by Anne Barton
Dash it all, she had to go back.
Full of dread, she spun around and returned to the scene of the kiss—er, the study. When she arrived at the doorway, the duke was staring out the window rather contemplatively. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to be doing but was vastly relieved to see that he wasn’t, oh, banging his forehead on his desk in regret or tossing back a large glass of gin.
When she cleared her throat, he looked at her, surprised. And, perhaps, a little hopeful.
“I came to retrieve something that belongs to me.” Without waiting for permission, she crossed the study, plucked her cap off the clock, and jammed it on her head.
It occurred to her she should amend her List of Nevers to include rules governing her unusual relationship with the duke. The first addendum would be “Never remove one’s cap—or allow it to be removed—in the presence of the duke, as it may well be the only impediment to wanton behavior by both parties.” Yes, now that she thought on it, rules were definitely necessary.
She dared not look at him as she exited the room—for the second time. She was fairly certain he’d be mocking her; but of course, he’d been mocking her since he’d met her.
The problem was, she now cared far more than she should.
Chapter Eight
The next day as Owen sat in his coach, rumbling across Town to an appointment, he was still trying to come to terms with what he’d done. At first he told himself that he’d kissed Anabelle because he felt sorry for her. That was laughable. She wasn’t the kind of woman one pitied—she’d never permit it.
He then wondered whether she’d somehow seduced him with coy looks and subtle invitations. But that, too, was ridiculous. It was impossible for a woman to be coy in a huge floppy cap.
One could argue that in the absence of a mistress, he’d lowered his normally high standards for feminine companionship. But… no.
The truth was he’d admired her since the first morning he’d met her. He’d desired her since the evening she’d tripped and fallen into his arms. She was clever, proud, beautiful, and loyal.
A damned arousing combination.
Just this morning, he’d found himself concocting excuses to walk by the workroom where he knew she’d be. That’s when he’d realized he needed to get out of the house. Determined to turn his mind to business—contracts, estate matters, and finances—he leaned back against the velvet squabs in his coach and dragged his hands down his face.
Maybe once he’d finished his meeting with James Averill, Owen could convince the solicitor—also a trusted friend—to head to Bond Street for a boxing match.
Owen was a decent fighter. He’d been in his share of tavern brawls, and although he rarely escaped unscathed, the other chap usually looked much worse. But Owen was no match for Averill in a boxing bout. A few solid punches to Owen’s head might help him forget about Anabelle. Or at least knock the good sense back into him. The thought cheered him.
His coach came to a halt in front of Averill’s office on Chancery Lane. Owen strode up an ancient-looking stone walkway and entered Averill’s office, which was cluttered with an odd collection of exotic furniture that he had purchased on his travels. The solicitor was bent over a stack of papers on his desk looking thoroughly perplexed—like a frustrated archeologist trying to decipher hieroglyphics.
Without preamble, he glanced up at Owen and said, “The allowances you’ve set up for your aunts are extremely generous, Huntford. Are you sure you didn’t write an extra zero or two here?” He spun a paper around for Owen’s examination.
Owen checked the figure and grunted. “They’re sweet old ladies. And they’ve known me since I was in nappies.”
“Ah. In that case, their allowances can’t be too large.” Averill grinned. “After seeing these numbers, I’m thinking I should raise my fees.”
Owen picked up a dreary-looking urn and inspected a crack near the rim. “So you can buy more ramshackle furniture and chipped vases?”
Averill sprang from his chair, snatched the vase from him and cradled it in the crook of an arm like it was his firstborn. “This is a relic from ancient Greece. I paid almost as much for it as you did for your gelding last spring.”
“If that’s your idea of an investment,” said Owen, “I must be insane to entrust my business affairs to you.”
“Not insane. A bit naïve, perhaps.” He grinned, set the vase on a stack of dusty tomes behind him, and returned to his chair.
Chuckling, Owen picked up a white marble statue of a cross-legged man occupying his chair. “Sorry,” he said to the Buddha, placing him on the floor. To Averill, “How was the opera last night?”
“Dreadful. My sister, however, was mesmerized by the performance. She declared herself forever in your debt. Thank you for giving us your seats.”
Owen held up a hand, happy to have been spared.
“Miss Starling, however, was disappointed to discover that we were in your box… and you weren’t.” Averill raised a cocky brow. Owen would enjoy taking a few punches at him later. “Her dowry would pad your coffers nicely.”
“My coffers are doing just fine.”
“True, but if you keep giving those aunts of yours huge allowances—”
“Damn it, Averill, just give me the bloody papers to sign.”
One hour and a couple of drinks later, Owen’s business was concluded. He loosened his cravat as Averill poured more brandy into their glasses.
“What you’ve managed to accomplish in a little over two years’ time,” Averill mused, “is nothing short of miraculous. I wish my other clients took their responsibilities half as seriously as you do.”
Owen stared into his glass. Rather than deal with the unpleasant realities of an adulterous wife and a dwindling fortune, Owen’s father had pointed a gun at his right temple and squeezed the trigger. A cowardly, selfish act if ever there was one. As a boy, Owen had wanted nothing more than to be like him—riding fine horses, hosting lavish parties, and drinking expensive brandy.
But Owen was not like him. He would never let down his family, never shirk the responsibilities of his title.
Oh, he’d resented being thrust into the role of duke so suddenly, but righting the affairs of his estates was giving him more satisfaction than he’d thought. It took a hell of a lot of time and energy, and it was worth it. His sisters were worth it.
The meeting with Averill had been productive, and yet, Owen still hadn’t managed to banish Anabelle from his mind.
It occurred to him that her allure could stem from the mystery surrounding her. Miss Starling, for example, although undeniably beautiful, was not appealing. Owen had the misfortune of sitting next to her during a musicale last week, and during the course of the twenty-minute performance, he’d learned that she’d spent the day embroidering birds on a handkerchief and purchasing a new hat. She’d waited for him to compliment the latter, and he did, even though, to him, it looked unremarkable. Miss Starling was like every other young miss on the marriage mart: intent on snaring a titled gentleman by any means possible.
But Anabelle was an enigma, and therein lay her charm. If he knew more about her, he would certainly lose his fascination with her.
Even within the confines of his own mind, the theory sounded thin.
He swirled the liquid in his glass, studying the sloshing waves he created. Anabelle had tried to extort money from him. He’d trusted that the story about her family’s dire circumstances was true, but what proof did he have? Perhaps she’d lied about her mother’s condition to gain his sympathy. It couldn’t hurt to investigate.
“Ever heard of a Dr. Conwell?” he asked Averill.
Concern registered on his friend’s face. “Are your sisters well? No one is sick, I hope.”
“Olivia is fine, and Rose… well, she’s the same. I asked because the mother of one of my servants is ill. Dr. Conwell is treating the woman, and I’m curious. Er, to know how serious her condition is.”
Averill stared suspiciou
sly, damn him. “Is the servant requesting too much time off, shirking duties and the like?”
“Nothing like that. But I do wonder if her mother is as sick as Miss Honeycote claims.”
“Would Miss Honeycote happen to be young and beautiful?”
It was no use lying to Averill. “Yes. But she’s also stubborn and conniving.”
His friend nodded sagely and tented his fingers. “Are you thinking mistress or marriage?”
“Good God. She’s a seamstress. She dresses like a spinster who’s been on the shelf for a couple of decades. Hardly duchess material.”
“Mistress, then.”
“No.” Owen seethed. How he longed to punch the smirk off Averill’s face. Instead, he stood and said, “This bloody inquisition is over. I’m going to ride across Town and ask my physician about Conwell. Why don’t you come, and afterward, we can box a few rounds?”
Averill stood, flexed his hands, and looked at Owen as if he’d gone mad. “If you’re sure.”
Owen glared at him and headed for the damned door. “You coming, or not?”
Anabelle was nearly finished with Olivia’s ball gown. It was white sarsenet, with a bodice and sleeves of blue satin that set off Olivia’s light green eyes. The sleeves, slitted in the front, were held together by gold clasps matching a Grecian border. Anabelle planned to stitch the border in gold thread but needed Olivia to try on the dress one more time before she did so.
Since Olivia was shopping and wouldn’t be available for at least a half-hour, Anabelle ventured downstairs to ask Mr. Dennison about the post. Two days had passed without a letter from Daphne. Never having been apart from her family for so long, Anabelle missed them. She was accustomed to coming home from work, sitting at Mama’s bedside, and telling her and Daphne all about the quirky patrons at the shop. Silly things, like the countess demanding five ostrich feathers on her hat or the debutante wanting padding sewn into the breast area of her corset.
Since Anabelle had arrived at the duke’s house, a mere five days ago, she’d seen and experienced so much. Mama would love to hear about the crystal chandelier in the duke’s foyer, and Daphne would love to hear about the kiss in the duke’s study. Anabelle supposed she could describe the chandelier in a letter, but a kiss like that… well, it defied description.
In the absence of a letter from her sister, Anabelle imagined all sorts of tragedies. Perhaps Daphne had fallen sick, or Mama’s health had taken a worse turn, or they’d used up the money the duke had sent and would starve in their apartment rather than worry Anabelle. She desperately hoped for word from them.
When she located the butler at his usual station in the pantry, his white eyebrows rose halfway up his wrinkled forehead. “Miss Honeycote,” he said kindly. “How may I help you?”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Dennison. Could you tell me whether the post has arrived?”
“It has.” He hoisted himself off his stool and beckoned Anabelle to follow him. After sifting through a stack of letters sitting on a table in the foyer, he handed an envelope to her. “It arrived just a few moments ago.”
She glanced at the envelope, relieved to see Daphne’s handwriting. “Thank you.” She tapped the envelope against her palm and headed for the privacy of her bedchamber to read her sister’s note. After slipping off her shoes and climbing onto the bed, she tucked her feet under her and opened the letter.
My Dearest Belle,
I’m sorry I haven’t written for a couple of days. You must be anxious for news of Mama. I wish I could tell you that her condition is improving, but, unfortunately, it grows worse. Her cough is persistent, and she eats very little. It is not for lack of food. Thanks to the generous sum you sent, I’ve been feasting like the Queen herself, but not even the finest cuts of meat tempt Mama.
She is so weak that all she wants to do is sleep. I let her, for the most part, since she seems so exhausted. At least her frequent naps give her some peace from the coughing. Dr. Conwell visited yesterday and has prescribed more medicine. He promised to check on Mama early next week.
In the meantime, I’m doing everything I can to make her comfortable. Yesterday, Mrs. Bowman came to sit with Mama while I ran some errands. I stopped by the lending library and borrowed several books. I’ve begun reading one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels to Mama, and she seems to enjoy it, until she nods off. It helps us pass the time.
How I wish I had better news to share. I know you are working hard to provide for us, and I am so grateful for all you’ve sacrificed. However, I can’t help but wish you were here. I feel certain you would know what to do to help Mama.
I will, of course, let you know if there is any change in her condition. In the meantime, take proper care of yourself and do not let this news distress you too deeply.
Lovingly yours,
Daph
Pressing the letter to her chest, Anabelle choked on a sob. Mama was getting sicker, and she had been frighteningly sick to begin with. If Daphne, the eternal optimist, was concerned, the situation must be dire.
Anabelle sprang off the bed and paced the length of her room. She needed to see Mama for herself. The duke, however, had made it clear that visits would not be permitted during the term of her indenture. Although he’d been fair in most respects, he’d been adamant that she was a prisoner in his house. She couldn’t blame him for not trusting her. He probably feared she’d head out of Town, leaving his sisters with nothing more than half a ball gown each. She had no intention of reneging on her end of the deal, but she couldn’t abandon her family.
She’d have to sneak out in the middle of the night. Tonight.
“Good afternoon, Anabelle!”
The sight of Olivia standing in the doorway of her bedchamber made Anabelle jump and give a little shriek.
“Oh dear, forgive me for startling you. Are you all right?”
Anabelle smiled, though her hands still trembled. “I’m fine.” She folded Daphne’s letter and tucked it in the pocket of her pinafore. “I’m glad you’re here. Do you have time for one more fitting?”
“I was hoping you’d ask,” Olivia said cheerfully. “I’m eager to try it on.”
“Then you shall.” Anabelle led the way into the workroom and helped Olivia change into the dress, relieved to have a distraction from the news in Daphne’s letter. Although there was nothing she could do at the moment, she comforted herself with the knowledge that she would visit Mama and Daphne that night. The trick would be getting out of the duke’s townhouse. And then getting back in.
Olivia stood still while Anabelle laced up the gown. She watched as Olivia placed her palm flat over her stomacher and preened in the long mirror in front of her. “This plum silk cord is lovely,” she said. “I look almost…”
“Beautiful?” offered Anabelle. “Most definitely. Your dance card will be full at Lady Milverton’s ball.”
“I don’t know how to thank you. Neither does Rose. She adores the dress you made for her. But mostly, I think she adores you.”
“I can’t imagine why.” She was not the sort of person young ladies admired. Sometimes matrons did, like Mrs. Bowman—maybe because they favored the same type of cap.
Anabelle had grown fond of Rose and enjoyed her visits to the workroom. But the conversation was mostly one-sided. Although Rose communicated using gestures and occasionally writing, Anabelle would have loved to hear her voice and to have an honest-to-goodness chat.
“I’m glad Rose is pleased with her gown,” Anabelle said, stooping to pin Olivia’s hem. “Someone with such a kind and generous nature deserves every happiness.” She paused. “Forgive me for asking a personal question, but why doesn’t she talk?”
Olivia sighed. “She did once. She was a loquacious little thing up until about three years ago.”
Anabelle’s stomach clenched. “Was she injured?”
“No. That is, we’re not entirely certain.” Olivia frowned and lifted the hem of her dress so as not to trip on it, walked to the window seat, and sat on
the faded cushion. Anabelle followed and sat beside her. “Rose was a lively, spirited girl. But then, when she was fifteen, our mother left.”
“For where?”
“We think she had a lover on the Continent.” Olivia stated this matter of factly, but the fine creases on either side of her mouth betrayed her pain.
Anabelle knew something of the duchess’s scandalous reputation and wished she didn’t. “Is she still… living?” Although it was impolite to pry, Olivia seemed relieved to be talking about it.
“I haven’t heard any reports to the contrary, so I assume she is. However, we haven’t received any letters from her.”
“I’m sorry.”
Olivia traced the silk cord of her stomacher, criss-crossing, back and forth. “I wasn’t particularly close to her. She left without so much as a good-bye, destroying my father. He killed himself a few scant weeks later.”
Anabelle gasped. She’d heard rumors that the former duke had killed himself, but, of course, the authorities had called his death an accident so that he could have a proper burial. “Oh, Olivia. I don’t know what to say.”
“Owen took care of us, took care of everything. But he hasn’t been able to fix Rose. Nothing pains him more.”
Anabelle’s heart ached. “I don’t think Rose is broken. She seems happy, and she obviously loves you and your brother.”
“Rose and I have very few secrets, but even I don’t know what happened that day—the day my mother left. We were all at Huntford Manor, our country estate, where my parents were hosting a house party. On the fourth evening after the guests arrived, Rose went missing. People searched for her all night. The next morning, my mother was gone and Owen found Rose sleeping in the stable. Physically, she seemed to be fine, but she hasn’t spoken a word since.”
It wasn’t Anabelle’s place, but she had to ask. “Have you tried to talk to her about that night? To find out what happened?”