“The purpose of my visit, as you call it, is to speak to your husband. Your butler told me he is not home?” Inordinately interested in one of the herons on the wall covering, he purposefully did not look directly at her.
Annabelle guessed that the tell-tale twitch of her eyes had not slipped his attention. She sighed and giggled girlishly.
“I am afraid Wickham did not tell the whole truth. To be honest, the issue is a rather uncomfortable one. However, as a Bow Street Runner, you are certainly used to the most bizarre of stories, are you not?”
“You cannot imagine all the things I have been told, Lady Grandover.”
“So tell me, why are you here?” Annabelle asked and tried hard to sound especially curious. “Actually no, do not say anything. My father, the Duke of Evesham, has sent you. He has a wicked sense of humour, you know. What did he tell you? That I stole the family jewels?” It had been Annabelle’s plan to muddle the Runner, and she saw that she had succeeded, if only for a moment. Hawthorne looked puzzled. He was younger than Marcus, and therefore probably one of the less experienced officers – how very fortunate! She could hardly have fooled a man of her father’s age with her theatrical performance as the silly little goose. Hawthorne’s youthfulness played right into her hands, much like her ludicrous, straw yellow dress with its thousands of ruffles, in which she looked like a typical young newlywed wife.
“Nobody sends a Bow Street Runner,” he reminded her curtly, evidently ruffled in his pride. “No, I am here for a different reason. We were notified of a gunshot, and I am obliged to investigate a possible capital offence, my Lady. As sorry as I am, I’m afraid I will have to question your husband on this matter.”
Annabelle felt the colour drain from her face, but she quickly recovered and leaned forward. What was she supposed to tell him? She needed a story that was believable and yet ridiculous enough to seem credible to him – right now. To her relief, Wickham chose this moment to enter the room with the tea. Thankful for the diversion, Annabelle watched her butler setting down the tray.
Then, an idea sprang in her mind, and she knew what she was going to tell Hawthorne.
With an impatient gesture of her hand she sent the man out of the room. “Thank you, Wickham. Mr Hawthorne and I do not want to be disturbed.” She did not dare look at her butler directly for fear of giving her plan away.
“Let me guess who made the report. Was it Lord Ainsbury, the randy old devil? Or the Countess of Cirenchester, who doesn’t have anything else to do all day but to spy on other people?”
“My Lady,” Hawthorne replied with a slight undertone of despair in his otherwise pleasant baritone. “I am not allowed to disclose the name of the person who notified us of the shot. Would you now be so kind as to call for your husband so that I can speak to him?”
“The Earl of Grandover is under the weather,” she said and purposefully chose an improper term to remind Hawthorne of the unversed woman she was portraying. She sighed and handed him his tea. Her hands were shaking, but that was not so bad. “To be honest,” she took a deep breath, “my husband is laid up in bed with a bullet wound in his shoulder. The doctor has prescribed him rest. We must not disturb him.”
Hawthorne inhaled sharply. Before he could say anything, Annabelle swiftly continued. “Do you have to arrest me now, Mr Hawthorne?” Tears filled her eyes. “It was I who shot my husband.” In her panic to screen Marcus from his dubious past, she could not think of anything else. Hawthorne stared at her with wide eyes, but what accelerated Annabelle’s heartbeat was not his reaction. It was Marcus, fully dressed, his arm in a sling, entering the parlour. His next words made it hard for her to breathe.
“Yes, Mr Hawthorne, please tell me. Will you arrest my wife for attempted murder?”
If he had not felt so exhausted, Marcus would have, with pleasure, stood by the door a little while longer to eavesdrop on the conversation. Through the small gap in the door, which Wickham had left open, he was unable to see her, but he had the Runner in view. It was enough to hear Annabelle’s voice and watch Mr Hawthorne’s reaction to know that she could have been a first rate actress. She sounded entirely different, excited, and even a little cackling. She really and truly was a woman of many talents!
When he realised how she intended to manoeuvre her way out of the situation, he could not help but smile. How skilfully she had built up her story towards that point where she allegedly fired the weapon herself! First, she named her father, who was well-known, even to a Bow Street Runner, and then she found an explanation for the loud bang of the gun. He did not think that the officer had noticed the slight fear in her voice, but since he wanted to prevent her from exaggerating – like all people did, who were not accustomed to lying – he chose that moment to intervene.
“Yes, Mr Hawthorne, please tell me. Will you arrest my wife for attempted murder?” With a faint feeling of triumph, he watched Annabelle’s face turning towards him, similar to a flower turning towards the sun.
Hawthorne stood up and bowed vigorously. Now that Marcus saw him close up, the signs were unmistakable. His straight posture, the keen gaze from cool eyes, and the ability to hide his astonishment at lightning speed behind an accommodating mask, all pointed to a military background. Marcus had to be careful.
“Can you confirm your wife’s statement, my Lord?”
At least Annabelle had offered him a halfway plausible explanation for his injury, Marcus thought. How embarrassing it would have been if he had had to confess that he had shot himself while cleaning his gun!
“Absolutely,” he confirmed his wife’s statement. “It was a mishap on Lady Grandover’s part. Unfortunately, I am often called away on business, and my new wife is unused to city life. I thought that I would show her how to load and use a small pistol so that she might take some comfort from its nearness when I was not home myself to protect her. Of course, I could not entrust such a weapon or duty to a servant.”
Hawthorne looked as if he at least agreed with that sentiment. Marcus continued, “Early this morning, I told my wife that I would take her to the country in the coming week to try out the pistol. As you are no doubt aware, the London season is coming to an end, and the Glorious Twelfth is not far behind that – a perfect occasion for her to gain some small practice in the country at a time when a stray shot will not be remarked on as it is here in the city.” He looked at Hawthorne, meaningfully, and the Runner actually nodded this time.
“I just wanted to hold it!” Annabelle injected with a small hiccup that might have been the beginning of tears. “My husband said I should be careful, but as he was passing it to me…” she stopped and pressed her handkerchief to her face, in horror, “… it…” she struggled for words.
“It discharged” her husband supplied. “Of course, I blame myself. What man in his right mind hands a woman a loaded pistol so lightly? I can only say that as a newlywed and smitten man, I was prepared to do anything to ensure my wife’s peace of mind, and momentarily, I put good sense and caution aside.”
Annabelle was sure she heard a small noise from outside the door. It sounded suspiciously like an intake of breath. St. John had heard it too, as he moved his position painfully and sighed a little himself.
“A most unfortunate accident indeed,” Hawthorne said slowly as if deciding whether or not to believe it. “Of course, you called for a doctor immediately I assume?”
“Of course,” Marcus concurred. “It is just a flesh wound. It will heal quickly and will serve to remind me of the foolishness that can find its way into even the happiest of marriages.”
There really was no answer the Runner could give to that. St. John’s face had a look of embarrassment overlaid with a finality that closed the matter.
“In that case,” Hawthorne looked over to Annabelle, “I encourage caution in future and ask you to excuse me for interrupting your day.” He turned back to Marcus. “My Lord, I bid you a good day.” He bowed towards Annabelle. “Lady Grandover.”
Wickh
am appeared as if out of nowhere and escorted the Runner outside. As soon as Hawthorne was out of earshot, Annabelle rushed to Marcus and laid her hand on his arm.
“You should not be down here,” she chided him. She looked away and blushed. “But I am grateful that you came to my rescue,” she whispered quietly. “Your story was even better than mine!”
Irresistibly attracted by her sudden timidity, he stepped towards her. Bit by bit, he understood whom he had really married. Annabelle had the heart of a lioness when it came to defend someone who meant something to her. Only when it came to her own needs, she voluntarily stepped into the background.
“Annabelle,” he said and pulled her with him to the sofa. His head felt light. Certainly, that came from the wound and the blood loss or his medication.
“Annabelle,” he said again, tasting her name on his lips. She had sunk onto the hard cushions besides him and made no attempt to remove her hand from his. Underneath his fingertips, he felt her fluttering pulse, like that of an anxious bird, and just as light. The gentle sweep of her upper lip was so seductive, it tempted him to lean in and taste it. Annabelle’s eyes, which were usually a bright emerald green, had darkened. He saw the band of freckles on her immaculate skin and memorised every single one of them. His healthy arm lifted as if by itself, and his hand developed a mind of its own as it lay down in the nape of her neck.
How fragile she suddenly seemed. Mere minutes ago, she had stood up to a Bow Street Runner with defiant bravery, and now she looked at him as if she feared him. Forgotten was the fact that he was supposed to rest, just as he had pushed aside the ache in his shoulder.
“You need to leave this place,” he said.
“Why?” The green in her eyes began to shine, but she did not cry. She put her head onto his chest, incredibly carefully, and after a moment of hesitation, he pressed her against him with his healthy arm.
“I don’t want to go.” She said. “Where am I even supposed to go?”
“To your parents,” he replied and buried his face in her reddish-brown hair. Her head was so perfectly positioned against his shoulder, and her soft body snuggled seamlessly against his as if they were not two beings, but one. It was an emotion of utter fulfilment that he had not felt in a long time. The memory of Matilda appeared in his mind, but unlike previous times, it was not her lifeless eyes staring back at him. Instead, she smiled at him in her own way – a little playfully and with a hint of a challenge written on her face.
Should it be possible? Could he grow old together with the woman he had married, and whom he now held in his arms?
Marcus almost did not dare to breathe.
“Tell me the reason,” Annabelle demanded once more. She lifted her head up from his chest. “I am so tired of these games, St. John. I thought that I would be able to live like this, but I was wrong.”
His mind told him that it was the right thing to do – to let go of Annabelle, to lie to her and send her back to her parents. He wanted to tell her that he hated her, but his heart decided otherwise.
“If you love me, Annabelle, then you must leave my house.”
Chapter 14
Annabelle drew in her breath, as the meaning of his words reached her mind. Her treasonous body reacted even before her head was able to – her knees turned to jelly, her heart skipped a beat, and in front of her eyes, stars danced.
“Do you know what you are asking of me?” She achieved little more than a whisper.
His face was pale, and although he was seated, he looked strained. “I will try and explain,” he began. His eyes wandered searchingly through the room. Without a word, Annabelle rose, poured him a draught of whiskey and handed him the glass. After he drank, Marcus briefly closed his eyes, giving her an opportunity to look at him. Her perception of him had changed, she realized. She no longer saw the coldness, which was undoubtedly still inside him, but a man trying to keep his emotions under control. Patiently, she waited for him to continue.
“For about four years I have been working for the crown in the defence against enemy agents,” he finally explained. Annabelle suppressed an astounded gasp so as not to interrupt him.
“I had lost my brother a few years earlier, who had joined the Austrians against Napoleon. He died at Austerlitz.” Annabelle took his hand and held it tightly. She read from the strain on his face how much it took for him to share this memory with her.
“His body was never recovered. My parents had to bury an empty casket and never got over the loss. My mother died one year later. My father,” he paused, “held on for long enough to watch his second-born son follow in the footsteps of his first-born. He passed away when my feet touched French soil for the first time on a British command.”
She gave him the time he needed before he could go on.
“Back then, I was engaged to be married to a woman whom I had known since childhood. Matilda Trevelyan.” Her heart tightened when she heard how tenderly he spoke the name. Annabelle had not been wrong. He had murmured “Matilda” when he was laid up in his bed, sedated from the opiates. “She was a wonderful woman. Well, really just a girl still. I loved her more than anything and would have given my possessions, my title, and my life for her.”
There was no doubt for Annabelle that Matilda was no longer alive. She felt in every fibre of her heart that Marcus had just revealed to her one of the reasons for his inexplicable behaviour and dismissive attitude towards her.
“One day, I returned to England for a few days to inform my superiors about a growing suspicion of mine. I was certain that I had discovered a double agent, who was working for both sides, the British and the French.”
“It was Greywood, was it not?”
“That is what I thought back then, too. I…” he swallowed and looked directly at Annabelle. “During that time, I worked with him and considered him a friend. I knew that he was reckless and a bon viveur, but I was not aware of the full extent of his depravity until it was too late. He,” Marcus inhaled loudly. “Greywood seduced Matilda and sent her body back to me in her own carriage. She sat… well, it does not matter,” he corrected himself hastily when he saw how Annabelle raised her hand in front of her mouth in shock. She could not even begin to imagine the gruesome picture Marcus had to see, but she felt his pain and anger as if they were her own.
“He had achieved his goal. I was out of my senses, consumed with bitterness and grief, and unable to complete my mission. I cannot tell you what my objective was, but if I had succeeded, it would have led to a lasting victory over Napoleon and with that, peace in all of Europe.” Scorn pulled his mouth into a tight thin line. Annabelle stroked his fingers, hoping that he would feel what she was trying to tell him: that there was nothing he had to reproach himself for. The war against the French parvenu, who had boastfully called himself the Emperor of France, had cost the lives of countless soldiers and civilians. Marcus might not have been successful, but in Annabelle’s eyes, the depth of his emotions made him the most desirable of men.
“And from that moment on you only had one aim,” she said softly. “Vengeance against the man who took Matilda from you.”
“That is correct,” Marcus admitted and leaned back. The uncomfortable sofa was only bearable with a straightened back, which noticeably caused him pain.
“Let us go back upstairs,” Annabelle insisted. “You can lie down while you tell me the rest of the story.” He took her hand, and although he was the injured one, she still felt Marcus giving her strength by his touch.
Upstairs, Finch was nowhere to be seen, so she watched Marcus stretch out on the bed, then spread the blanket over his body herself.
“Sit with me, Annabelle,” he said after she assumed that he had already fallen asleep. He tapped his hand on his side and, after a quick, but firm stumble of her heartbeat, Annabelle went and sat down next to him on his healthy side. He shook his head. “Come here, into my arms. I promise, I won’t harm you.” Marcus assured her with a smile that had a peculiar, almost mesmerizing ef
fect on her – with the difference that it did not soothe her, like his voice, but sent alternately waves of heat and cold chasing through her veins. She tucked herself against his side and felt his strong arm close around her. Every minute she could spend with him before he sent her away, was precious.
“Why did you two bring Greywood here?” Annabelle asked into the silence. Her head rested on his chest, and apart from the steady throbbing of his heart, it was as if they were completely alone in the world. His muscles tensed up, but Annabelle felt secure enough in his arms not to back down this time. “Please tell me how you knew that he was dead. You said you did not kill him, and I believe you,” she assured him hastily. “But it could not have been a coincidence.”
He shifted a little. “Finch was tailing him. When he realised that something was fishy, he notified me.” Marcus pulled his arm tighter around her. “We thought this would be a good opportunity to create uproar behind enemy lines.”
“You mean by hiding the body so that your invisible enemy wondered what happened to Greywood.” She wanted to shake her head, but it was not possible in her current position. “That strategy seems rather extreme as a way to lure someone out from their hiding.”
His limbs were still tense. Annabelle stroked his chest. The intimacy of the gesture made her heart jump a little. When he spoke, she felt the vibration of his voice in his chest.
The Three Evesham Daughters: Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Trilogy Page 13