She glanced at Alexander, where he sat nearby, one leg hooked over the other, an open volume balanced in his hand. He looked up from the pages and caught her staring.
“Are you certain you want me to continue?” he asked, raising a brow. “You hardly seem to be listening. I can think of a great number of books more stimulating than anything written by Edward Gibbon. Allow me to fetch them instead.”
“No, you are fine right where you are. I will not feign any great interest in the Roman Empire,” Margaret admitted, smiling, “but I doubt I have the capacity to focus on anything I might genuinely enjoy for the moment. Your voice is soothing to me, and the content of the book likely to put me to sleep... So, please,” she closed her eyes teasingly, “do go on about Caracalla.”
She cracked an eye open when her husband remained silent. Alexander sighed, poorly hiding his amusement, reading a few lines before he stopped again.
“I suppose Gibbon is at least more tolerable read aloud than alone.”
Margaret tilted her head. “Are you speaking from experience? I had no idea you were so closely familiar with his work.”
“My uncle insisted I familiarize myself with all the most notable English writers of history when I was a child.” He glowered down at the open book. “I can recall half this accursed library by heart.”
“Are you trying to impress me, Your Grace?”
“No,” he replied with a laugh, his voice warmer now. “But if I did impress you, I would not shirk from your admiration in shame.”
“Hm. Tell me then. Do you believe what he writes, you who knows Gibbons most intimately? Are all great powers destined to fall in time?”
He looked at her carefully, considering her question seriously, though she hadn’t really asked it seriously. “For better or for worse, that seems to be the way of things. Not all power is great, and not all decline must be tragic. I imagine in some cases collapse comes as a relief...”
Before Margaret could say something more, the library door creaked open. They turned in tandem to where the butler stood in the frame.
“Your Grace,” he addressed Margaret first, bowing slightly, before extending a similar greeting to Alexander. But there was something odd in the way he addressed him. “Pray, forgive the interruption. Guests have arrived for you—specifically Viscountess Pembroke and Miss Eliza Pembroke.”
Margaret straightened, a ripple of unease passing through her. She glanced at Alexander. “What are they doing here?”
“I invited them,” he said, as though only just remembering that he had. “I thought you knew, but perhaps, in the chaos of the last few days, I neglected to tell you. Would you prefer them dismissed?”
“No, not at all, I...” Margaret glanced around, then rose gingerly out of her chair. Her eyes prickled with tears at his kindness. “This is a most wonderful surprise. Please show them in at once.”
The butler paused, folding his hands behind his back. “Certainly, Your Grace... But it should be made known that there is another with them who is also seeking an audience.”
“Another?” Margaret’s breath caught. “Who?”
“The Viscount Pembroke.”
Alexander stood slowly, the book slipping closed in his hand.
“My father?” Margaret whispered.
Margaret’s fingers closed tightly around the edge of her shawl, heart skipping a beat. She turned to Alexander, recalling the letter she should have burned, her eyes wide with shock...
But he did not look shocked in the slightest.
CHAPTER 22
“Of all the times for this to happen...” Margaret whispered to her maid, who stood nearby. “Who knows if they will need rooms, Augusta? Stop asking me. Go this instant and fetch some tea. Leave now, before they arrive.”
Alexander watched Margaret pace by the parlor fire as her maid left, her eyes fixed on the ground. He was acutely aware of the sounds coming from the hallway—a susurrus of mixed voices, the sound of coats being taken, and pleasant welcomes being bid. His wife looked so frail in the firelight, still not completely recuperated from her fall.
And now this, he thought, clicking his pocket-watch open and shut again.Would that I had had the good sense to send another letter down to the viscountess and reschedule their visit. Though I could not have predicted, in my darkest dreams, the arrival of the viscount—even with his letter to Margaret.
“I am so sorry,” Margaret said to Alexander, catching him by surprise. “I never imagined he would comehere... The audacity of him. I... You needn’t remain with me.”
Alexander sighed, pushing his watch into his pocket. “You are mistaken,” he said. “He is as much my responsibility as he is yours, and I will not see you crushed by him.”
“Yes, but to be seen with him, even by the staff... Who knows how much time we have before word spreads to Salisbury? And between this and the disappearance of Isadore and Bastian... What if they should return tonight, or even Carlisle?”
