by Kim Bowman
Modesty warred with her newfound self-confidence. Surely he wouldn’t expect her to dress in front of him. For all her aplomb when teasing her husband about Lady Godiva, the thought of actually following through on any of it intimidated her.
He moved his hand, and she jerked. Was he going to yank the cover away from her? She stared, holding her breath. But he only laid her nightdress and dressing gown across the bed, turned, and walked away. At the door through which he’d just entered, he paused without looking back. “Chocolate and pastries out here. I thought a private breakfast upstairs was in order.” Then he glanced over his shoulder and winked. “I’ve also given instructions that we not be disturbed until further notice.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jon sat forward in the desk chair and studied the papers Mr. Webber’s assistant had delivered only that morning. All he had to do was affix his signature and provide his solicitor with proof of his marriage. Right. Annabella’s marriage lines. He had yet to have that particular conversation with her. He took up the quill and poised it over the line, but still he hesitated.
Why was he suddenly finding it so blasted difficult to sign his ruddy name?
He tossed the pen on top of the papers, stood, and prowled the floor of the study. Did a wild animal feel similarly when thrust into a cage? He wasn’t trapped, so why should he feel as though the room had suddenly sprung bars? He stalked to the window and peered out.
Gran and Annabella had gone off to practice archery an hour earlier. Apparently, his grandmother felt the need to prepare his wife for her next tournament — even though it wouldn’t happen until the hottest part of the summer passed.
Had it been up to him, they’d have spent an entire decadent day discovering all the little secrets of the newly married. He should take her on a proper honeymoon — away from archery ranges and the prying eyes of family members.
And wills with outrageous demands.
Afternoon sun flashed on a cluster of white lilies growing in the midst of a patch of purple larkspur. The snowy plant seemed to beckon — the extraordinary standing out among the ordinary. That was Annabella.
Their night of passion had exceeded his every expectation save one. But then, he’d always known he’d never get enough of her. Her responsiveness and her daring abandon would have been shocking had he not already been acutely aware of her fiery spirit. A smile lifted his mouth, and thoughts of his wife gladdened his heart. Her shyness in the light of day had been unexpected and had tickled him to his soul.
He turned from the window as the memory faded. He knew what the problem was. For all his bravado when defending his actions to Gran, he knew Annabella should have been told about the will. As far as he was concerned, the point was moot. If no clause, no inheritance existed… he’d still want Annabella. He loved her. It was that simple.
But now, thanks to his grandfather’s belief that he’d never marry without some financial enticement, he was in a position to collect on his estate by virtue of his marriage to a suitable wife. That he’d married a woman he’d fallen deeply in love with didn’t matter a whit to any of it.
It shouldn’t have been a problem.
But it was. Because he loved Annabella, collecting his inheritance suddenly felt a bit like using her as a means to an end. He could, of course, decline to claim it, but that would be insane. Not only were the funds rightfully his, they would set him and Annabella up for a life of comfort. Of course he could provide for her without it, but they would be far more secure if he simply did the prudent thing and signed those ridiculous papers. Surely Annabella deserved all the finest in life, no matter how it came to them.
Of course, it all would have been easier had he just shared the information with her at the outset. But he hadn’t. The opportunity simply had never presented itself.
So why not tell her now?
He rubbed his forehead with one hand. That was the answer, of course. He had to tell her. She’d likely be mildly offended at his grandfather’s mention of a well-bred woman… But he could tease her out of her temper. And once she was aware and they’d had a good laugh together, he’d be free to accept the payment and begin building their future. Sighing, he stepped to the desk and lifted his black wool coat from the chair back.
The soft knock on the door brought his head up with a snap. Had she come looking for him? No… she’d not bother with knocking.
“Yes, come in,” he called.
Marie, Annabella’s maid, stepped into the room. Her face bore a strong resemblance to the ashes in the hearth, and her wide blue eyes darted about the room before settling on him.
“Sorry to trouble you, m’lord…” She twisted her hands together, drawing his attention to a long drawstring bag made of black velvet that she clutched. A French fleur-de-lis in shining gold had been embroidered midway down, and beneath that, a name. He strained to make it out. Lascombes.
“What is it, Marie?” he asked, taking care to speak in a gentle tone. Given the maid’s nervous state, perhaps the French themselves had delivered the velvet bag.
“I was cleaning your — that is, Lady Seabrook’s room as instructed… looking for the spiders, you know.” She sighed and glanced around the room. Then she lowered her voice and continued. “Mrs. Miller and I — we turned the mattress because them mouse spiders like to hide in the cracks.”
Jon raised an eyebrow, growing impatient for the story to reach its conclusion.
“We found this under the mattress, m’lord.” She trembled so badly the bag began madly swinging to and fro.
Jon scooped it out of the air. It wasn’t heavy so much as bulky. Stuffed with something. He shook it but nothing stirred. Probably not family silver or jewels then. He set it on his desk.
“We didn’t open it, m’lord! But this was shoved into the top, and it fell out.” Marie pulled a folded piece of paper from the deep pocket of her uniform. “We — Mrs. Miller and I — we don’t know as to whether we should tell Lady Seabrook or just put it back where we found it… Mr. Franklin has run an errand so Mr. Carson thought I should bring it to you straightaway.”
Jon accepted the note with a murmured thanks, perplexed. No one else had stayed in his rooms as far as he knew, and the bag was not his. So the odds of it belonging to someone other than Annabella were slim. He glanced at the paper the maid had passed to him.
Juliet had been written in tidy script across the middle.
His heart slammed against his chest. “Thank you, Marie. I’ll see to this.”
The poor girl offered a quick curtsey and fled from the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Jon scratched his chin as he stared at the folded letter. It wasn’t sealed. She’d never know if he read it.
I’d know.
He had no way of deducing when she’d written it, but in any case, it wasn’t addressed to him, and he trusted his wife. He dropped the letter on top of the papers from Webber. The velvet bag with the gold fleur-de-lis puzzled him. He’d seen bags like it before, usually containing fine French wine, and once given as gifts to those who hosted house parties. Of course, with the advent of the war, that practice had ceased. He took up the bag. It looked far too new to be a remnant left over from the days when French wine might be a welcome offering.
The wine Annabella had foxed herself on had been French. He’d barely paid attention to the label — might it have been Lascombes? Was that where she had acquired the wine then? Curiosity ate at his conscience, but he set it aside as merely another matter to discuss and clear up between them.
Finally, he shook his head and picked up the letter. Opening the bag was as easy as stretching the drawstring. But when he started to slip the letter into the long neck, it caught on whatever was inside. Papers of some kind, from the feel. He stretched the opening wider and shook his head. The way they were all jammed in there left little room for anything else. It would be easier to dump the lot out and straighten everything then put it all back.
He tipped the
bag. A folded piece of paper fluttered down to the desk. Ah! The marriage lines. He plucked it from the desk and dropped it onto the stack of papers from Webber. Then he shook the rest of the contents over his desk and jerked to a halt, staring.
Banknotes. What must be hundreds of pounds. He selected one from the top of the pile. Graeme Markwythe, Duke of Wyndham had been carefully scribed onto the payment line. The next was marked in a similar fashion. Another was made out simply to Bearer.
Frowning in confusion, Jon raked a hand through his hair. If Grey possessed such funds, why was Wyndham Green in its horrible state? And how the devil had Annabella ended up with the lot?
Unless Grey didn’t know he had the funds. And Annabella or her mother had—
Ludicrous thoughts! All of them. The explanation would be perfectly simple — an allowance of some sort, perhaps.
He gaze fell on the letter. If the explanation was contained in that, mayhap he could put the matter to rest without troubling her. Before he could talk himself out of it, he unfolded the paper and smoothed it on the desk. It wasn’t a long missive, and it bore no date.
My dearest Juliet,
Please forgive me for not sending for you as we’d planned and for the delay in getting you this message. Things went horribly wrong after you left, and I find myself in a bit of a predicament involving the Earl of Seabrook. I do not know if you will recall, but apparently you met the man at a dinner held in my honor. He arrived at Wyndham Green shortly after that night, sent, according to him, at the behest of Markwythe to inquire as to my welfare. We have been found out, I’m afraid. Markwythe knows you are not I.
Lord Seabrook assures me that my stepbrother wishes you no harm and that he does not know your true identity. Lord Seabrook has brought me to his home in Coventry, and I do not know when I shall be able to get away. I am sending you funds so that you may leave London and return to Wyndham Green, and if all goes well, I hope to meet you there soon. Take care, my darling, and please leave London posthaste for your own good. I shall see you shortly, as soon as I can slip away from Lord Seabrook’s care.
With my Love,
Your humble friend A.
Bile rose, but the burn in his throat was a minor irritation compared to the hot knife that had just sliced open his heart. He couldn’t have read it right. Jon rubbed his eyes and started over. The words hadn’t changed.
After their night together, he’d been so certain… But the banknotes, so obviously not belonging to Annabella, yet in her possession. A message to her accomplice warning her to leave London. He didn’t know when she’d written it, but her words seemed fairly incriminating. Could the plot she’d hatched with the maid have been deeper than she’d alluded to?
No! Jon gathered the banknotes, unconsciously arranging them into piles by denomination. I trust her. She has an explanation, and I’ll wait for it. Once the banknotes were neatly stacked, they slid easily into the velvet bag. He slipped the letter to Juliet in on top and drew the string closed.
Frantic pounding on the door startled him.
“Yes? Come,” he called out as he placed the velvet bag in the bottom desk drawer for safekeeping. A little extra security seemed in order so he locked the drawer and pocketed the key. Then he looked up.
“Beg pardon, m’lord…” Red-faced and panting, Ernest stood braced against the doorframe.
“Ernest?” Jon’s heart lurched into his throat and he jumped to his feet. “Is something amiss? An— Lady Seabrook?” An ugly picture of Annabella lying injured — or worse — on the archery range rose, but he squashed it and waited.
“No, m’lord. ‘Tis Mr. Houghton.” Ernest panted and swallowed hard. “He’s got a ewe in lamb what’s having trouble. I tried to find Mr. Mosely in the stables, but this is his half-day.”
Relief weakened Jon’s knees. He drew a steadying breath. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Mr. Houghton says the lamb’s likely stuck. The ewe’s been down going on two days.”
A frown pinched Jon’s forehead. Two days was a bit long. There might be no hope for the lamb, but mayhap the ewe could be saved. One life saved was better than none. Jon buttoned his coat as he walked to the door, considering his options. He’d been a boy no more than Ernest’s age when his grandfather had insisted he work with the sheepherders. Cyril Houghton was far more experienced. He’d have tried everything before asking for help.
“Is Beecham in the stables?” he asked as he pulled the door shut and directed Ernest toward the back of the hall. The groom had come from a long family of sheep folk. The fact that he preferred equines wouldn’t prevent him from assisting. Jon had a feeling they’d need all the help they could get.
~~~~
Annabella watched the arrow bounce off the target and land in the grass off to the side. Shaking her head, she stepped away from the archeria and rested her bow against the stone battlement. “It certainly is different shooting from on high.”
She’d probably never be able to hit a target from such a vantage point the way Gran did, but she enjoyed their time in the tower more than on the archery range. Something about the bird’s eye view on the world appealed, but it was more than that. On the calmest of days, a steady wind whistled through the archers’ slots in the stone, a musical, mesmerizing, mystical sound.
Gran stepped away from the archeria and set her bow next to Annabella’s.
“I find the challenge of shooting from up here sharpens my skills.” She leaned forward and peered into Annabella’s face. “But I suspect you get something else from our visits here.”
“It’s the whispers…” Embarrassment flooded her face with heat. “I suppose that sounds mad. I sometimes think the sighs of the wind sound like people talking, and I imagine the warriors who did battle up here.”
Gran’s mouth fell open. Staring as though she were seeing Annabella for the first time, she advanced a step. Wonderful, now she’ll know you’ve gone insane.
“You hear them, too?” asked the dowager after a lengthy silence. “I thought I was the only one.”
Gran knew what she was talking about! Mute with shock, Annabella could only nod.
“Jonathan thinks I’m quite mad, you know, so I don’t talk about them.”
“Yes… yes, he’s quite practical, really, isn’t he?” mused Annabella, leaning against the wall. “Not particularly imaginative.” Well, except in ways she wasn’t going to discuss with his grandmother.
Gran shot her hand out and cupped Annabella’s chin, searching her face with deep intensity. Then she let go and stepped back with a satisfied smile. “So… you and my grandson managed to work matters through.”
With a gasp, Annabella turned away, presenting her face to the cooling breeze before her head erupted in flames.
“I always had confidence you would.” Gran chuckled softly. “But why are you up here with an old woman when you and your husband should be planning your delayed honeymoon?”
Oh, please, just shoot me with an arrow! Whatever had happened to the contentious dowager who missed her shots with discussion of delicate matters? Annabella buried her face in her hands and shook her head. When she looked up, Gran’s warm smile greeted her.
“Welcome to the family, Lady Seabrook. Now, where has Lord Seabrook taken himself off to?”
“H-he’s in his study. He said he had some papers from his solicitor to go over.”
Something flickered in Gran’s eyes, and her smile dimmed a bit. “Pish. Paperwork can wait. Go find him and have him walk with you in the gardens. The fragrant lilies are blooming particularly well this season.”
Annabella wasn’t certain about the walk, but finding Jon suddenly seemed a wonderful notion. Gran gave her a little nudge. It was all the encouragement Annabella needed.
Giddy, she raced down the spiraling stone steps, moving so quickly she was dizzy when she reached the bottom. Through the salon she ran, uncaring of the startled cry from the maid dusting the tables there.
Past the ornate stai
rcase… into the hall of weapons and portraits…
The door at the end of the hallway was closed. Ignoring propriety, Annabella lifted the latch and pushed it open without knocking. “Jon?”
The room was vacant. Annabella halted in the center and twirled slowly in case for some unknown reason he might be climbing the bookcases. Her headlong race to be with her husband caught up with her, and she stood gasping for breath and pondering the puzzle of his whereabouts.
She poured herself a splash of wine from the decanter on the sideboard, sniffed, and took a sip. Madeira. She might have known. As her breathing began to return to normal, she wandered to the desk. So much had happened since her first foray into the study… She’d been a child then… and a part of her would always be childlike, she supposed. But she was a woman now, grown and… married.
A soft knock on the study door pulled Annabella from her thoughts. Curious, she walked to the door and opened.
A footman stood on the other side.
“Yes?” she asked, wishing she knew the man’s name. She should know the servants’ names, shouldn’t she? In order to properly run a household?
“A gentleman has called, asking to see you, my lady,” announced the footman. “He’s been shown to the main parlor.”
Someone was paying her a call? Annabella blinked, surprised. “Thank you. I’ll be there directly.”
As the footman vanished down the hall, she wound her hair onto her head and rearranged the pins. She probably looked a fright, but at least she could appear a bit like a lady ought to.
Drawing in a fortifying breath, she straightened her spine and walked to the parlor. Her gaze found the waiting caller, and a chill spread through her body. Weasel Face.
“Mr. Dawes.” A ball of apprehension pooled in her stomach, making her nauseous. Annabella prayed it was because of how uneasy she always felt in the presence of Sheridan Dawes and not because something was amiss.