Ever Yours, Annabelle

by Elisa Braden

  Robert recognized the dandy as the Marquess of Stickley. He watched Stickley’s eyes follow the bay around the courtyard as the auctioneer recited its pedigree and began the bidding. Wallingham displayed less interest, but Robert would wager he had little need for geldings—racing and breeding were his game.

  “This one might suit,” came a rumble from behind him.

  Robert glanced back to see a giant emerge from the subscription room. Only the outline of his six-and-a-half-foot frame was visible in the deep shadows beneath the colonnade. By his side was a black-haired man of about Robert’s height, but with a face that was a study in sardonic symmetry.

  Atherbourne.

  “No,” he answered the giant. Dark eyes roamed the yard in a distracted fashion, skimming over the bay gelding before settling on Stickley. Atherbourne’s glare went hot with menace. “Unless he bids. Then, I shall take it from him gladly.”

  The giant grunted. “Haven’t you taken enough from him?”

  Atherbourne didn’t answer. Neither did he look pleased.

  Turning in Robert’s direction, the giant paused. “Conrad?”

  Only when the dark-blond, granite-faced man moved into daylight did recognition strike. “Tannenbrook. Bloody hell.”

  A giant paw clapped his bad shoulder, making him wince. “Aye. Bloody hell, indeed. Never fancied seeing you in London. Thought you’d buried yourself in that great pile of stone you call an abbey.”

  Robert shook the Earl of Tannenbrook’s hand. “Likewise. Do they allow your sort in Tattersall’s?”

  A deep chuckle. “Think they could keep me out if they were of a mind?”

  “Not likely.” The man was the size of a mountain.

  He’d known Tannenbrook for years, though they saw each other infrequently—the last time had been three years ago in Nottingham. Tannenbrook’s estate was in the neighboring county. Unlike most peers, he did most of the land management himself. Robert’s position as steward of Rivermore took him to fairs and auction houses and merchants in both counties. When he ventured to Derbyshire, he occasionally encountered the towering earl. Their similar natures—dogged, pragmatic, and skeptical of false airs—had led to a solid rapport.

  Presently, Tannenbrook introduced him to Atherbourne then asked, “What brings you to town?”

  “Mortlock is getting on. Wants me to find a wife. And a new mount.”

  Atherbourne’s mouth twisted into a sardonic half-smile. “In that order?”

  “Grandfather claims a woman will civilize me.” Robert glanced around the yard, where a landaulet was now being offered for sale. “Failing that, he’d prefer my mount were younger than he is.”

  “Do not say you are still riding that old nag,” said Tannenbrook.

  Robert frowned. “Methuselah is sound enough.”

  “It took you two days to travel from Derby to Nottingham. That’s fifteen miles, Conrad.”

  “He’s a good horse. Steady.”

  A grunt. “Half-dead, more like.”

  Atherbourne changed the subject. “How goes the wife hunt?”

  Robert noted the viscount had resumed staring in Stickley’s direction. “Poorly. Ladies seem to favor dancing.”

  Glancing to where Robert loosely clasped his cane against his twisted leg, Atherbourne’s face whitened even as his eyes darkened into a black storm. He appeared frozen, unable to look away.

  Tannenbrook carefully set a hand upon his friend’s shoulder. “The injury is from a fall he took as a lad, Luc. Not in battle.”

  Robert frowned, wondering why such an assurance was necessary. Then, he remembered that Atherbourne had been at Waterloo. According to most accounts, he’d approached death twice—once while leading a charge of his men, and again after discovering he’d lost half his regiment in the ensuing slaughter. Some claimed he’d gone mad with bloodlust. Others said he’d not wished to live after losing so many men.

  At the moment, Tannenbrook looked worried. Little wonder. Atherbourne had gone bloodless, his eyes glassy.

  “It’s true,” Robert said, keeping his voice low and even. He lightly tapped his cane against his boot. “Broke it when I fell from a bridge.”

  The viscount swallowed hard. Sucked in a shuddering breath. Finally, haunted eyes came up to meet Robert’s. “A bad break, by the looks of it.”

  Robert nodded. “Surgeon wanted to take my leg.”

  “You refused.”

  “I like to keep what’s mine.”

  “Yet, you didn’t die.”

  “A near thing. Bone broke the skin. With such injuries, surgeons always remove the leg rather than watch a man rot to death.” He was deliberately blunt, as it seemed to be what Atherbourne needed—reassurance that a man could survive against all odds.

  Atherbourne’s tension eased, his color returning somewhat. “You didn’t die,” he repeated.

  “No. Good thing. My grandfather would have been mightily displeased to outlive me.” He shrugged as though his survival had not been a torturous, impossible act of will. “I don’t like to disappoint him.”

  Swallowing, Atherbourne nodded an acknowledgment. He seemed to return to himself enough to half-smile. “Well, a new mount is easy enough to acquire. What happens if you return without a wife?”

  Robert had the same thought. But what choice was there? He could not remain in London. He could not watch Annabelle flirt and dance and laugh her womanly laugh with Martin Standish—or any man, really.

  Tannenbrook shook his head. “The marriage mart is no fit place for brutes like us, Conrad.” The giant gave a disgusted grunt. “Ladies prefer the dandies.”

  Glaring once again in Stickley’s direction, Atherbourne observed, “A dandy is only a vain man with a good valet. We are all uncivilized beasts beneath our cravats.”

  Robert turned back to the yard for a moment, wondering why Atherbourne seemed to despise Stickley so much. According to Lady Wallingham, Stickley should be the one doing the despising—Atherbourne had seduced the man’s betrothed beneath his nose.

  Presently, Stickley crowed at something Lord Wallingham said and pointed down at his hound’s snout. He appeared to be simultaneously bragging and begging for Wallingham’s approval. Perhaps the young lord was a bit dandified. His hair was expertly trimmed along the sides, expertly tousled with faint curl on top. Vain, indeed. He’d also reacted poorly to his betrothed’s moment of weakness, denouncing Victoria Lacey with a vehemence Robert considered scurrilous—calling a duke’s sister a whore, whatever her indiscretions, went beyond the pale.

  Still, Atherbourne’s low-boiling fury was odd.

  “If you wished to see her better treated,” murmured Tannenbrook to his friend, “you might have refrained from luring her into scandal.”

  “She is better off,” Atherbourne replied darkly. “He talks of nothing but hounds. Within a month of marriage, she would have perished from tedium.”

  “Aye. Nevertheless, he’ll be a duke one day, which would have made her a duchess.” Tannenbrook paused, softened his tone. “What is she now?”

  Inside the yard, voices buzzed their excitement as a magnificent chestnut hunter pranced and gleamed around the yard. Yet, despite the din, Atherbourne was near enough that Robert heard his reply to Tannenbrook.

  “Mine,” the viscount breathed, seemingly unable to keep the word from escaping.

  So, that was how it was. Atherbourne had been caught in his own trap.

  Robert considered himself fortunate to have avoided such ensnarement. Females were complex and mysterious. Even the most virtuous had secrets. Men, by contrast, were simple and preferred straightforward explanations. If a woman was out of sorts, a man in love might feel compelled to dig for answers until his fingers bled. He might imagine her faraway gaze dreamt of a new lover—or an old one. He might picture that man’s hands upon her, invent jealousies, and find himself thoroughly consternated. Meanwhile, the woman’s secret might be no more than disquieted digesti
on.

  No, Robert preferred his work. It was reliable. Unambiguous. Like Methuselah. One always knew where one stood with Methuselah—especially during a mid-ride doze.

  “Sold to Lord Atherbourne for seventy-four guineas,” announced the auctioneer.

  As Atherbourne left to claim the fine-looking hunter he’d just purchased, Robert felt Tannenbrook move to his side.

  “Apologies for his questions about your leg,” the earl said in a low rumble. “Since Waterloo, he’s had some … difficulty.”

  Robert waved away the concern. “I was raised by two old soldiers. One lost a leg after Belle Isle. I’ve seen the reaction before.”

  Tannenbrook nodded. “You handled it well. He doesn’t appreciate being cosseted.”

  “Men of courage rarely do.”

  They fell silent as both watched another large, deep-chested hunter being escorted around the central cupola. This one’s gait was more plodding than prancing. Robert eyed the animal’s coat, a medium brown with a white blaze running from between its eyes down to its left nostril. The marking gave the horse a lopsided look. The auctioneer described the animal’s parentage—hardly illustrious, but it was a gelding, so pedigree mattered less. Next, the man waxed on about dependability, stout bones, and a “remarkably calm temperament.”

  Tannenbrook nudged him. “You should bid.”

  Frowning, Robert studied the horse’s eyes, which appeared unimpressed by the fancy cupola and the finely dressed crowd. Indeed, the animal seemed in no hurry to be sold, his pace lackadaisical, his tail twitching only to swat a fly.

  “You and that horse were bloody made for each other. He’s only six years. Would last you another fifteen, if you treat him well.”

  The auctioneer cajoled and wheedled, but no one bid as the groom led the horse in another turn about the yard. “Come now, gents. Dewdrop could go for days with nary a complaint.”

  Behind him, Robert heard a snicker and someone whispering, “Days, aye. That’s how far behind a man would be, should he take that tortoise into a hunt.”

  “And what of that blaze?” the auctioneer continued. “A handsome mount, indeed.”

  Perhaps it was the name. Dewdrop. Ludicrous for such a massive, muscular animal. Perhaps it was the unhurried gait or the bones that looked like they could haul a London townhouse. But Robert wanted this horse.

  Tannenbrook was right. They were made for each other.

  He raised his hand to bid, offering ten guineas.

  The auctioneer pointed at him with relieved excitement. “Ten guineas! Excellent, sir! Do I have twelve?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Robert saw a flash of red. It was a sleeve. On an upraised arm. Attached to a man he’d like to flatten until nothing remained but scarlet wool and brass buttons.

  “Twelve! Splendid, Captain Standish.” The auctioneer turned back to Robert with eager expectancy. “Do I have fourteen, sir?”

  Standish. By God, that worthless usurper was wearing his uniform at Tattersall’s. And, once again, he was determined to filch what rightfully belonged to Robert. Narrowing his eyes, he took the usurper’s measure. Sand-colored hair. Weak jaw with a marked overbite. Slim frame.

  What the devil did Annabelle see in him?

  “Fourteen, sir? Do I have fourteen? Just look at that blaze.”

  Standish glanced Robert’s way, eyes assessing his reaction, mouth twitching into a faint sneer. That’s when he knew. The usurper thought this was a competition. And he bloody well thought he would win.

  Robert raised his hand and nodded to the auctioneer.

  “Fourteen, indeed!”

  The bidding war continued until Dewdrop’s price reached a number as ludicrous as his name. In the end, Tannenbrook stepped in to end the battle with a bid of his own. Evidently, Standish was not so keen upon defeating the giant as he was on winning something away from Robert’s grasp.

  Not keen enough to spend fifty-two guineas on a ten-guinea horse, at any rate.

  “I expect repayment, Conrad,” Tannenbrook grumbled.

  “You’ll have it,” he replied.

  Scowling at the retreating scarlet usurper, Robert expected to feel satisfied by his victory. He did not. His gut still burned, his fist closing around the head of his cane over and over.

  “This is not about a horse, I take it.”

  Robert slanted a glance at the giant. “He bought my commission after I was injured.”

  Tannenbrook stood silent, arms crossed. Waiting.

  “He wears that uniform as if he’d defeated Bonaparte singlehanded. He was a coward in war. Now, he struts about like a peacock. Bloody galling.”

  More silence.

  “He’s been doing this for years, making everything into a competition. I’ve no patience for it.”

  A long pause. Then, a low, rumbled reply. “No. Those are sound reasons to dislike a man.” Tannenbrook eyed Robert’s hand where it fisted his cane. “But hating one—that’s usually caused by a woman.”

  He didn’t bother answering. Tannenbrook didn’t seem to require it. The giant simply gave him his address in Knightsbridge and told him to bring the blunt when he came to claim the horse.

  As Robert exited Tattersall’s, he looked about for signs of an unearned scarlet coat, but he didn’t see one. The area around Hyde Park Corner was bustling with riders and carriages entering the park, leaving the park, and striving to be noticed like the peacocks they were.

  Bloody hell, he needed to leave this town. Maybe now that he’d found a new mount, he could do so.

  Slowly, he made his way from the yard’s entrance toward the trough where he’d left Methuselah to doze and drink at his leisure. The horse was still sleeping.

  “Mr. Conrad!”

  He halted mid-stride. Closed his eyes to gather his patience. Strongly considered feigning deafness.

  “Don’t bother pretending you cannot hear me, boy.”

  How could he? Her voice carried like a trumpet’s blare.

  “Your leg may be lame, but there’s nothing wrong with the rest of you.” A supercilious sniff. “Nothing a clever wife couldn’t remedy, at any rate.”

  She sat perched inside an open carriage twenty feet away. The faint breeze caused the plumes of her bonnet to bob and rustle. Her gown was purple, but her feathers were as white as her hair.

  “Lady Wallingham,” he called, tipping his hat. “Waiting for Lord Wallingham, I take it.”

  She folded the newspaper she’d been reading and raised her chin. “I do not wait for my son. If I require his presence, I command it and he complies.”

  Despite the vagaries of this day, amusement quirked his lips. She really was unlike any other female he’d encountered. “I stand corrected.”

  “Do stop shouting across this muddy field, young man.” She waved the folded paper in a commanding gesture. “Come! I have an errand to attend. You will join me.”

  He began to explain that he had other tasks and would gladly call upon her tomorrow, but she glared at him until he ran out of words.

  “Get in the carriage, Mr. Conrad. We have much to discuss.”

  Before she announced their destination to her coachman—before he’d realized his mistake—he’d already climbed up into the barouche and lowered himself onto the seat beside her. “The Strand?” he asked incredulously. He’d assumed her errand would be in Mayfair. Surely the Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham did not venture far from Mayfair. This could take hours. “How long do you expect me to—”

  “As long as our conversation requires, Mr. Conrad.” She raised a single white brow. “Are you still intent upon leaving London?”

  He ground his teeth. “Yes.”

  “Then, I expect we shall need an hour. Two at most.”

  As the barouche ambled along Piccadilly at a snail’s pace, the white-haired termagant regaled him with cautionary tales about gentlemen she’d known in her youth who had come to piteous ends for want of a wife. I
n one example, a desperate baronet “involved himself with a vulgar barmaid who robbed him blind and left him naked in a churchyard on Sunday morning. An appalling sight, a naked baronet. Past eighty, little remains of a man but sagging flesh and despair.”

  In another example, an earl’s third son humiliated himself by pursuing a rector’s daughter. In truth, the rector did not have a daughter, but he did have a milk cow with unusually long lashes. “It took the villagers two years to persuade the pitiful wretch he’d been suffering poor eyesight and brandy poisoning,” she explained. “His bovine pursuit waned, though some claimed they’d spy him on moonlit nights from time to time, standing at the rector’s gate like a heartsick swain.”

  He watched a heavily burdened wagon pulled by a single, ancient horse pass them by. “Mightn’t we go a bit faster if we wish to reach the Strand by nightfall?”

  She harrumphed. “This is not one of those high-perch phaetons in which you young men are so eager to careen to your death. We shall keep to a sensible pace. My time on this earth will end soon enough. I see little need to hasten the process.”

  For the following hour, she opined on the topic of wives—primarily their importance in the care and proper maintenance of men. Her reasons for declaring them “essential” ranged from preventing rampant venereal disease to ensuring tasteful upholstery selection. When she suggested he risked permanent physical damage by denying himself frequent access to an accommodating wife, he called a halt.

  “Lady Wallingham,” he bit out, well past the end of his tether. “There are women in Nottinghamshire, I assure you. Scores of them. Some might even make acceptable wives. I do not have to remain in London to find one.”

  She dismissed his claim with a wave of her newspaper. “Rubbish. Do you wish to marry a barmaid and find yourself stripped of your fortune and your unmentionables for the entire congregation’s amusement?”

  He opened his mouth to answer but released an exasperated sigh instead. She obviously had an agenda, and reasoned discourse was not it.