by Anne Barton
Olivia smiled warmly. “I hope you don’t mind some company. Rose and I thought we’d visit—unless you find it too bothersome while you work.”
“Not at all.” Anabelle cleared snippets of fabric and lace from the window seat and invited the women to sit. “I’m delighted you’re here. Would you like to see how your newest dresses are coming along?”
Rose shook her head, and gently nudged her sister with an elbow.
“No,” said Olivia. “That’s not why we came.” She worried the ends of the pink ribbons that served as the sash of her dress. “We heard that Owen took you to visit your mother this morning. We didn’t know she was ill. If there’s anything we can do, you must let us know. We feel awful that you’re here slaving over fancy gowns for us when you’d most certainly rather be at your mother’s side.”
Anabelle’s nose stung and her eyes welled; she set the pelisse in her lap. “You’re both very kind. Thank you. Your brother has generously offered to send his physician, but to be honest, I’m not sure anything can help her.”
Rose reached out and clasped her hand.
“You mustn’t say that,” Olivia scolded. “Don’t give up hope. Dr. Loxton is a learned man. He cares for all of our great-aunts.”
Anabelle sniffled. So, Owen did have great-aunts. “How many aunts do you have?”
“Fourteen,” said Olivia proudly, “ranging in age from fifty-nine to—”
“Eighty-two.”
Rose clapped her hands in delight.
“How did you know?” asked Olivia.
“Your brother mentioned them once.” Of course, immediately afterward he’d denied their existence.
“Did he?” Olivia asked with some surprise. “He dotes on them shamelessly.”
How interesting. Anabelle turned up the lantern on the table and adjusted her spectacles before picking up her sewing. “Your brother also seems very devoted to the two of you.”
“Oh, yes,” said Olivia. “He means well, in any event. It is sometimes hard for him to fathom that we’re no longer wearing pigtails and dresses with bloomers. He keeps us on a very short leash, and he never tells us anything.”
Anabelle tilted her head. “Why do you think that is?”
Olivia sighed. “Ever since Father died, Owen’s been quite protective. He’d like to shield us from all of life’s unpleasantries, which, as you know, is quite impossible. Nor is it any way to live. Suffering is a part of life.” She looked wistfully at Rose and then continued. “In any event, we believe that if he just found the right sort of woman to marry, she could help him be less…”
“Rigid?”
“Precisely! Of course, our brother is extremely particular when it comes to women. Everyone seems to think Miss Starling will be the miss to capture his affection.”
Rose puckered as though she’d sucked on a lemon wedge.
Olivia turned to her sister. “You cannot deny that Miss Starling is beautiful. And her manners are so refined. She’d make an excellent duchess.”
Anabelle considered the matter objectively, which was difficult because her stomach was twisted in knots. She chalked it up to the fish she’d eaten at dinner. But it was obvious that Miss Starling had been raised to be a duchess—or a countess at the very least. She certainly seemed to think so. “Does your brother seem fond of her?” It was an absurd question. Any warm-blooded male would be fond of Miss Starling.
“It is hard to say,” admitted Olivia. “Owen doesn’t keep us apprised of such matters. I expect he’ll call us into the drawing room one evening and announce that he’s betrothed in much the same way he’d announce he’s bought a gelding.”
Interesting. Owen wanted his sisters to be more forthcoming, and they wished the same of him.
Rose, in particular, looked highly agitated by the conversation. Anabelle couldn’t tell if she objected to Miss Starling or to the idea of her brother suddenly announcing his engagement. Either way, a change of subject was in order. She forced a bright smile. “Well then. What kind of husbands would the duke choose for the two of you?”
The sisters exchanged a glance that Anabelle couldn’t read. “Someone from a respectable family,” said Olivia.
“You mean, a gentleman?” Anabelle recalled the rumor she’d transcribed in her extortion note and felt like she was treading close to the edge of a rocky crag.
“A rich and titled gentleman,” Olivia clarified.
Anabelle smiled sympathetically. “Does that seem unreasonable to you? You are, after all, the sisters of a duke.”
Rose tapped Olivia’s shoulder and pressed her palm to her heart.
Olivia interpreted. “Rose thinks a kind and gentle nature is more important than wealth and lineage. She believes in love.”
It didn’t surprise Anabelle that Rose was a romantic sort. Under different circumstances, Anabelle might have been one herself. As it was, she’d given up on fairy tales. To Rose, she said, “Perhaps you’ll be fortunate enough to find a man who meets your brother’s high standards as well as your own.”
Although Anabelle had meant to cheer Rose, the redhead’s shoulders drooped as though she were… broken-hearted.
“Forgive me if I’ve offended you,” Anabelle said.
Rose stood, gave a wan smile, and touched Anabelle’s shoulder before tilting her head to the door regretfully.
“Sleep well,” Olivia said to her sister. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Rose glided silently from the room, leaving Anabelle feeling wretched.
“I’m sorry I upset her. What was it that I said?”
Olivia waved away her apology. “We’ve both been a bit sensitive lately. You couldn’t have known about—”
About what? Or whom? Anabelle waited impatiently for Olivia to complete her thought.
“I shouldn’t say more on the subject.”
Anabelle stifled her disappointment. “I understand.”
“Although, it would be lovely to have someone to confide in. You seem so sure of yourself—and wise for someone so young.”
Although Anabelle longed to know the sisters’ secret, she didn’t feel worthy after threatening to publish horrid gossip about Olivia. And the more she thought of it, she didn’t want to be in the awkward position of keeping secrets from Owen. “You could always confide in your brother,” she said.
“No, no. We most certainly cannot.” Olivia began pacing, nibbling on an index finger as she wore a path in the Aubusson rug. “But I know we can trust you.”
Anabelle tamped down a wave of guilt. If Olivia chose to confide in her, she wouldn’t let her down again. “Yes, of course you can.”
Olivia walked to the door, closed it quietly, and continued her pacing. “Rose fancies herself in love.”
“Why, that’s wonderful. Isn’t it?”
“Yes. And no. The man she loves is not someone my brother would approve of.”
“Because he’s not titled?”
“Or rich,” added Olivia.
“Perhaps, if your brother got to know him, he’d change his mind. Does this man treat Rose well? Does he make her happy?”
“Charles—that’s his name—admires Rose greatly. And when she’s with him, she’s a different person. Confident, secure… and yes, happy. I don’t know if my sister will ever talk freely again, but I think if anyone could help her, Charles could.”
“Maybe if your brother could see for himself how happy Rose is with Charles, he’d be more willing to entertain the idea of a match.” For some reason, Anabelle desperately wanted to believe he would.
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Did I mention that Charles is the stable master at our country estate? Owen has very strict rules regarding friendships with servants.” As though the thought had just occurred to her, she asked, “Is this uncomfortable for you to discuss? That is, I don’t think of you as a servant, but I suppose you are in the strictest sense of the word. And yet, we’ve become friends, have we not?”
Anabelle swallowed the knot in
her throat. “I would say that we have.” And then, although she suspected that the answer would be painful, she was obliged to ask the question. “What are your brother’s rules regarding friendships with servants?”
“They are strictly forbidden. The worst part is that he’s threatened to fire any member of the staff he suspects could be involved. Of course, he’s convinced I’m the one who’s been having clandestine meetings, when, in truth, it’s been Rose all along.”
Anabelle digested this news. She was tickled to learn that Rose had a slightly rebellious nature. At least she wasn’t afraid of defying her brother. How had someone of her mettle remained almost completely silent for close to three years? A thought occurred to her. “You said Rose disappeared at that house party the night before your mother left.”
Olivia nodded. “We were terrified that some harm had befallen her. But when we found her the next day, she seemed fine, by all appearances. Only… she wasn’t.”
“Perhaps if we could find out what happened that night, we might be able to help her find her voice again.”
Olivia gave a weary smile and shrugged. “I have asked her. Whatever happened, Rose does not want to talk about it.”
“Maybe someone else at the house party knows. Do you recall who was there?”
“My mother and father, Owen, Rose, and I…” Olivia counted the guests on her fingers. “… Lady Fallon, Sir Howard, Lord and Lady Winthrope—”
At the mention of that last name, Anabelle’s heart seized. “Did you say Winthrope? As in the earl?”
“I did. Are you acquainted with him?”
Anabelle was not. But she knew more about him than did most of the ton. And she wished she didn’t. “No, I don’t know the earl. I know a little of him.”
“Oh, well, there’s not much to know. He’s a dreadfully boring sort. He’s mostly bald, but he tries to hide it by brushing a few strands ’round the top of his head. He doesn’t say much, and he wears a perpetual scowl.”
“Really?” The earl’s mistress had painted an altogether different picture of him in Mrs. Smallwood’s dress shop. She’d alluded to his sexual prowess and his fondness for tupping two women at the same time. Anabelle repressed a shiver.
On that momentous, gray morning in Hyde Park when Owen had caught her, he’d asked about previous extortion schemes—demanded truth. Even at the time, she’d known the lie that crossed her lips would haunt her. But she’d never fathomed that she’d feel so wretched about her deception.
It seemed her first extortion scheme had improbably collided with what would have been the fourth.
Chapter Twelve
Long before the sun rose, Anabelle squirmed on her feather mattress, her legs tangled in the silky sheets. She told herself there was no harm in dreaming of Owen’s heavy-lidded gaze or his warm, large hands skimming over her hips and bottom. Wanton fantasies—the sort she’d never before imagined—played out in her mind.
He crawled into bed behind her, pressed the hard wall of his chest to her back, and murmured her name into her ear. His breath, hot and moist on her nape, shot longing through her limbs. He slid a hand beneath her nightgown, caressed the length of her side, and cupped her breast. Pleasure radiated throughout her body before settling into a hypnotic pulsing rhythm between her legs.
She never wanted to wake.
As dawn began to break, however, she could no longer feel Owen’s warmth or hear his gravelly voice. The lovely dream receded like the tide, leaving her cold and alone on the shore. She squeezed her eyes closed, desperate to return to that place where she could give in to her deepest desires, where the threats of scandal and ruin did not suffocate her.
Instead, distressing memories of the Earl of Winthrope knocked on the door of her consciousness. Reluctantly, she threw back the covers, padded to the washstand, and splashed chilly water onto her cheeks. She had the strong feeling that the earl was somehow connected to Rose’s sudden loss of speech. Anabelle could clearly remember the things that the earl’s mistress, Miss Peckham, had said about him. And if they were true, it was no wonder Rose had sentenced herself to a life of silence.
After patting her face dry, Anabelle looked at her blurry reflection in the mirror and let her mind wander back to the day she’d first heard of the Earl of Winthrope. It was also the day she’d first stooped to extortion.
Miss Peckham and her friend had walked through the door of the shop that December morning, bringing with them a gust of frigid air.
And opportunity.
The memory of that day, almost three years ago, would forever be intertwined with physical discomfort. Hunger so sharp she would have sold her soul for an apple; cold so penetrating her fingers could scarcely hold a needle; despair over Mama’s illness so deep Anabelle could hardly breathe.
The frosty weather had kept most people at home in front of their cozy fires, and the shop was abnormally peaceful. Mrs. Smallwood had taken to the back room with her ledgers, leaving Anabelle in charge of the front room. Miss Peckham and her friend, Miss Devlin, had come into the shop barking demands.
“The milliner’s shop is quite inconveniently closed. I’d like you to make this hat”—Miss Peckham plopped a plain white chip hat on the counter—“look like this one.” Beside the hat she laid a wrinkled copy of The Lady’s Magazine, showing a woman wearing an ornamented headdress. It appeared to have grapes or berries attached to one side, which, of course, made Anabelle’s stomach growl.
She attempted a bright smile. “I can show you a variety of trimmings. We have artificial roses, sprigs of myrtle, ermine, ostrich feathers, and lace and velvet in every color. Where would you like to start?”
Miss Peckham smiled in amusement. “I haven’t the faintest, darling. Hats aren’t my specialty.”
Miss Devlin giggled. “Peignoirs, on the other hand…”
“Pardon?” Anabelle asked.
“Never mind,” said Miss Peckham. “Would you be a dear and sew something onto this for me while I wait? I’ll be riding in the park later—with a gentleman.”
“How lovely,” said Anabelle, although frankly, a ride in the open air on such a bitter cold day sounded anything but. “I think we should use the ermine to take away the chill. And perhaps a blue ribbon to contrast with it?”
“That’s fine,” Miss Peckham said, pulling up a chair. “I don’t expect the earl will be very interested in my hat.”
Miss Devlin raised an unnaturally arched brow. “Men have no appreciation for hats. Garters, however, are another matter entirely.”
Anabelle felt herself flush. She tried to steer the conversation to less risqué territory. “If you’d like, I could add a bit of ermine trim to your tippet as well.”
“As long as you can finish in an hour or so,” Miss Peckham said.
Miss Devlin poked an elbow into her friend’s side. “A fur-lined stole presents all kinds of interesting possibilities.”
Since the women seemed intent on discussing the earl’s proclivities and, perhaps, their own, Anabelle said, “You’ll be here for a bit, so I’ll put on some tea. Excuse me.”
She breezed into the back room and passed Mrs. Smallwood on her way to the tiny kitchen.
“How is everything out front, Anabelle?” the shop owner asked distractedly. Her eyes were almost crossed from staring at the book in front of her.
“Quiet,” she called. “I’m making over a hat for Miss Peckham.” Anabelle wanted to prove that she could handle greater responsibility. Maybe Mrs. Smallwood would give her a modest raise; God knew her family desperately needed every shilling they could get.
“Let me know if you require assistance, dear.”
“I have things in hand.” Anabelle put a pot of water on the stove and retrieved a few more supplies from the back room. Then, bracing herself for further embarrassment, she marched into the front room.
“… no wonder the duchess left,” Miss Peckham was saying. “She chafed at the rules of polite society. Did I tell you about her house party last
month?”
Miss Devlin looked up from the fingernail she’d been examining. “No.”
“She invited the earl and me into her bedchamber. Huntford would have skewered Winthrope on the spot if he’d discovered all three of us romping in his wife’s bed. As it turns out, we were discovered.” Miss Peckham had her friend’s attention now. She had Anabelle’s as well.
Miss Peckham smoothed the bodice of her very snug pelisse, and her eyes flicked to Anabelle, who busied herself searching through various drawers behind the counter. The earl’s mistress shrugged and continued her story. “The three of us were having a perfectly lovely time when we heard the door to the duchess’s bedchamber slam. The earl pulled on his breeches and poked his head out into the hallway, but by then, the intruder was gone. The duchess said it had probably been her lady’s maid and that she knew better than to tell tales. She convinced the earl to come back into bed.”
“I had no idea the duchess was so depraved.” Miss Devlin’s voice held a touch of awe.
“She is beautiful as well. I wouldn’t have minded a repeat performance, but rumor has it she’s fled to the Continent.”
Anabelle listened with prurient interest. The women’s conversation flitted from the lewd to the mundane and back again, and the dress shop remained otherwise empty. When at last she’d finished the modifications to the bonnet and the tippet, she held up the articles for Miss Peckham’s inspection. “Will this do?”
Miss Peckham raised her brows. “It looks better than the one in The Lady’s Magazine. Well done, Miss…?”
“Honeycote.”
“I predict that the earl will find me irresistible in them,” she said.
Miss Devlin grunted. “Perhaps, if you wore nothing else.”
Miss Peckham paid for the items, and Anabelle wrapped them, grateful to see the women leave. It wasn’t until much later that evening when she returned to the freezing rooms they rented, heard Mama’s hacking cough, and opened a barren cupboard that a thought occurred to Anabelle.