Antonia whirled away from the doors and glared at the contents of the elephant-foot umbrella stand as she tried to control her anger.
It was good, after all, that the cane didn’t contain a sword.
As Antonia began to climb the three flights to her room, the stairs creaked their annoyance with her. There must be a root cause to her landlady’s antagonism. She needed to identify it if she wanted to remain in this house. She focused on the essential question— what made Mrs. Hill behave as she did? As an actress, she’d learned the importance of understanding the character she played in order to make her come to life on stage. Perhaps applying the same methods of analyzing a character to Mrs. Hill would help her better understand the woman.
She paused as she reached the first landing and considered Mrs. Hill’s comment about Miss Galloway wasting her life. Had it been a revealing jab? Perhaps it betrayed the true source of her animosity. Could it be that simple? Did she resent the Winter family for stealing her sister away from her?
As she continued her climb, Antonia imagined acting in the role of a betrayed and abandoned sister and then began nodding to herself in rhythm with the creak of the stairs. By the time she reached her bedroom door, she’d developed a much better understanding of Mrs. Hill.
Antonia opened the door to her tiny room and stepped inside. It provided barely enough space for a small bed, a plump chair, a wardrobe, and a dresser.
A sudden jerk of movement from the overstuffed chair near the fireplace caught her eye. The fire had burned to embers, but by the glow of the oil lamp she could still see young Priscilla, the upstairs maid. The girl blinked open her eyes as she stumbled to her feet.
“Good evening, Priscilla.” Antonia slid her cloak from her shoulders and began to examine it. She’d need to brush it off tonight so it would look decent in the daylight tomorrow.
“Evenin’, miss,” she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Your chair is so nice. I fell asleep while I waited for you. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mind. Let’s hurry through this and get you off to bed, shall we?” Most nights, Antonia changed out of her costume at the theater, where one of the dressers helped her. Then she’d don one of her simple gowns for her trip home— one that didn’t require assistance from a dresser or a lady’s maid. However, on nights when she had a special performance, like the soirée tonight, she arranged for Priscilla to help her undress when she returned to her rooms. Most of the women who lived here wore simpler garments and didn’t need this type of help, or if they did, they relied upon one another for assistance. But given Antonia’s late hours, she’d taken to hiring Priscilla to help her.
The girl made quick work of the tiny buttons down the back of her bodice and then untied the corset strings hidden beneath it. It felt marvelous to remove the constricting garment and finally take a deep breath.
“Would you like me to brush out your cloak?” Priscilla asked, examining a stain. “Mrs. Hill keeps some nice clothes brushes in the laundry area. I can take care of it first thing in the morning and leave it in the front hall for you.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
“Good night, miss,” Priscilla said as she slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Antonia locked the door. The small room felt a bit chilly, so she added more fuel to the fire. She hated waking up to a cold room, but it was one of the new realities of life for her. She’d learned, however, that if she stoked the fire just right, the embers would usually last until morning, which made it much easier to coax it back to life.
A thought struck her, sending a cold chill down her spine. If Robert had tracked her movements, would the Russians be able to do so as well? Could she be in danger? She tried to calm her fears. Of course Robert had found her easily. He already knew she’d taken the book. She was simply being overly cautious. He was probably an overly zealous admirer. The Russians would have no way of linking her to the theft.
Would they?
She peered out the window, hardly noticing the small evergreen tree growing in the rain gutter as she tried to make out the street below. It was dark and dreary, especially with the thick layer of fog swathing everything in shapeless cotton fluff. Nothing moved down there, so she snapped shut the drab green curtains with a deft flick of her wrists. Not that curtains would keep the Russians out, but at least they would block some of the morning sunlight.
The chair creaked softly as Antonia sat down and let out a deep sigh. The dark green upholstered chair was her favorite thing about this room. The mattress was so lumpy that whenever she slept on it she ended up tossing and turning throughout the night. The chair was her salvation, and she preferred sleeping in it rather than the bed. She wondered if Mrs. Hill would take it away if she ever admitted how much she liked it. She should probably keep that bit of information to herself.
Antonia stared into the fire, but as she watched the flames dance, they began to reenact the moment when those two men had accosted her. She saw their leering grins. And that flicker of orange reminded her of the hard, hurtful hand that had grabbed her. She rubbed at the ache in her arm. Would she have been able to fight off two men with her knife? Her thoughts skittered away from the idea, not wanting to peek behind that particular curtain.
Antonia closed her eyes and concentrated on Robert.
Lord Wentworth.
Shakespeare had it right. “Good Night, Good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.” Her words seemed to echo in the empty room, mocking her.
A deep flush of shame swept over her. What was she thinking, quoting Juliet while sitting in this lonely room? She didn’t love Robert. The thought was ludicrous. It was simply an infatuation she’d carried forward from childhood.
It wasn’t the first time she’d used thoughts of Robert to help herself drift off to sleep. She’d fallen back into the habit without a conscious decision. He’d been so kind tonight. She wasn’t used to kindness. She’d been on her own for months now, and all the young men who’d formerly trailed after her, declaring their undying love, had fallen away. Nobody wanted someone like her.
Nobody wanted a woman with no name.
Antonia’s eyes snapped open.
Apparently thoughts of Robert weren’t going to work tonight. How would she ever get any sleep if she kept dwelling on her fears?
Antonia stood and lit a taper from the fire and set it to the lamp wick. She turned the knob to adjust the light to give her just enough light to read by and then tossed the taper into the fireplace. Reading a familiar book usually worked to drive away her errant thoughts on nights like this.
She looked at her small collection of novels. A Christmas Carol was one of her favorites, but she didn’t think she could enjoy Mr. Scrooge and his three insomniac spirits tonight. Instead, she picked up a copy of Oliver Twist. Her own life held certain parallels to young Oliver’s, but hers was unfolding in reverse when compared to his.
Oliver had been raised in a life of poverty, but had finally found his proper place in society when he’d been reunited with his family, whereas Antonia been born into wealth and privilege with loving parents. Then they’d been taken from her, and her uncle had cast her out into a life of poverty. She’d been left with nothing but the clothes on her back.
Her uncle had even wanted to take away her name. Winter. In a sense, he had done so simply by making his revelation. He’d later relented, saying they could continue using the surname, but his initial demand still stung like salt on an open wound.
Now, Antonia’s entire future depended upon the book she’d stolen. The key to reclaiming her birthright.
She needed to focus on her goal. She’d come this close before, only to have the Russians steal the book and crush her dreams. She tightened her grip on The Adventures of Oliver Twist as her determination solidified. She refused to lose the church register again.
No one, not even Robert, Earl of Wentworth, would take it from her ever again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Trust yourself, then you will know how to live.
- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
A short time later, Robert jumped down from the hackney. The heavy London mist had seeped into his cloak, leaving it damp, and the ensuing chill sank into his bones. He missed having Antonia tucked next to him in the carriage. They’d kept each other warm.
As he shuffled forward, the overcast sky and the fog conspired to make locating the bottommost step to his home a greater challenge than usual.
The light from the streetlamps provided no help, since their glow couldn’t reach the ground. Fortunately, he could make out his large, ornate front door, so he edged his foot forward until he bumped against the first step. The other steps rose up from the mist like a floating staircase.
Robert heard the sound of an approaching carriage. The thick fog didn’t hinder him. He could identify that particular combination of rattles and hoofbeats anywhere. After all, it was his carriage.
Frederick must be returning home. He’d want to know if Robert had found the thief.
Antonia. His attraction to her couldn’t be ignored. What was he to do with her? Certainly not what he wanted. He could imagine his brother’s reaction if he brought Antonia home and into his bed. Frederick would be justified in ripping him to shreds.
The carriage drew closer. In a flash, Robert crept behind one of the boxwood topiaries in a planter at the foot of the steps and crouched down to conceal his six-foot-one frame.
Once Frederick had become an agent for the Queen, Robert had made it his mission to test him. Frederick needed to develop the habit of constant vigilance— or, at least, that was the excuse Robert gave. Frederick tended to lose himself in his thoughts, and that sort of carelessness could get him killed. It was Robert’s duty to help him sharpen his skills, wasn’t it?
The carriage rolled to a halt. Frederick kicked open the door and heaved himself out. He appeared to avoid grabbing the handhold— probably because of his burns— and stumbled as his foot hit the pavement hidden beneath the fog. “Blast.”
Robert tensed, breathing shallowly so Frederick couldn’t hear him.
Frederick elbowed the door of the carriage shut. He didn’t immediately make his way toward the front door. Instead, he paused and glanced around. Frederick stood silent and still. The only sound came from the water dripping from the eaves.
Did Frederick sense his presence? The bandages on Frederick’s hands seemed to glow in the dim streetlights. The carriage pulled away, resuming its loud rattle and clop as it headed toward the stables.
After a moment, Frederick took a step forward, and his gaze focused on the topiary behind which Robert hid. “I know you’re there,” Frederick said. “I heard your hackney leave, and I can see your top hat.”
Robert stepped out to greet his brother, grinning. “Well done. You’re getting much better at this.”
“I’ve had to. You’ve left me with little choice.”
Robert pushed open the door and Frederick followed him inside. A large round table sat in the center of the foyer and bore a single envelope addressed to Frederick. Robert recognized Daniel’s handwriting. He’d been true to his word and sent Frederick news of the attack. Apparently, Frederick hadn’t been home to read it.
Robert plucked it from the table. “This is for you, but I want to discuss it with you in person. Care to join me for a drink?”
Frederick glanced at the letter and then down at his bandaged hands. He gave a shrug and asked, “Do you mind if we use the drawing room? I could use some help changing these bandages, and the supplies are in there.”
They left their coats and hats in the foyer, and Robert led the way to the drawing room. After his father’s death, it had become his favorite room in Woolsy House, displacing his father’s study in his affections. He’d left that haunted room abandoned for ages. Only in the past year or so had the wood-paneled study started tempting him to spend time there once again. He’d rearranged the furnishings and purchased some new items, making the room his own, but he still hadn’t fully explored it. He wondered if he ever would.
Tonight, the study’s lurking shadows might be difficult to ignore. Fortunately, the drawing room held no similar ghosts to distract him.
The drawing room fireplace still held embers buried in the ashes, so Robert carefully nursed the flames back to life. In the meantime, Frederick lit a taper and used it to light the lamps. As the room grew brighter, Robert spotted his sister Emily's sewing basket and her book sitting near her favorite chair. An unfamiliar sack sat on one of the end tables.
Frederick let out a sharp hiss of pain.
Still crouched in front of the fire, Robert swiveled to look at his brother.
Apparently Frederick had poured measures of Robert’s favorite scotch whiskey into matching tumblers and then tried to pick up a glass in each hand.
“I’ll get those,” Robert said, springing forward and crossing the room to meet his brother.
Frederick took a quick swallow from one of the glasses, grimacing slightly as usual. His response to good whiskey always annoyed Robert, and tonight was no exception. Why contort one’s face in response to something so sublime? Mark it as yet another way he and his brother differed.
“Maybe this will do the trick. My hand started throbbing about a half-hour ago. The effects of the poultice wore off.” He let out a heavy sigh. “We’ve certainly had our share of bad luck. First my hand, then that thief absconding with the book. It’s a wonder so many things went wrong and yet we still managed to escape.”
“Fate?” Robert suggested.
“Perhaps.” Frederick stared pensively toward the fireplace, but half his face remained in shadow.
Robert pulled Daniel’s letter from his jacket pocket. “You should read this.” He held it out to Frederick.
Frederick glanced at the letter and then down at his hands. “Open it, please. I don’t think I can manage.”
Robert tore open the envelope and extracted the folded sheet of paper.
Frederick took it and quickly scanned its contents. “How many men did Revnik send after you?”
“Three. All those years of fencing haven’t gone to waste, but I must admit, if Daniel and his wife hadn’t intervened, I might not be standing here.”
“Lady Huntley?”
He grinned at Frederick’s look of surprise. “She carries a knife.”
“Are you telling me she knows how to use it?”
Robert nodded. “I’d never have guessed. Daniel’s always been clever with a blade. He probably taught her. You should have seen those men’s faces when they realized the lone, unarmed man they attacked had an épée and two knife-wielding friends.”
Frederick didn’t appear amused. “You’re lucky they helped. I’m glad our evening’s bad luck didn’t catch up with you at that moment. Damn that woman.”
“Lady Huntley?”
“Of course not.” He tossed back the remaining contents of his glass with a grimace and let out a sigh of frustration. “I was referring to your little thief. If I ever find out who she is, I’m having her arrested and tried for treason.”
Robert nearly choked on his whiskey. This definitely wasn’t the time to mention he’d identified her. He’d wait until Frederick’s temper cooled. The pain was making him angry.
“Is there any more ice?” Frederick tipped his head toward a silver ice bucket sitting next to the unfamiliar sack.
Robert lifted the container’s lid and peered inside. “A bit, but it’s mostly ice water.”
“Hand it to me.”
Robert passed him the bucket and set the lid on the table. “Did Lady Harrington’s poultice help?” He crossed to the side table to collect the bottle of whiskey and then refilled both their glasses.
“As a matter of fact, yes. For a while, at least. From the moment she applied it, I felt immediate relief. That housekeeper of hers is amazing at mixing herbs,” he said, impatiently unwrapping the ban
dages wound about his hand. “Unfortunately, the effects faded over time.” He plunged his bare hand into the ice bucket. “Ah. Now that feels good.”
It was a good thing the maids always rinsed out the ice bucket when they cleaned each morning. Discovering bits of dried poultice leaves floating in his drink would sour his disposition— not to mention ruining a fine glass of whiskey.
Some of the tension in Frederick’s face eased, but he still appeared wan and overtired. Robert reached a decision. He could manage the situation without his brother’s help— or his interference. After Robert met with Antonia tomorrow, he’d have something more solid to report. With some luck, he might even have the church register.
“You said you wanted me to rebandage your hands?”
Frederick didn’t try to mask his relief. “Do you see the sack on the table? It contains Mrs. Drummer’s poultice-making supplies. I’d planned to ask my valet to prepare it, but since you’re here...”
“You know how to make a poultice?”
Frederick let out a snort of laughter. “Only this particular one. Mrs. Drummer explained each step and then had me recite it back to her. The real trick comes in choosing the right plants.”
“Which ones did she use?” Robert asked. He pulled the bag open, releasing the sharp, green scent of cut leaves.
“Plantain leaves, comfrey leaves, and chickweed.”
“Do I need to know which is which?” Robert asked, pulling out the leaves. On the bottom of the sack, he found a heavy stone bowl and— ah, yes. A pestle. She’d left them a mortar and pestle to use to smash the leaves.
“No. Just mash them together.”
Robert examined them. Mother would have called them all weeds. The wide ones might be plantain leaves. He’d seen them often enough in her garden. She’d deal with them by plucking them from the ground, root and all.
Once Upon a Spy: A Secrets and Seduction Book Page 11