

  “Ian?” He nodded. “I do. He seems to love Claire very much.”

  “I can hardly believe he and Merrick are twins, or, for that matter, that their father never had the first inkling when Ian arrived in London after all those years!”

  “My father would have noticed at once,” said Ben.

  “Oh, yes, he would have,” Alexandra agreed. “My mother might have, as well. She lives to scrutinize me. But perhaps not my father,” she confessed. “He scarce paid me any mind at all, even after I took his side in his bitter feud against my mother.”

  Alexandra sighed ruefully. “In retrospect, I believe I did it to spite her for—”

  “The kiss?”

  Alexandra nodded, her cheeks blooming as she peered up at Benjamin. It was the first time since the kiss that they were addressing it so frankly, and it was long, long overdue.

  “Well… Bloody Norah! I suppose I should say sorry for that, as well… but in truth… I am not.”

  Alexandra’s heart skipped a beat.

  Unwittingly, her fingers lifted to her lips, where she could, inexplicably, still taste him.

  “Has she called you home?”

  “No, and she will not. But she does write, though her letters are still quite full of censure: I should have done this, I should have done that.”

  “Really, Lexie… I cannot imagine your mother without complaints. And therefore, so as long as you are on speaking terms… there must be hope.”

  Alexandra smiled, taking heart in his advice. “Yes, well… I do suppose one day I shall have to pay her a visit”

  Benjamin smiled. “Perhaps I will join you,” he said, and Alexandra’s eyes stung again.

  “For moral support,” he explained. “Though she would be apoplectic,” he said, still smiling.

  “Incandescently furious,” Alexandra agreed, and the two of them laughed… like old times.

  And then Ben said, “So… is that a yes… or a no?”

  Alexandra’s brows lifted in surprise. “You mean go with me… to visit my mother?”

  He nodded, and her cheeks burned hotter. “I—” She felt suddenly tongue-tied. Her eyes swam. Uncertain whether he was serious, and heartily afraid he might not be, she bounded up from the chair, and said, “Oh, dear! I almost forgot! I promised Claire I would come play charades!” And then she quickly made apologies and ran away… abandoning Ben … and her book.

  * * *

  Ben watched her go… yet again… only this time entirely bemused.

  So much for olive branches, he thought, and then his gaze fell upon the book where it fell on the seat… and he spied the bit of paper peeking out from the top… along with the pencil.

  Curious, he reached out to lift up the book, opening it and plucking out the piece of paper, unfolding it…

  His eyes widened at the sight that greeted him… a caricature… though very well done.

  The subject sported not horns nor fangs. But there was, indeed, a bit of youthful mischief in the very familiar eyes. And in his hand he held a top hat, and inside the top hat was a single sprig of mistletoe…

  It was Ben.

  It was his hat…

  Not from the other day, but from a long-ago Christmas in Shropshire.

  That morning, bored and full of piss and vinegar, he’d bedeviled Alexandra with a sprig of mistletoe, following her about the house whilst his sister sat reading in the library. He’d worn that top hat all morning long, pulling it off and on and hanging that mistletoe over their heads every chance he got, until finally Alexandra agreed to kiss him…

  He sat back, staring at the rendering… and then picked up the book from his lap, turning it to read the spine: Harold Glover’s Book of Botany.

  Really?

  What a mystery she was turning out to be… botany books, caricatures… what next?

  Not in all the time he’d ever known her had she ever cracked the spine of a book in his presence, and yet this was not the sort of tome of particular interest to an empty-headed miss whose greatest desires were ballgowns or a well-planned season. He flipped through the pages… drawings of every conceivable verdure… with notations that bent toward medicinal speculation.

  Well, well, well…

  So, it seemed, there was more to Alexandra Grace Huntington than met the eye, and perhaps it was high time to unravel that mystery for himself…

  Chapter 8

  23 December

  Rule No. 8:

  On Touching.

  All the while kissing, keep your hands firmly by your sides, or behind your back. Unless invited to do so, you are not to reach out and touch the person or the mistletoe. Wandering hands are bad form, and fodder for gossip. Respect your lady friend and keep your hands to yourself!

  Alexandra stood eyeing the folded paper in her hand.

  Like a frightened schoolgirl, Alexandra fled the library, but she didn’t return to the parlor as she’d claimed. Instead, she escaped to her room, where she’d hidden a small book beneath the bed—André & François Michaux’s Flora Boreali-Americana. And there, she remained, until Claire returned, arriving with a look on her face that, in retrospect, seemed entirely suspicious—only perhaps Lexie didn’t realize because she herself had been behaving rather dubiously, thrusting her pirated book beneath the bed the instant she heard footfalls approaching.

  However, only Claire could have slid this piece of paper beneath her pillow. And nevertheless, she had risen and dressed this morn, hurrying away without a word—and, really, since when was she ever so eager to break her fast?

  Recognizing the nature of the fold, as well as the texture of the paper, Alexandra very carefully unfolded the parchment, grimacing over the artwork. It was her depiction of Ben—with his hat in hand and a sprig of mistletoe peeking out from within. Drawn from memory, he was younger in the drawing, with his best features in good show—the devilishly arched brow, the twinkle in his eyes, the sensuous lips…

  Good Lord! She had forgotten about it in her rush to quit the library… and now, her cheeks burned again.

  Had he discovered this and given it to Claire to return to her? And if so, why didn’t Claire say anything about it?

  Clearly, Claire was aiding and abetting her dear brother, and, so, it seemed, Alexandra encountered yet another plot once she descended to breakfast…

  The instant she stepped into the dining room, everyone except Ben exited the room—clearing their plates at once, stuffing their mouths and abandoning their seats, making excuses one after another, until no one remained… except Alexandra and Ben.

  Well… she wasn’t going to let it bother her. She was quite famished, and, unlike Claire, she was a great fan of breakfast, and there was a little of everything on the buffet—eggs, toast, jam, bacon, bangers, mash, and even a bit of that leftover plum pudding.

  “Did you sleep well?” Asked Ben, while she filled her plate.

  The last to leave the dining room, Lady Morrissey gave them a giddy backward glance, and then made a good show of pulling Mr. Cameron beneath a sprig of mistletoe in the entryway. Alexandra frowned, hard-pressed not to toss the lady a napkin so she could wipe her chin.

  “Splendid,” she said, ignoring the pair, as she brought her plate to the table and sat as far as possible from Ben. “And you?”

  “Excellent,” said Ben. “Most excellent,” he said. “I had a fascinating dream…”

  “About?”

  “Hats.”

  Filled with mistletoe, Alexandra s
upposed. Her brows collided, though she refused to rise to the bait. If in fact he meant to poke fun, she was having none of it. “Oh?” She said.

  “Indeed.”

  “Oh,” she said again. And then, for all their ease together in the library yesterday afternoon, she felt awkward. “I wonder where everyone has gone off to,” she said, forcing conversation only to chase away the silence.

  “Perhaps to find a closet,” he said, with a grin, and really, it was precisely like him to jest about something so bawdy. It only seemed out of character because of their interactions over this past year. Still, Alexandra tilted him a reproving glance, and then occupied herself with inspecting the eggs on her plate—with an audience in the hall, unbeknownst to Ben, unless he had eyes at the back of his head.

  Consequently, conversation was excruciating, but Alexandra did her best to ignore the wretches as Ben discussed the merits of bacon at length.

  And then they talked about snow… lots and lots about snow: Apparently, the roads were impassible—it was no wonder the Duchess had remained at Hampton Court Palace. The last time they’d had such a heavy snowfall was back in ’14, when Lexie was only six. Mad King George was still on the throne when the Thames froze over and the city held a Frost Fair, where elephants marched across the river at Blackfriars Bridge and folks stood by eating gingerbread and sipping gin. Ben chattered incessantly, far more chipper than he’d been in ages—at least so far as Lexie knew—although the one subject he did not broach was the caricature Alexandra drew—talk about elephants in the room.

  She had half a mind to bring it up now, but some cat got her tongue, and after a while, the silence on her part seemed to be a challenge for Ben.

  “So… you enjoy botany?” he asked.

  In the distance, Lady Morrissey’s head bobbed behind a plant. Then Claire’s did as well. “Hmmm?”

  “That book you were reading.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I do.”

  “And what is it about botany that interests you, precisely?”