The Three Evesham Daughters: Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Trilogy

by Audrey Ashwood

  Chapter 12

  Annabelle pushed the doctor’s hand away. “I do not want any sedatives,” she said with as firm a voice as she could manage. She sat at St. John’s bed, who was still unconscious – which was probably a good thing, because in that way he had not noticed the things the doctor had put him through. Wickham had already taken away the blood-soaked linens and bowls filled with dreadful pink water. No more rose-coloured dresses, she swore to herself. For the rest of her life, the colour would remind her of the worst night of her life.

  The doctor looked over at Finch, who was standing on the other side of the bed, shrugging his shoulders indifferently. “Thank you, doctor,” Annabelle said and fought the urge to make a scene by her wounded husband’s bedside. Nevertheless, she added enough coldness to her voice to let the doctor know who was in charge. She was only a woman, but she most certainly did not need Finch’s permission to decline the harrowing twilight state of opiates.

  “I will come by in the afternoon or early evening to check on the patient,” the doctor announced. “In the meantime, he needs one thing above all, and that is rest.” The doctor gave Annabelle a chiding look as if he knew how close she was to an outburst of temper.

  “I agree with you,” Annabelle noted and clenched her hands into small fists to keep herself from shoving against his self-righteous chest so he would finally leave. She reminded herself that despite his overbearing act, he had done a good job of rushing to their house in a timely manner and removing the bullet from Marcus’s shoulder.

  She looked him in the face and was about to praise him away when Finch cleared his throat warningly. “If I may,” he said as he picked up the doctor’s bag. “I will escort you outside. My Lady, please excuse me for a moment. Shall I send Wickham up with tea?” What was he trying to tell her with his piercing gaze? Annabelle did not trust her own voice, so she just nodded and barely acknowledged the doctor’s parting words. All the louder in her ears sounded the clicking of the door at last snapping shut behind the two men.

  She pulled up a stool, sat down, and observed her husband. The events of the past two hours – the second kiss, the shot, the blood, and the quick arrival of the doctor, who cut into her husband just to sew him shut again – had taken their toll. She felt nauseous and dizzy. But none of that could compete with the fear that had gripped her body when she had watched Marcus fall. She had heard the shot, had seen the blood, and yet her mind had refused, at first, to acknowledge the events. After that, everything had happened very fast.

  As if in a trance, she had pulled out her clean hankerchief to stanch her husband’s blood. Finch had appeared on the scene, fully dressed, and quickly brought more cloth while Wickham had shown up shortly after with unkempt hair and a hastily thrown over spencer. Finch had fetched the doctor. Wickham had looked after Marcus. Or more precisely, as Annabelle recalled, he had looked after her, for she had – as the butler assured her – done everything that could be done until the doctor arrived.

  She had refused to leave her husband alone. Even when the doctor, whose name she had already forgotten, had set about to remove the bullet, she had stayed with him. She had held his hand while the doctor began his raw work to save her husband.

  A noise caught her attention. Marcus was groaning quietly. Beneath his closed eyelids, his eyes moved rapidly. Annabelle stroked his hand. He murmured something, and she leant down to him.

  “Matilda…” she heard him say. “… done to you” were the next muffled words, which made it across the bloodless lips, before the stream of words stopped. Who was Matilda? Or had he said “Madeline”?

  She did not know whether to laugh or cry. Just as she thought that he was entrusting her with his secret, fate had thrown another obstacle into their path. Silently, she promised herself that she would not leave his side until he was well enough to tell her everything – and this time, she would make sure that no attacker would have the opportunity to shoot at him or attack him with a knife.

  His forehead was covered in cold sweat. She dabbed the droplets away with a soft cloth. His golden brows were pulled together tightly as if he, even in his current condition, was thinking about unsettling things. Gently, she ran her forefinger over the arches, but in vain, since his expression remained unchanged.

  “I wish I could help you,” she whispered, softly touching his lips with hers. “I am here,” she said just as quietly, and she thought she saw a hint of easing on his face.

  Behind her, someone cleared their throat. Without having to turn around, Annabelle knew it was Finch. “Yes?”

  “You should go to bed, my Lady,” he said, using the respectful address for the second time. Now that she thought about it, she realised that up until now he had avoided addressing her directly.

  “I will rest here,” she replied and glanced over to the large armchair. Marcus’s private bedchamber was a jumbled mix of massive furniture, such as his wide bed, which she suspected to be an heirloom, and other furnishings that had clearly been chosen for their degree of comfort. Said armchair was large enough for her to get comfortable inside its high wings and maybe even sleep for a little while. Whether sleep came or not, she would not leave Marcus’s side until he regained consciousness and opened his eyes. The doctor had been confident that Marcus would recover quickly. He had talked about a flesh wound and the overall good constitution of his patient. Annabelle was more than willing to accept the temporary discomfort to assure herself that the doctor’s words were true.

  She had lost her heart to him. She could no longer deny it – Marcus St. John meant more to her than she had let herself admit until now. The realisation should have had her questioning her sanity, but in reality, the realization brought with it a relief that was almost physically palpable. Not only had she told him everything about what had led to their marriage from her point of view, but she had also admitted to herself that she had fallen in love with him. The fluttering of her heart, the nervousness whenever he was anywhere near her, belonged to one name: Marcus St. John, Earl of Grandover. Her husband. The only man who had ever kissed her. Despite all that had happened and what he had concealed from her, in his presence she felt safe. Secure. Accepted.

  A third harrumph from Finch tore her away from her romantic fantasies of a third kiss.

  “I do not think that staying here would be advised,” he declared. “As Doctor Lascott said, Lord Grandover needs rest.”

  “Which he certainly will not get, if you keep arguing with me,” she blurted out. “I’m his wife. My place is by his side.” Annabelle pressed her lips into a tight line. Part of her expected Finch to contradict her and send her to her room like a disobedient child, but to her surprise, he merely sighed and at a stroke looked very tired. The otherwise pale scar on his face turned pink, and Annabelle swallowed the rising nausea. Following a sudden notion, she said, “You are very worried about him, am I right? I promise you, I will do nothing that harms him.”

  Finch pressed his lips together. It confirmed just how nerve-wracking the whole situation was, as Annabelle was able to read his emotions so plainly, because normally he was in no way inferior to his master when it came to reticence.

  “Surely, you want to find out who is responsible for this cowardly assassination attempt, do you not?” She looked at him directly, as she continued. “I do not understand why you are not leaving the investigation to the magistrate. That is the second ambush.” She swallowed hard and forced herself to keep her voice as factual as she could. “It does not look like the person who is after my husband is going to give up until they succeed. That is why you should start your search right now and bury your suspicions about me. At least until St. John is back on his feet again.” A little softer, she added, “You will help him best by finding the man. I also believe that we should find a way to get Greywood out of the house. Just in case the neighbours overheard the shot and become curious enough to…”

  Finch interrupted her, his eyes wide open. “You know about him?”

 
Oh yes, Annabelle thought. I know about him. And I owe this not to you or to Marcus, but only to me and my inclination to having to know everything. She continued aloud, “Do you have an idea?” without responding to his statement of the obvious.

  He frowned. “I could get rid of him tonight.”

  Annabelle wondered why they had brought him into the house in the first place. He still had not said why he and St. John did not notify the magistrate to avert the threat. St. John had sworn to her that he had not killed Greywood. She believed him, but at the same time, his stubborn refusal pointed to something dark, which scared her. St. John’s past seemed to be more abysmal than she could imagine in her darkest dreams.

  However, it was useless to worry about these things as long as St. John was unconscious, and she was unable to ask him about it. “Can you arrange it so that... how shall I put it... his dignity is preserved?” she returned to the question of the corpse. Annabelle did not think that Finch could press his lips even tighter together, but he did. Then his eyebrows on the bold face twitched upward with an utterly astonished, questioning expression.

  “It will be tricky, but if it calms your sensibilities, I won’t just throw him into the Thames.” The rough answer was all she would get in terms of a concession from him – Annabelle knew it by the manner he straightened and turned to leave the room.

  Shortly afterwards, the butler entered the bedroom. Annabelle moved some papers on the desk aside so that Wickham could put down the tray of hot tea. He was a discreet servant, who did not show what he thought of her not very ladylike behaviour. She asked him to move the armchair even closer to Marcus’s bed and then let herself fall inelegantly into the chair. Wickham handed her a cup of tea. He hesitated imperceptibly.

  “Yes, Wickham. What is it?” She asked.

  “If you need anything, my Lady, please ring for me. On behalf of the household staff, I would like to express our utmost gratitude for your care and concern.” It was more than unusual for a man of his standing to speak so freely. Annabelle felt her wariness towards him wear off. He had been observing her, and most likely Clarice had as well; however, what she had originally interpreted as a mildly hostile reaction to her intrusion into the house, was more of an unusually deep devotion to their master.

  “Thank you for your support in this difficult time,” Annabelle replied, feeling that she had started to sound very much like a real duchess. “Please express my gratitude towards the rest of our personnel.” She saw how Wickham’s worried gaze wandered towards Marcus’s lifeless body and spontaneously added, “The doctor said that he will recover in a timely manner. He called the injury a flesh wound, meaning no vital organs were injured.”

  “Thank you, my Lady.” With these words, Wickham left.

  Annabelle was alone with her husband.

  Only then did she allow herself the thought she had always shied away from since all of this had started. If Greywood is dead, then who has shot at St. John?

  It was a painful awakening, and Marcus immediately knew that he was not alone in his bedroom.

  His instincts did not betray him. Annabelle was curled up in his favourite chair in a position that resembled that of a cat. Somebody, most likely Wickham, had draped a blanket over her pulled-up legs. He allowed himself the luxury of beholding her face without her noticing. Her mouth was slightly open, and she was breathing calmly. Only her clenched hands revealed that her sleep was not the carefree dream he wished for her.

  Quietly, he tried to lift himself up, which he managed quite well, even without the use of his left arm, or so he thought. But as he pulled back the blanket and attempted to sit up, a dizziness overcame him, and Marcus had to sink back into the pillows. Cold sweat covered his forehead as he tried not to lose consciousness again. He urgently needed to talk to Finch. Where was his friend?

  In the end, it did not matter. His weakened body exacted its toll. It was too early to get up and take matters into his own hands. In that case, it was more reasonable to allow himself a few extra hours of rest. He knew from painful experience that a weakened body would not benefit him in his hunt for the unknown, and in the worst-case scenario, it could even become a serious obstacle.

  However, one thing was certain. His enemy, the man in the shadows, had found himself compelled to react. Good. It meant he was on the right track. Now it was up to him to put the puzzle pieces together into one coherent picture.

  His gaze fell on Annabelle. Had she actually stayed by his side and watched over his sleep? The idea was unsettling. Not because he still feared that she was a spy, but because his increasingly tender feelings towards her could play into his enemy’s hands.

  He closed his eyes.

  He had to make Annabelle leave him. Did he have the heart to send her away, to hurt her willingly, so that she would not fall into the same fate as Matilda?

  The question was not if he could do it. He had to do it, regardless of how much he would loathe himself for it. He preferred to take the chance of having the beautiful emerald green eyes look at him with cold disgust than to hold her lifeless body in his arms, as he had done with Matilda.

  It should have been his last mission in the service of the crown. But what had started as a simple courier service had ended in a fiasco provoked by a double agent. Greywood had been his henchman, but Marcus had never been able to prove his involvement. He suppressed a bitter laugh. He did not regret Greywood’s death, and in a way, he even took a certain pleasure in how the much-hated man had died and by whose hand, but now he had lost the connection to the man he was actually searching for, the ominous double agent, who was responsible for the deaths of many upstanding Englishmen. Marcus’s employer had withdrawn his official support the moment he had needed it the most, but at least the Prince Regent had assured Marcus of his personal sanction.

  One more thing the shot had proven to him. He did by no means suffer from paranoia, as the minister, under whose leadership Marcus had spied for his country, had implied. His suspicion of a double agent and the existence of the mysterious man, who had used Greywood for his filthy ends, was proven. The assassination attempts on his life had not ended with Greywood’s death, which left only one conclusion. The “man in the shadows”, as he called his enemy, had made an appearance himself.

  Soon, he vowed. Soon I will see your face. You cannot hide from me much longer…

  His eyes fell shut and before he knew it, Marcus had fallen asleep.

  Chapter 13

  Only reluctantly had Annabelle left her sleeping husband to freshen up and change her clothes. The house ran perfectly without her, and the only letter that had arrived addressed to her had come from the Countess of York, who invited Annabelle for a visit. As much as Annabelle was delighted to hear from the countess, as little was she in the mood for company. She replied with a short, but courteous message, using a suffering from mild fever as an excuse to avoid having to accept the invitation.

  Secretly, Annabelle was glad that neither her mother nor her sisters were heard from, even though she urgently needed to speak to Felicity. Her younger sister especially would have noticed Annabelle’s unrest straightway. At least the Felicity of yore, Annabelle added in her thoughts, as she made her way to Marcus’s bedchamber. Whether the closed off Felicity of today would take note was questionable.

  At the landing, she stopped. From downstairs, unfamiliar noises sounded. She heard Wickham’s deep voice, politely but firmly denying a visitor entrance to the house. The visitor – a man, if she heard correctly – replied something in a sharp tone and with a threatening undertone, which gave Annabelle goose bumps. At that moment, she almost wished that Finch would be present to relieve her of the displeasing task that lay ahead of her. As the mistress of the house, which she now officially was, she had to receive the visitor, who refused to be rejected. She walked into the parlour, and scarcely before she had sat down, Wickham reported the caller.

  It was one of the dreaded, hated and rarely admired Bow Street Runners who demanded
to see her husband.

  Thoughts raced inside her head uncontrollably. One of their neighbours must have heard the shot and notified the authorities. Annabelle had to receive him and try to dispel his concerns. She very much doubted her ability to deceive a professional investigator, who was experienced in delving into inner-city crimes in the name of the government, but she at least had to try, if her future with Marcus meant anything to her.

  As long as Marcus continued to hide his dark and possibly dubious past, she felt she had no choice but to shield him. Or at least try to, since Annabelle was not certain if she could meet success.

  “Bring him in,” she said. “I will leave it up to you whether or not to serve tea.” Wickham seemed to understand. He had already run the rule over the man. Their visitor’s position was not that of an equal standing, however, it was also not that of a domestic, being instead somewhere in between. There were no nobles among the Runners, but there were men who had good upbringings and knew how to move around in higher circles with a certain confidence. If the man was of this calibre, tea would perhaps gain his goodwill, however, if he was a rough chump, the courtesy of a joined refreshment would only cause his mistrust.

  “Mr Frederick Hawthorne,” Wickham announced the visitor shortly after. Annabelle had deliberately chosen her place by the window, where the afternoon sun did not shine directly into her face. She had the distinct feeling that she needed to be very, very careful during this conversation.

  “Good day, Lady Grandover. I apologise for my intrusion.”

  “Please take a seat, Mr Hawthorne,” Annabelle said and pointed to the seat that was furthest away from her. Not far enough for her liking, but if she did not want to leave him standing during the conversation, she had no other choice. Wickham retreated without closing the door fully behind him. Annabelle saw that the display of distrust from her butler did not escape her visitor’s notice. Prudence was far from sufficient in dealing with Mr Hawthorne, Annabelle thought, and she straightened her posture. “To what do I owe the honour of your unexpected visit?” This much admonition was acceptable, she believed. It would not hurt anything if he thought of her as a smug, headless thing. That might prove to her advantage.