As she moved to replace the pouch in the case, she brushed aside a handful of notes. Softness whispered against her skin. Surprised, she yanked her hand back then stared at the black velvet bag. Oblong and fat, filled with something of nearly equal proportion, it had been tucked into the case opposite the coins. Annabella lifted the bag and laid it on the stone table. Mindful of the increasing wind, she set the pouch with the coins next to the velvet bag, then quickly replaced the notes and shut the case.
The drawstring bag had been sewn of the finest velvet she’d ever seen. A French fleur-de-lis had been embroidered in golden thread near the center, and under that a single name, Lascombes. Had the bag been brought from France? Surely not, with the war going on. Perhaps her discovery belonged to a refugee of the war?
Her hands shook with excitement as she eased the drawstrings apart. A roundish glass bottle lay cocooned in the velvet. As soon as she pulled it out, the flash of streaky sunlight brought the green glass to life with dancing glints. Corked and waxed, she could only assume the liquid sloshing inside was wine or some other spirit.
She’d never seen wine in a bottle before. Geoffrey had always seen to filling the decanters from the casks in the cellar. She rolled it over. An oval-shaped label, ivory in color, bore the word Bordeaux in blue.
She frowned. Was that a person’s name or the name of the wine? Hadn’t Miss Lucy once told her about French wine? She squinted at the bottle and tried to call up the memory. It had been so long ago, before Papa—
Shaking her head, Annabella pressed her lips together to stop the quiver in her chin. It wasn’t the time to dwell on Papa.
“Think, Annabella. What did Miss Lucy say?”
French vintners sold their wine by the bottle, with labels of blue or gold or silver. Did the colors indicate quality? Or type of wine? Annabella squeezed her eyes shut and tried to picture her old nursery, struggled to remember the things Miss Lucy had taught her. But it was no use. All her memory would supply on the subject had to do with meals and planning the proper wine with each course.
She ran a finger over the wax seal that covered the cork. Her mouth watered at the thought of consuming a civilized glass of wine again. But how did one open such a bottle? Obviously it was a matter of removing the cork that had not only been rammed into the neck of the bottle but then coated with thick burgundy colored wax.
Mayhap she could find a tool at the cottage. She slid the bottle back into its velvet sheath. As she stood, her gaze fell on the case filled with banknotes. It belonged to someone. But to whom? Had Markwythe truly been secreting funds in the wall for some despicable scheme?
“Oh pish!” She shook her head. What a ludicrous thought. The estate and all on it belonged to him. He had no reason to hide funds. And if he wanted to be rid of her and her mother, well… giving them the cut had effectively assured them a miserable life already. Still… Lord Seabrook had come, apparently sent by Markwythe, or at least with his blessing. He seemed to have no particular business. How close were the two men? Could Seabrook be stealing from her stepbrother?
“I wish you were here, Juliet. You were always good at figuring things out.” Annabella sighed wistfully.
The breeze rustled the leaves overhead and seemed to mimic her friend’s silken laughter. She could even imagine what Juliet might say. “Annabella, you chicken brain! You see conspiracy in everything.”
Perhaps she did… and mayhap she was being a silly chicken brain. And yet… Seabrook’s sudden appearance at Wyndham Green, his demand that he stay in the cottage even though it was clearly not guest-worthy… Had he come for the case of banknotes?
She slapped the flat rock. “It’s not making sense!” He’d been there long enough to have retrieved it and taken his leave. She could think of no logical reason why he’d want to stay in that forsaken cottage any longer than necessary.
Unless he didn’t know precisely where the banknotes had been hidden.
The wind blew through the trees again, and Annabella shivered. Sense or no sense, the case wouldn’t be safe at Rose Cottage where Seabrook might lay his hands on it. Annabella scanned the little clearing. She and Juliet had used many hiding places there for their childhood secrets. If just one still existed… A grandfather oak stood off to the side, not quite part of a cluster of beech trees. There! Tall grass had grown up around the base of the old tree, but surely that was the one with the hollow bottom.
She picked her way through the grass, refusing to consider what wild things she might be encountering without realizing it. Voles, spiders… adders. Her heart gave a little jump as something grazed her leg, poking at her through her stocking.
A snake’s fangs!
She closed her eyes, hardly daring to look… but she must. Trembling nearly overcame her as she opened one eye and stared at the ground. A dead, gray stick had become snagged on her stocking. She caught a motion from the corner of her eye. Had something slithered past?
“Stop that!” She wasn’t going die a horrible death. She couldn’t. What would happen to poor Juliet? It took several hard shakes of her leg to loosen the grasp of the branch. By the time it fell off, one of her best stockings had a tear running from her ankle to her knee. Gnashing her teeth, she pressed on, taking slow, careful steps, holding her breath each time she placed her foot on the ground.
When she reached the tree, she used the wooden case to brush aside the blades of grass, and smiled at the rewarding sight of the gaping hole in the trunk. It wasn’t as large as she recalled from her childhood, but it was big enough. She turned the box sideways and slipped it into the opening.
A giggle freed itself as she righted the blades of green against the tree trunk to cover the hole. “Out of the wall and into a tree.”
Rustling near her feet sent Annabella scurrying out of the tall grass. Her gaze fell on the coin pouch and the black velvet bag where she’d left them on the stone table. Her mouth watered at the thought of the wine. She hadn’t dared pinch any of the wine from the decanter Abby had brought with Seabrook’s supper, certain the miserable sot would miss even a swallow. Well, maybe he’d miss the wine from the wall if Markwythe had indeed sent him. But he could hardly say anything to her, could he?
She planted her hands on her hips and lowered her voice. “Pardon me, but did you find a bottle of wine hidden in the wall of the cottage?”
Another giggle slipped out, then another.
No, he couldn’t very well complain — if he was even aware of the wine’s existence. She picked up the bag and slid her arm through the drawstring handle. The coin pouch she secured in the deep pocket of the ugly gray dress. At least it was good for something. None of her pretty gowns and day dresses had such pockets. After a last glance around, she fought her way from the thicket. Tonight, she would have wine with her dinner.
Returning to Rose Cottage went a bit easier. She simply followed the trail of trodden undergrowth. In no time at all, she arrived at the path leading between the main house and the cottage. As she parted the bushes and prepared to step through, voices halted her.
****
Jon hated the sense of dissatisfaction that arose from doing nothing. He preferred to keep busy. That was one reason he’d spent several seasons working in the family’s shipyard in Liverpool. Nothing compared to the satisfaction he’d felt at seeing something sturdy and beautiful take shape beneath his hands.
The waiting game he’d opted to play since discovering the object of his inquiry to be well and safe, if not presently comfortable and happy, held him captive. Restless, he’d paced the confines of the great room in the too-tiny cottage, aware of her, mere yards away, through the door leading into the kitchen. She certainly was going nowhere, and apparently she could fend well for herself in any case. And that meant he could steal a moment away. The ride into Haselmere earlier had cleared his head and settled his restive soul. Another ride held no appeal, particularly since ominous, dark clouds were beginning to assemble on the horizon. However, a walk had seemed feasible.
And he’d enjoyed it right up until he’d returned to spy a burly man peering through one of the rear windows of the cottage. Gray woolen trousers topped shiny black boots, and the tails of his black coat fluttered in the stiffening wind, making him seem a bit too well dressed to be a one of the liverymen or other estate laborer. The fading brown hair poking from beneath his wide-brimmed hat suggested a man of middle years. Whatever he was about, he was so intent on peeking through the window that he appeared ignorant of Jon’s approach.
Had he been responsible for the shadow crossing the window when the door had slammed earlier?
Jon kept his tone interested but cool. “Pardon me. Might I inquire as to your business?”
The man jerked and spun around. “Ah, Lord Seabrook.” He dipped his head in a cordial enough manner, but he wasn’t going out of his way to show respect the way Grey’s servants tended to do. “Sheridan Dawes, Wyndham Green’s estate steward.” His mouth twitched upward in a parody of a smile that never reached his dark, birdlike eyes. No emotion showed in those black pools. Gran would have called them soulless eyes. “I was just by to inquire how you’re getting along.”
Maintaining a bland expression, Jon nodded toward the cottage. “And you thought to find me through a window?”
Dawes cleared his throat several times. He seemed to be having trouble choking out his next lie — for lie it would be. Jon could already see it forming in the man’s eyes. Had he thought them soulless? No, cunning and shrewd, much like a weasel’s, they were.
“My knock went unanswered, and I was attempting to ascertain whether you were about.”
Jon allowed his lips to lift into a cold smile. Spreading his arms, he gestured around the yard. “As you can see, I’ve just returned from a stroll.”
Dawes snapped to attention. “Quite. Well then, I’ll leave you in peace.” He started to move off.
“I find a few things lacking, actually.” Jon narrowed his eyes and pinned the man with a stare. “And I was wondering at the miserable state of the outbuildings, and some of the tenant cottages seem to have recently been abandoned.”
A muscle worked in Dawes’ jaw. “I fear that is something you must take up with the Duke of Wyndham. He is kept well apprised of the state of Wyndham Green, and I merely follow his orders.”
Ahh, there it was. The great untruth. For Grey was no fool. Whatever his reasons for not returning to the estate, he’d never have dishonored his father’s memory by allowing it to fall into ruin.
“Yes, I suppose I shall have to address it with him when I eventually return to London.” Jon moved toward the door, paused, and turned. “In the meantime, the maid who’s been assigned to the cottage… Annie? She does her best but certain basic comforts appear to be missing. Adequate bedding, some candlesticks, that sort of thing.”
Dawes frowned in apparent confusion. “You must mean Abby. Geoffrey told me Abby has been assigned the task of seeing to your needs. I understand you refused the services of a valet. If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll have a word with Geoffrey.”
Jon waved his hand. “No need. Just a few comforts sent over will do. And… I shall be entertaining a guest this evening, so a full supper, service for two, if you please.”
Crimson seeped into Dawes’ face. “I’ll inform the butler,” he managed through thinned lips. “Shall I have him send attendants for the meal as well?”
“Just the meal shall be sufficient, at the customary time.”
Dawes aimed a speculative glance at Jon but hastily averted his eyes. “I’ll see to it, my lord.”
“Very well.” Without affording the steward the courtesy of a backward glance, Jon walked around the side of the house, pulled open the front door, and stepped across the threshold.
As soon as he shut the door, he crossed to the window and watched through the lace curtain as Dawes strode up the path toward the main house. What had he been up to? Looking for Annabella? Were the servants aware of her deception? Certainly, she’d have had help. The lovely Annabella was a lot of things, but self-sufficiency did not seem to number among her talents.
A flash of movement drew his eye to the woods. Jon jerked in surprise as Annabella stepped onto the path, casting a furtive glance in the direction Dawes had gone before hurrying toward the cottage. She disappeared around the side and he knew before long she would enter through the servants’ door.
How curious. She’d almost seemed to be avoiding the estate steward.
Jon shook his head as he stepped away from the window. Not almost. Had. She had been avoiding him.
It seemed the stakes had just been raised in his little game of waiting.
Chapter Seven
“A guest?”
Annabella stared at the veritable feast as Abby set it out on the worktable next to a stack of fresh table linens. Roasted grouse lay heaped on a giant serving platter. Dark, crusty bread peeked from beneath its linen wrapping in a silver wire basket. Abby lifted the cover off one of the silver serving dishes to reveal asparagus tips smothered in creamy sauce. Why, ‘twas enough for a king. For several kings, actually. It put the paltry meal of cheese and bread she planned to eat later to shame.
“Yes, m’lady. His lordship asked for a proper dinner so’s he could entertain a guest tonight.” She glanced over her shoulder then lowered her voice and continued. “There’s talk ‘e might be entertainin’ a lady.” She set out two crystal decanters of wine.
“A lady!” Annabella released a harsh laugh. “Where on earth would he find a lady to… entertain?” And why should she care? So long as she didn’t have to serve the two of them… Wait. Someone would have to serve them. “Will… um, will Geoffrey be attending to them at this dinner?”
“No, m’lady.” Again Abby cast a fleeting look at the door from the kitchen. “He specifically requested no one be in attendance. That’s why the talk, you see.”
Did Seabrook know someone in the country? Or had he met her on his foray into Haselmere? Certainly, no shortage of eligible females existed, but Annabella couldn’t think of one who would attend a private dinner without a chaperone. Perhaps that explained the abundance of food, though, and the servants had it wrong. “Has he—” She cleared the hoarseness from her dry throat. “Has he dispatched a carriage to retrieve his guest, or do you suppose she’ll have a driver?”
Abby’s face clouded over with her frown. “I can’t say, m’lady. Stephen heard talk about a carriage in the stable earlier, but that’s all I know.” She gathered the linens in her arms and hurried toward the door to the great room.
“Stop!” Annabella’s heart thudded against her chest. “Where are you going?”
Abby angled her head, a bemused expression on her face. “I need to set the dinner table, m’lady.”
“No!” The word slipped out of its own accord. Seabrook was somewhere about. Although he was undoubtedly aware his meals were being delivered, she didn’t want him seeing Abby, talking to her, asking questions… “I’ll see to the table.”
Abby giggled. “M’lady?”
Irritation flashed to the surface. “What? You think I cannot properly set a supper table? I’ve certainly eaten at one my entire life.” Annabella stalked across the room and stepped around Abby, blocking the entrance to the rest of the house.
“Yes — I mean no, m’lady…” A visible tremor enveloped the maid. “That is…” With a sigh, she held out the linens. “The corners must be folded so they drape just so and don’t poke outward.”
“I shall figure it out.” Annabella grasped the table linens, surprised at their weight.
“The ivory lace goes on top of the white cloth,” explained Abby. “Shall I set out the silver?” She gestured to the mahogany case sitting on the worktable. “Florrie was instructed to come early in the morning to clear the dinner.”
Annabella blinked back her confusion and raised an eyebrow. “Florrie?”
Pink suffused Abby’s cheeks. “One of the scullery maids, m’lady. She is to clear the
meal and wash the dishes.”
Setting the table for Seabrook and his guest was one thing. Clearing and washing his supper dishes was quite another. Annabella sighed. “Very well. Please ask her to come at first light.” With any luck, Seabrook wouldn’t awaken until much later and the scullery maid would be long gone.
She turned and opened the door, sparing a moment to peer cautiously into the great room. Late afternoon sun poured through the window and splashed across the blackened hearth. The worn furniture appeared even worse in the harsh light. Whomever Seabrook had invited certainly wouldn’t be impressed at the threadbare state of the chairs or the deep gouges in the oak tables. Would she seat herself in the chair with the cracked leg? Or would Seabrook command that honor? Annabella snickered. Either way, it seemed a pity she wouldn’t be there to see the chair collapse, sending its occupant to the floor. She swept her gaze around the rest of the room and eased out the breath she’d been holding.
All was quiet. No hulking figure loomed on the stairs or hovered by the sparkling window. She halted abruptly and stared at the glass that had once been dingy, coated with grimy soot. The heavy draperies had been drawn open, revealing the garden outside. The deep green of the trees contrasted against the brilliant blue of the sky. When had the streaks on the window been washed away?
Her eyes fell on the drum table. The wood had been polished until it gleamed. She glanced at the floor, seeking the footprints in the dust. Perhaps they would reveal who had been in there cleaning. But the planks had been swept. Who had been in the cottage? When? True enough, she’d kept herself hidden in the kitchen but she’d not heard a sound. A shiver worked along her spine.
With her heart lodged in her throat, Annabella dropped the linens on the dining room table. Slowly, still staring at the changes in the tidied room, she backed away, and then turned and raced for the kitchen.
“Abby! Who was here…?”
The maid was gone. The silverware case had been left open next to the meal waiting on the worktable.
Something Like a Lady Page 7