by Anne Barton
The shop owner’s eyes lit up like fireworks at Vauxhall Gardens. “I have no objection.”
“But, Mrs. Smallwood,” Anabelle choked out, “I’m in the middle of several projects.”
The elderly woman raised her palm. “I insist that you go to assist Lady Olivia with their dressmaking… emergency. We shall manage for a few days.” She brushed her hands down the front of her apron, her decision final.
“Thank goodness,” Olivia cried. “Come. The coach is waiting outside. We can stop at your apartment on the way out of Town so you may inform your mother and sister and pack a few things.”
Anabelle walked out of the dress shop, stunned at the day’s turn of events. As she climbed into the coach behind Olivia, she asked, “Does either Rose or your brother know you’re here?”
“No,” Olivia said breezily. “When Owen discovers I bullied the coachman into taking me into Town and came unchaperoned, he’ll be even angrier with me than he is with Rose.”
With a mixture of amusement and alarm, Anabelle realized Olivia would probably have resorted to kidnapping her if necessary. She’d never really had any choice in the matter.
It seemed she was going to Huntford Manor.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Owen glared at Rose, who sat stiffly in front of his desk, glaring back.
He’d called her into his study two hours ago when he realized that Olivia had taken his coach—without a word to anyone—that morning. His initial shock had quickly combusted into anger, but now, as he looked out the window at the darkening sky, fear crept into his bones. Where in God’s name had Olivia gone?
All Owen knew was that his trusted stable master, Charles, had seen her leave with the coachman shortly before lunch. Olivia had claimed Owen knew about her excursion—a bald-faced lie—and she’d be back in the evening.
Rose looked frailer than ever tucked into the bulky armchair across from him, her cheekbones too prominent. “If you know anything,” he said to her, “you must tell me. Olivia could be stranded on the side of the road or in some other sort of dire circumstances. It’s not safe for a young woman to travel alone—especially at night.” Of course, she might not be alone, but with a man. That possibility was even more disturbing.
Rose swallowed as though she, too, had considered these scenarios but shook her head.
He shoved his chair away from the desk and paced. “I’ve been far too lenient with the two of you.” He pointed at her. “You constantly disappear, refusing to tell me who you’re seeing or what you’re doing. And Olivia rides off in my godforsaken coach without telling a soul where she’s going.” He was sputtering and didn’t care. “I will not abide this secrecy. If you and your sister don’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll have to take extreme measures.”
Rose sat forward in the chair, her eyes wide with alarm. Good.
“Maybe I’ll lock you in your rooms for a few weeks.” Except she’d probably like that, so he added, “And I’ll forbid you to read, paint, play music, or even see Olivia—unless you eat.”
He had not thought Rose was capable of scowling. At least he’d found a way of getting through to her.
“Dennison!” he yelled.
The butler appeared in the doorway of his study. “My name is Hodges, Your Grace. Dennison is still in Town.”
Owen pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d known that, of course, but there was something inherently satisfying about yelling Dennison’s name when he was perturbed. “Thank you for enlightening me, Hodges,” he said dryly. “Tell Charles I wish to see him.”
The butler bobbed his head and left.
Rose sat up straight and clutched the arms of her chair. Interesting.
Owen planned to interrogate the stable master once more, to inquire about any items Olivia may have carried with her when she left. Maybe he knew more than he let on.
To Rose, Owen said, “Charles is somehow involved in this, isn’t he?”
She shook her head, but her cheeks flushed. He remembered the extortion note. “Is Olivia seeing him?”
She shook her head vehemently.
He leaned over, bringing his eyes level with hers. “I will find out the truth, Rose.”
Crossing her arms, she stared past him. Good grief. What had happened to his meek and obedient sister?
Owen paced until Charles joined them. Holding his hat in his hands, the stable master bowed in Rose’s direction. “You wanted to see me, Your Grace?”
“Sit down.” He waved Charles into the leather chair next to Rose’s. She avoided looking at him and vice versa. As though they were guilty. Keeping his tone pleasant, Owen asked, “Did Lady Olivia have any luggage when she left this morning? Did she carry a reticule or basket?”
Charles frowned. “No large bags, Sir. Just a small… thing on her wrist.”
“Which suggests she wasn’t planning an overnight trip. What was she wearing?”
“Sir?”
“What kind of dress?”
“I couldn’t say, Sir. I think it may have been blue or green. Or maybe yellow.”
“It’s a good thing you know horses better than ladies’ fashions, Charles.”
“Yes, Sir.”
A sudden commotion in the hallway halted the conversation, and Hodges ran into the room in a highly undignified manner. “Lady Olivia has returned,” he shouted.
The words were no sooner out of the butler’s mouth than Olivia herself breezed in.
She smiled broadly, as though she hadn’t a care in the world—until she saw Charles sitting next to Rose. She clasped a hand to her chest, and her eyes flew to Owen’s. “So, you know. I hope you did not completely lose your temper, Owen. Charles is quite the gentleman—”
“What are you talking about?”
Olivia placed a hand over her mouth.
“Olivia?”
“Never mind. I’m sure you’re all wondering where I’ve been.”
Owen gritted his teeth. “Wondering? No. Sick with worry? Yes.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“I’m in no mood for games,” he warned.
“Look who I have with me!” She turned and presented her guest with a flourish.
For the space of a second, he couldn’t breathe. “Anabelle?”
“Good evening, Your Grace.” The sight of her was a punch to the gut. The two weeks since she’d left had felt like months. And now, she was really there, her honey-streaked hair and gray eyes gleaming, chin held high.
“What are you doing here?”
“I asked her to come,” Olivia said.
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Because I didn’t know what else to do. You want to risk your life in a duel with Lord Winthrope. Rose refuses to eat. I’m scared to death I’m going to lose both of you.”
“I think I should be going,” Charles said, rising from his chair. He seemed to look to Rose for permission.
And suddenly, Owen put all the pieces together. Good God, he’d been dense.
“Wait,” he said. The stable master sat back down. “I think you should tell me what’s going on between you and Rose.”
Charles gave Rose a weak but reassuring smile before slowly standing and looking Owen directly in the eyes. “I have a friendship with your sister, Sir. I know it’s not fitting for someone as refined as her to spend time with a servant, and I’m sorry I deceived you. However, I promise you that I have never—would never—treat her as anything but the lady that she is.”
Rage boiled inside Owen. He crossed his arms in the hopes that it might prevent him from delivering a blow to the man’s jaw. His gaze flicked to Olivia and Anabelle. “You both knew about this, didn’t you?”
Anabelle nodded, and Olivia said, “What could we do, Owen? You never would have allowed Rose to see him.”
“You’re correct on that score.”
“I knew it,” Olivia said. “You only care about the fact that he’s a servant and Rose is the sister of a duke. You’d never notice how happ
y Rose is when she’s with him, or how good he is for her.”
“What a load of—”
“Stop, Your Grace!” Charles held up a hand. “This is upsetting Lady Rose. She loves you”—he nodded at Owen—“more than anything. The last thing I want to do is to cause strife between the two of you. I’ll gather my things and leave the estate early tomorrow morning.”
“A wise decision, if you value your life.”
Rose stared at the floor in front of her chair, her whole body trembling.
Charles knelt in front of her and softly said, “I’m sorry, Lady Rose. Good-bye.”
She began to shake more violently, looking so pale and fragile Owen wondered if she’d ever forgive him. Or ever fully recover from the blow.
As the stable master left, the only sound in the room was his heavy, rough boots treading across the floor. He’d been a hell of a stable master, and Owen had liked him. It was a shame that—
“Don’t. Go.” Rose’s words were halting, but clear as day.
Everyone froze. Owen wondered if he was imagining things. He dropped to his knees and clasped her shoulders. “You spoke. I heard you.”
She gripped the arms of the chair so tightly that her knuckles were stone white.
“Wait, Charles.” Owen folded Rose into his arms. “Everything is going to be all right.”
Rose spoke.
Tears streamed down Anabelle’s face, not just for Rose, but for Olivia and Owen, too—they’d all waited so long for this day. Although Rose had said only two simple words, she’d broken through a barrier. Maybe her next words would come easier. Anabelle hoped.
She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Owen looked even more handsome than she remembered him. When he’d been angry, his green eyes looked as deep and turbulent as the ocean. His dark brows knit together so tightly, she itched to trace them with a fingertip and smooth away his worries. But now, in his wonder over Rose, his face transformed into that of a benevolent Greek god—patient, kind, and powerful.
Anabelle longed to throw her arms around him and share in his quiet awe of the night’s events. Although she couldn’t, at least she’d been able to witness something close to a miracle.
Once Rose had composed herself, Owen suggested they relocate to the drawing room, where everyone could sit and he could get some answers.
Anabelle finally had a chance to appreciate the magnificence of Huntford Manor. From the outside, the house resembled a medieval castle, but with larger windows and fewer turrets. Inside, however, the rooms were lavishly appointed and tastefully decorated. The drawing room was a combination of rich browns and deep reds, at once decadent and refined—like an exquisite tart.
She and Olivia entered the room and sat on a brocade sofa, Rose and Charles sat on the one opposite theirs, and Owen took an armchair between them—much like a judge holding court.
Anabelle felt like an intruder in the family’s affairs. “I should leave so you may speak privately.”
“No,” Owen barked—but not unkindly. Rose’s breakthrough had taken the bite out of his anger. “I want to know where Olivia has been all day. I want to know about Rose and Charles. But mostly I want an end to all the secrets.”
The thread inside Anabelle, the one keeping all her sorrow and anger tied up, snapped. How dare Owen accuse Rose and Olivia of keeping secrets? He was the one who was too ashamed to tell his sisters about their relationship. Just moments before, he’d scolded Rose and Charles for seeing each other.
And yet, he’d been the one conducting an affair with a servant.
He was in no position to judge. Neither was she.
Although it was neither the proper time nor place, Anabelle spoke. “Is it your belief that we should reveal all our secrets, Your Grace?”
Owen yanked at his cravat. “The secrets that involve my sisters, Miss Honeycote.”
“Miss Honeycote, is it? When you saw me a few moments ago, you called me Anabelle, did you not?”
The concerned look he shot her made hysterical laughter bubble in her throat. Was he blind to his hypocrisy? “Forgive me. I was shocked to see you. My sisters call you Anabelle, and I’ve begun to think of you that way, too.”
“I see. So your sisters should tell all their secrets, but you should be allowed to keep yours?”
“We are all entitled to a few secrets.”
“Yes, but where, precisely, does one draw the line?”
He stared at her intently. “If a secret adversely affects a member of this family, it should be shared.”
“Very well.” She stood and cleared her throat.
“Miss Honeycote,” said Owen. “What are you doing?”
“I wish to share a secret.”
“Anabelle, stop.” Owen hung on the edge of his chair, and Charles looked like he wanted nothing so much as to slink out of the room.
She looked at Olivia and Rose before continuing. “Your brother and I have been hiding something from both of you. My behavior has been… most improper. You see, back before I knew you, I threatened to publish gossip about you in The Tattler.”
“What?” Disbelieving, Olivia crossed her arms over her chest.
“Damn it, Anabelle.” Owen rubbed the back of his neck.
“It’s true. I’d heard a rumor that Olivia was seeing a servant, and I… I asked your brother for money in exchange for my silence.”
“But that’s…” Olivia’s face contorted in disgust.
“Extortion,” Rose finished for her.
Anabelle felt as big as a thimble. “I have nothing to say in my defense—except I am sorry.”
Olivia fled the room in a blur of blue ribbons. Although Anabelle longed to comfort her, she was the last person Olivia wished to see. She slumped onto the sofa.
Rose stood. “I will go to her,” she said quietly. Instead of walking past Anabelle, however, she stopped and squeezed her hand. “I forgive you.” As she left, she gazed at Charles with obvious affection.
“Lady Rose,” he said, causing her to halt. “If your brother sends some soup up, will you eat?” His eyes pleaded. “For me?”
She looked from the handsome stable master to Owen. “Only if he stays,” she said.
Owen nodded. “Done. But we need to talk in the morning, Charles.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” He looked Owen directly in the eyes. “I look forward to it.”
Rose left with the stable master, and suddenly, Anabelle and Owen were alone.
When he joined her on the sofa, she fought the urge to lean into him, wrap her arms around him, and kiss away the tight lines around his eyes and mouth. When he reached for her hand, she snatched it away.
He raised his brows, and she scooted to the far end of the sofa.
It would be all too easy to ignore her good sense and the promises she’d made to herself. Her dignity was at stake. As was her heart. In order to stand a chance of keeping her head about her, she had to maintain her distance from him—both literally and figuratively.
“I want to go home,” she said.
“How are your mother and sister?” His conversational tone raised her hackles.
“Please don’t pretend that you care.”
He looked puzzled. “Of course I care, Belle. You left Lord Harsby’s house party so abruptly. I hoped you just needed some time to accept the truth—that we’re meant to be together.”
The truth? He hadn’t come to London for her.
He hadn’t told anyone about their relationship.
And he certainly hadn’t issued a marriage proposal.
Not trusting herself to speak, she shook her head.
“Why did you tell Olivia and Rose about your extortion scheme?”
“You said there should be no secrets. Besides, they deserved to know the truth about me. The awful things I did.”
“You didn’t tell them the whole truth.”
“No, I didn’t tell them that I’d slept with their brother.”
“Our relationship was more than th
at, Anabelle. It is more than that.” He sighed. “What I meant was, you didn’t tell them why you wrote the extortion note.”
“It hardly matters. Olivia would have been the victim if you hadn’t caught me.”
“Horse shit.”
She blinked. It was the second time he’d used the phrase with her. “I beg your pardon?”
“You never would have gone to The Tattler.”
He had a point. However, the people she’d threatened didn’t know that.
“Please. I need to return to London.”
Something akin to fear glittered in his eyes. “You can’t travel tonight.”
“First thing in the morning, then.” She avoided his gaze, too aware of the power it wielded over her.
“I’ll have the housekeeper prepare a guest chamber for you and send up dinner and a hot bath. We can discuss your travel arrangements in the morning. I know you don’t want to be here, Anabelle.” He brushed a thumb lightly across her cheek and her stomach flip-flopped. “But I’m very glad you are.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Stole: (1) A shawl, often of fur, worn loosely around the shoulders. (2) Past tense of the verb to steal, meaning to take something or someone—such as a suitor—rightfully belonging to another.
Birds chirped outside Anabelle’s window. Her hair, fanned out on the soft pillow beneath her head, smelled of mint and lavender. Inhaling deeply, she recalled her steaming bath the night before. She’d drifted off as the night breeze kissed her cheeks.
After a wonderful night’s sleep, she awoke relaxed and content.
Not at all the plan.
She was supposed to be angry and hurt. She was, dash it all. And quite determined to leave Huntford Manor.
She groped the bedside table until she found her spectacles and slid them on. Stretching, she padded to the window—horrified to find the sun already high in the sky.
Heavens, she’d slept the entire morning away.
She snatched a peach-colored morning gown from her satchel and quickly dressed. After coaxing her hair—still damp at the roots from last night’s washing—into a knot at the nape of her neck, she straightened the coverlet on the bed and stuffed the few personal items she’d brought into her bag.