by M C Beaton
“Yes,” he said stiffly. He tried to conjure up Rosamund’s face, but found he could not.
“Do you remember Mr. Temple?” he asked.
“How could I forget?” said Annabelle.
“Then may I counsel you to be careful of any man who suddenly shows an interest in you.”
Annabelle’s eyes flashed with amusement. “My lord, it may amaze you to know that some gentlemen actually do admire me for myself alone and do not have any plots in mind to harm me or strangle me.”
“You are well enough in your way,” he said, studying her. “It is a pity about your mouth.”
“What is up with my mouth?”
“Well, it is a trifle large.”
“Nephew, I beg of you!” cried Miss Davenant, appalled at such rudeness.
“But I, unlike you, am still young,” said Annabelle sweetly, “and do not have one white hair in my head.”
“Neither have I,” snapped the earl.
Annabelle moved toward him. Her hand darted up and tweaked one solitary white hair out of the shining black. “See!” she said triumphantly. “But I should not tease you about your age. I am sure when I become as old as you, I shall be touchy about the subject as well.”
“You jade!” he said laughing. “There, I am still tetchy from the fever, and you must forgive my rudeness.” He smiled down into her eyes and raised her hand, which trembled in his to his lips. Then he stood, still holding her hand, looking at her, while a strong current of feeling seemed to flow from one to the other and back again.
“Do come and look at the leaves,” said Miss Davenant from the window, feeling she must distract them or they would fall to insulting each other again. “So brown and gold, but not red, like in the country. Why is that, do you think?”
“Either the soil or the species of tree,” said the earl absently. “Plane trees do not have red leaves in the autumn.”
“You are holding my hand so tightly, you are hurting it,” said Annabelle breathlessly.
He dropped her hand and said in a husky voice, “I shall call again soon. Just to see how you go on.”
“Well!” gasped Miss Davenant when he had left. “I thought you might be going to strike each other.”
“Infuriating man,” said Annabelle Carruthers.
She tried to forget about the earl that evening and enjoy the sunny and undemanding company of Mr. Westbourne, but somehow the earl’s words about Mr. Temple returned to her, and she studied her masculine companion when he was absorbed in the play.
She noticed that he wore paint, not all that unusual, but odd in so young a man. And then, around his eyes was a fine network of tiny wrinkles. Perhaps he had spent some time in the Peninsula Wars under a hot sun. Then she blamed the earl for having made her overcritical. But she should have shown him more gratitude. What had come across her that she had been so pert and saucy? He had said he would call again, and then she would be all that was meek and modest and proper. Suddenly the full relief of what he had said flooded over her at last. She was still respectable. She would be able to see Matilda and Emma when she arrived. She would be able to entertain Cressida and perhaps go to a few balls and parties, and then by the end of the Little Season, she could put it about discreetly that she was about to go into business.
Perhaps she could even make gowns for Rosamund. But Rosamund! Surely the earl deserved better, thought Annabelle, who a bare half hour before would have told anyone who asked that the earl and Miss Clairmont were well suited. Her thoughts turned this way and that but always came back to that afternoon with the Earl of Darkwood. He had held her hand so tightly. Had he felt that strange current of emotion? Or was he such a practiced rake that he excited any woman he turned his attention on?
She wondered if he thought of her, and then immediately reminded herself that a rich and handsome earl was so feted and petted by the female sex that he probably had put her out of his mind in the same way that he had done so successfully during the long months of summer.
A week passed, and the earl did not call. Annabelle settled down to enjoy her new friendship with Mr. Westbourne. He never said anything very clever or wise, but he was always amiable and very, very flattering. And then one day as they walked in the park, Annabelle having teasingly said that if she did not get any exercise she soon would become fat, he startled her by asking rather abruptly if she were satisfied that her husband’s death had been due to an accident.
She looked up into his guileless blue eyes and said after a little hesitation, “As a matter of fact, Mr. Westbourne, it was not. I cannot explain the circumstances, because they are by way of being a military secret, so do not question me further.”
“There are many things about you that disturb me,” he said, swiping at a bush with his short stick. “You are not related to Darkwood, I believe.”
“No, but he is most kind. The Manor, where I lived with my husband, was next to Delaney, the earl’s home. Darkwood likes to help all those in trouble in the village of Upper Chipping. He also owns the land on which the village is built. He kindly arranged for me to take a house with his aunt as chaperon.”
“But it is rumored that he plans to marry Rosamund Clairmont!”
“So I believe.”
“And so your husband was killed you say? And was the villain brought to justice?”
“Not by the law. He drank poisoned brandy sent to him by one of his colleagues. Now, you must not ask me any more.”
The earl walked slowly through the churchyard of St. James in Wedderston, near Brighton. He was looking for a certain grave. Where had the vicar said it was? Ah, yes, over by the south wall. A chill wind was blowing in from the sea, and red and gold leaves fluttered in front of him over the sheep-cropped grass.
And then he saw it. A tall tombstone stood nearly against the wall. The inscription had been chiseled deep and he could read it easily: “PETER THADIUS JOHN WESTBOURNE, BELOVED SON OF THE LATE JOHN PEREGRINE WESTBOURNE, ESQ. AND HIS WIPE, AMELIA. BORN 1792–DIED 1805. HE SLEEPS IN ABRAHAM’S BOSOM.”
So it was true. Peter Westbourne had been a boy of thirteen when he had died of cholera. The widowed Mrs. Westbourne had gone to live in Italy, but a woman who had worked as housemaid for the Westbournes had told the earl of the death of the boy. There was no other Peter Westbourne.
He wheeled about and hurried through the cemetery.
Annabelle was in danger.
Of course, London was full of adventurers under assumed names, but after the death of Temple, it was too much of a coincidence that Westbourne, or whoever he was, should appear on the scene.
Annabelle was taking tea with Cressida. She had sent a note around to Lady Kitson’s begging Cressida to call. The ladies were alone, Miss Davenant having gone to lie down, saying she felt fatigued after such late nights as they had been keeping.
Cressida thought it was all so romantic that Annabelle should be living with the earl’s aunt. She listened with half-concealed delight as Annabelle told her of being turned out of the town house because Guy had given the deeds to a moneylender and of her having to appeal to the earl. The fact that Annabelle might have suffered dreadfully through these adventures did not strike Cressida, who still looked on life as an extension of the plays constantly acted out in her imagination. But Annabelle did not know this. It was all so comfortable, chatting with Cressida, bringing back fond memories of their times together in the vicarage when they were sewing dresses for that ball.
“It was most kind of him was it not?” breathed Cressida. “’Tis said he has fixed his attention on Rosamund Clairmont, but to my way of thinking, it is a certain Mrs. Carruthers who has taken his eye.”
“No, I assure you,” said Annabelle with a laugh. “In any case, it appears our rake has a heart of gold.”
“And such a handsome and powerful man,” said Cressida. “I do not know what all this talk is about, you know, about him being poorly, for no one has seen any sign of ill health in him.”
“Except I,” s
aid Annabelle, forgetting to be discreet. “I arrived on his doorstep to ask for help just as he was stricken of the fever and had to nurse him through it.”
“In his house!” Cressida’s pale eyes were opened to their fullest.
Annabelle blushed. “I should never have told you. You must not tell a soul, Cressida, or I should be ruined if it got out.”
“No, no,” gasped Cressida. “But his aunt was with you?”
“I am afraid not.”
“How truly exciting! How very, very romantic! Did you bathe his fevered brow?”
“Yes, Cressida, but it was not at all romantic, you must realize, and quite shameful of me to have been there at all. I was in such distress when I was thrown out of my home, I did not know what to do. It was a silly and dangerous move. But, oh, I have such fear of the workhouse, for you must understand that Guy left me with nothing at all.”
“Pale and destitute, standing weeping on his doorstep,” said Cressida half to herself.
Annabelle looked at her in sharp alarm. She had always known Cressida to be a rather scholarly yet sensible girl, for Cressida did not often betray the immature and romantic side of her nature.
Annabelle leaned forward. “I beg you, Cressida, do not breathe a word of this.”
“Have I not just given you my word?” said Cressida huffily.
Annabelle bit her lip. Why on earth had she betrayed herself to Cressida? But before she could ask for further assurances of secrecy, Matilda, Duchess of Hadshire was announced.
Cressida remembered she had promised to read to Lady Kitson and reluctantly left.
“Are you well?” asked Annabelle when they were alone. “You look ill!”
“All paint,” said Matilda with a laugh. “I shall tell you what happened, for when I last left you I went straight to Darkwood to ask him what he was about.”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Annabelle.
“Oh, yes, and he told me he had only pretended to accept you as his mistress. But when I returned home, those servants of my husband had followed me—I took a hack—and reported that I had gone to Darkwood’s town house, and Hadshire had me locked up by that creature of his, Rougement. Nothing but bread and water until I confessed the real reason for my visit. I did not know what to do. I thought out lie after lie for I was mortally tired of bread and water, but nothing would please him. So then I decided to become ill. I painted my face with blanc and put shadows under my eyes with lampblack and let my hair get greasy and lank. Finally Rougement noticed my condition and reported it to Hadshire. So of course he let me out!”
“Why? I do not understand.”
“Because I am part of his art collection. It was almost as bad as if he had discovered damp on one of his paintings because it had been hung in the wrong part of the house. He does not love me, but he likes to choose my jewels and gowns and show me off. He does not like my voice, but as long as I speak as little as possible when we are out, then he is pleased with me as part of his collection. He was suitably appalled and commanded me to take the air immediately and eat as much as possible. It is just as well, dear Annabelle, that my looks can be immediately restored by scrubbing off the paint and lampblack, for he would not put up with damaged goods about him for long. How do you go on? I assume Darkwood told you the good news?”
“Yes, but I am resolved not to live for much longer on his charity. I have agreed to remain his pensioner until the end of the Little Season, and then I shall set up as a dressmaker.”
“Trade!” said Matilda faintly.
“What would you do? You were the one who said I would have been better off finding employment. I am a very good needlewoman.”
“But such drudgery until you can establish yourself! Emma! She will be back soon and will no doubt fund you.”
“No,” said Annabelle quietly. “I would rather work. I am grateful to Darkwood for this temporary security. It has served to restore my spirits almost to what they were before my unfortunate marriage.”
Mr. Westbourne was announced. Matilda looked at him curiously as the introductions were made. As he bent over her hand, she heard a faint creak, and Matilda instantly recognized that creak. Mr. Westbourne wore stays. But he seemed a pleasant and ingenuous fellow and genuinely fond of Annabelle. The shrewd duchess suspected he was much older than he appeared to be and that he owed his figure to stays and his complexion to an artful use of paint, but he was just the sort of man one could be comfortable with, and surely that was what Annabelle needed. Darkwood was out of the question. He was a rake, and in any case, it was well-known he was courting Rosamund Clairmont.
Peter Westbourne was not as sunny-natured as usual as he drove Annabelle to the park the following afternoon. He must find some way of killing her without drawing attention to himself. It was a pity, for he found her rather attractive. But she had betrayed Temple to the authorities, and so she must die. It was part of his code that anyone who betrayed the brotherhood of men who were helping Napoleon must be destroyed as a lesson to others. Once someone had joined their band, there was no escape. Anyone overcome by patriotism or scruples or faintheartedness must be shown what happened to anyone who crossed their path, however innocently. But at the moment, all he could do was keep close to her until he saw an opportunity of killing her that would not incriminate him in any way. He could have told one of his men to do it for him, but he prided himself on handling jobs like these himself. It gave him more power.
Annabelle was too absorbed in her own thoughts to notice his change of manner. She had proudly said she did not like to accept charity, but until she got her dressmaking business going, she would be living on Miss Davenant’s charity. Miss Davenant, on the other hand, would be sorely distressed to be left out of things. And so the thoughts went on and on in Annabelle’s head. Mr. Westbourne’s smart phaeton was moving slowly through Hyde Park.
And then Annabelle saw the earl. He was on horseback, reined in under a stand of trees with several officers mounted beside him. He was scanning the passing carriages.
For some reason the sight of him sent a wave of gladness flooding through Annabelle. “Why there is Darkwood!” she cried.
She pointed with her folded parasol in the earl’s direction. Mr. Westbourne looked. He saw the earl scanning the crowd, but then he saw the officers with him, and the way the earl suddenly, on spotting him, pointed and shouted an order. He went white under his paint. He uttered an oath and whipped up his horses.
“What are you doing?” screamed Annabelle as he swerved off the walk and sent the carriage plunging crazily through the trees.
“You knew,” he said savagely. “I should have killed you long ago.”
“You,” said Annabelle. “You are one of them!”
She twisted around, hanging onto the guardrail. The earl and his officers were gaining on them, but still Mr. Westbourne continued on his headlong course.
Then the earl was alongside. He stood up in the stirrups and plucked Annabelle from the high-perch phaeton as the officers speeded to the front of the phaeton and brought the carriage horses to a plunging, rearing halt.
Mr. Westbourne was dragged out onto the ground and held down. “Take him to Knightsbridge Barracks,” ordered the earl. “I shall join you as soon as I have escorted Mrs. Carruthers home. Quickly! Before a crowd gathers.”
Amazingly no one had followed them to this secluded part of the park.
The earl dismounted and lifted Annabelle gently down from the saddle.
“Are you unharmed?” he asked. “He did not hurt you?”
Annabelle dumbly shook her head. He gathered her in his arms and held her close. “He is a traitor,” he said. “I do not know who he is, but he is not Peter Westbourne. Peter Westbourne died when he was still a boy.” He released her and began to walk with her across the grass, leading his horse and telling her quietly of his journey to Brighton. “I think Westbourne is much older than he tries to appear. He probably comes originally from somewhere near Brighton. We shall soon find out
. Let us pray he was the ringleader and you will be in no further danger.”
Annabelle walked along beside him, still shaken from the fright she had received. “Why did he pretend to be younger than he was?” she asked.
“Vanity, or a desire to do things thoroughly. The real Peter Westbourne would have been twenty-eight had he lived.”
They walked on in silence until Annabelle said, “It is very lowering, you know, to find that one’s beau was only courting one with a view to murder.”
The earl laughed. “When you are over your shock and things have settled down and you can begin to attend some balls and parties, you will find many beaux. I would see you married again, Mrs. Carruthers.”
“I have no wish to be married again,” said Annabelle. “Once was enough.”
“There are many worthy members of the gentry who would make you a suitable husband. This dressmaking idea is nonsense. It is every woman’s role in life to find a husband and bear children.”
“Are all rakes so pompous?” asked Annabelle sweetly.
“I was simply thinking about your welfare, madam, but if you prefer to starve in a garret going blind over a needle, then that is your affair. I only ask you not to embroil my aunt in your mad schemes.”
They continued walking in angry silence until they reached Clarence Square. Annabelle was suddenly angry with herself instead of him. He had ridden to her rescue, and she had never even thanked him. The earl was feeling pompous and middle-aged. Instead of sneering at her bid for independence, he should be encouraging it, offering her money to start her off, and then she could repay him if she wished. He had only been voicing the thoughts about women he had been brought up with. His remarks to her now echoed in his ears, sounding stuffy and uncaring.
She turned and faced him. “My lord,” she said, after taking a deep breath, “I beg you to forgive my burst of temper. I am overwrought. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for having come to my aid.”
“And I apologize for being so insensitive to your plight.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “I must return to the barracks. If possible, I shall call on you this evening and tell you what we have discovered. But all your cares are over. You may run your life as you please. Should you wish to start in business, do so with my help and then repay me if you must.”