Practically Wicked (Haverston Family Trilogy #3)

by Alissa Johnson

  “But not as comfortable as it might have been,” he translated with a nod. “I apologize on behalf of our father.”

  “Unnecessary, but accepted, if you need it to be.”

  He frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t, to be honest. I don’t much like the idea of our father’s sins being so easily forgiven.”

  “Shall I be angry with him a little longer, then?” She wasn’t angry with him at all. It was difficult to feel a personal betrayal, having never met the man. But Gideon seemed pleased with the notion, and that had been the point of the offer.

  “I would consider it a personal favor.”

  “The sort I might collect on in the future?” she teased and marveled a little at the wonder of being able to tease. She was constantly reminded of how much had changed for her in so short a time.

  “You may assassinate the character of our next ancestor,” Gideon offered. “How’s that?”

  “Make up a story, do you mean? I don’t think I’d be much good at it.”

  “Won’t know until you try. Give it a go.”

  Rather liking the idea, Anna did as suggested. She was not, as it turned out, a particularly gifted storyteller, but what she lacked in skill she made up for in enthusiasm.

  She took turns with Gideon, slowly making their way down the hall, laying waste to the family tree. Anna might have been content to continue on for hours, but a young maid came hurrying down the hall, a letter in her hand and a flush of red on her cheeks.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, but a letter come for you, miss, while you were out with Lady Winnefred. I were supposed to give it to you earlier, but I plumb forgot.” Round blue eyes shot to Gideon and back again. “I’m dreadful sorry.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. No harm done.” Anna took the letter eagerly. “Would you mind terribly if I read this now?” she asked Gideon sheepishly. “I have been most anxious for news from Mrs. Culpepper.”

  “Not in the least,” he assured her. “I should be off, at any rate. I have neglected my lovely wife for too long.”

  She smiled her thanks, then hastily broke the seal and tore open the letter as the sound of Gideon’s footsteps diminished down the hall. The first line pulled a gasp from her lips.

  The letter was not from Mrs. Culpepper.

  It was a summons from her mother. And it hadn’t come from London. It had been sent from the Bear’s Rest, Codridgeton’s only inn and tavern.

  No. No, no, no.

  “Is everything well, miss?”

  No! “. . . Yes. Yes, quite. A small surprise, that’s all. Thank you, Mary.”

  Anna was vaguely aware of the maid dropping into a quick curtsy before leaving. Her eyes and mind remained fixed on the letter.

  Her initial instinct was to simply write a declining note in return, but Anna knew that would never work. Madame had traveled all the way to Codridgeton to speak with her daughter; she’d not accept a letter in response. She was likely already chomping at the bit in frustration at having her summons ignored for so long. The stroll with Winnefred had been hours ago. Really, it was a small wonder Madame wasn’t pounding on the front doors.

  The image of her mother doing just that sent a chill up Anna’s spine. She could not allow things to come to that.

  Equal parts determined and afraid, Anna crumbled the note in her hand and headed for her chambers for her bonnet and gloves.

  Chapter 20

  The Bear’s Rest was a lively, well-kept establishment that held the dubious distinction of having burned to the ground and been rebuilt on the same spot on four separate occasions over the course of two hundred years. The last reconstruction had taken place less than a decade earlier, but Anna didn’t notice the straight lines of the tavern’s wood frame, nor the evenness of its wood floors.

  She noticed but ignored the curious stares of its patrons when she entered alone and asked to be shown to Mrs. Wrayburn’s room.

  Anna waited for the maid who’d escorted her upstairs to leave before knocking on the door. It opened almost immediately, giving Anna the impression that her mother might have known in advance of her arrival.

  “My darling.” Mrs. Wrayburn stepped out of her room, a whirl of bronze silk and sparkling jewels, with her arms opened wide, as if seeking an embrace. She wasn’t, of course. That would be too, too gauche. She grabbed Anna by the shoulders instead and kissed the air next to Anna’s cheek. “I was beginning to wonder if you would ever come. Come inside, darling. Come inside.”

  Anna allowed her mother to pull her inside the room, but she didn’t wait for the door to be closed again before speaking. “What are you doing here, Madame?”

  Mrs. Wrayburn closed the door with a jeweled hand and gave no indication of recognizing her daughter’s cool demeanor. “At the moment, enjoying the comforts of this fine establishment. Bit more modern than one generally finds outside of London.”

  “Yes, it’s lovely. What do you want?”

  A hint of annoyance flashed across her face. She’d never been as skilled at keeping her composure. She’d never had Mrs. Culpepper as a teacher. “Are we to dispense with the niceties altogether? Very well, I want you to come home immediately.”

  “To Anover House? Absolutely not.”

  “Of course to Anover House. It is your home, after all. And this little”—she waggled her fingers dismissively—“adventure of yours has caused us both enough embarrassment.”

  Anna tipped her chin up. “There is no embarrassment for me. There is nothing wrong in what I am doing. I was invited to Caldwell Manor by the marquess himself.”

  “Invited? By the Marquess of Engsly? Little liar. His sort has nothing to do with our sort.”

  I am not your sort. Should I take a thousand lovers, I will never be your sort. “Do you suppose I showed up at his doorstep unannounced?”

  “Yes. And you must have something hanging over him to have kept you on all this time. What is it?”

  Anna studied her mother a moment, seeking signs of drink or laudanum. “You know why he’s kept me on. We share a father—”

  “Oh, what the devil would he care of that? The ton is lousy with bastards of nobility. It means nothing to them.”

  “It means something to him. To them.”

  “You’d not have come here on the hope that it would. Even you’ve more sense than that.”

  Hoping to avoid any future ugliness, Anna hadn’t mentioned in the letter she’d left behind at Anover House how she’d come to know of her connection to the Haverstons, only that she had. Clearly, however, the time for dissembling had passed. “My father promised to support any offspring that resulted in a union with you. The current marquess, my brother, wishes to honor that debt.”

  “What nonsense is this?”

  “I found letters and—”

  “Letters . . . Between Engsly and myself?” Mrs. Wrayburn gasped dramatically, brought a hand to her heart. “The ones in my sitting room?”

  Anna nearly rolled her eyes. Her mother was fond of acting, but she was dreadful at it. “You already knew.”

  “I most certainly did not,” Mrs. Wrayburn protested, badly. “How dare you go through my things?”

  Anna was suddenly reminded of something her mother had admitted to whilst under the influence of the laudanum.

  I lie for all sorts of reasons. Mostly for my own amusement.

  There was no arguing with that sort of mind-set. “I also dared to find your contract with the marquess.”

  “The contract? . . . Oh, for Christ’s sake. That’s what you’ve over the marquess? The old contract? Idiot child. The debt was paid.”

  “It wasn’t. I saw the letters. I saw the contract.” She didn’t mention the journals. If her mother wished to pretend outrage over that, she’d have to admit she knew of its disappearance.

  “This is what comes from snooping about in my chambers,” Madame chided. “A new contract was agreed upon. He offered a lump sum of eight hundred pounds in lieu of an allowance and I accepted.” She brushed a h
and down her sleeve while a smirk danced on her lips. “Payment was delivered in full.”

  “No . . .” Anna took a small, calming breath. She would not let her mother’s lies get the better of her temper. “I saw the letters and—I heard you. I heard you say the contract had done you little good.”

  “In keeping him. I didn’t want the eight hundred pounds. I wanted your father, the heartless cad. He left the moment he became aware of my condition. Coldhearted, that one.”

  “You’d have made the perfect match,” Anna bit off. “I want to see this new contract.”

  “It was an informal understanding.”

  “You came all this way to tell me a lie?”

  “I came to fetch you home, as I said.”

  “No. Truth or lies, I’ll not be returning to London.” Now that she’d tasted freedom, sampled life beyond Anover House, she could never go back.

  “But . . . Don’t be ridiculous child, where do you think to go?”

  “I have friends now, family who—”

  “I am your family,” her mother snapped. “You belong to me.”

  And there, Anna realized, was the crux of the matter. Mrs. Wrayburn was unwilling to give up one of her possessions.

  “I am not a reticule or jeweled necklace, Madame, nor one of your lapdogs.”

  “For pity’s sake, who has said otherwise? Oh, never mind. This is absurd. Take me to see Engsly, he shall be made to see reason.”

  Oh, dear Lord. The very idea of inflicting Mrs. Wrayburn on Caldwell Manor and its occupants was terrifying. “Not for the promise of ten thousand pounds.”

  Madame’s brow lifted. “No longer good enough for you, am I?”

  Anna took a steadying breath and squashed the urge to continue the argument. There was nothing to be gained from it, no possibility of compromise, understanding, or reconciliation.

  It might be momentarily satisfying to confront her mother with every lie, every blatantly selfish bit of manipulation, but it wouldn’t be worth the inevitable frustration that would follow when her mother simply denied everything.

  She would never apologize for having sent Max away four years ago. She’d likely not even admit to it. Where was the sense in fighting for either?

  Instead, Anna sought the cool, calm façade she had honed over her lifetime. “You may form whatever opinion of me you like and take them back to London in all due haste. What must I do to make you leave?”

  “You are cold, Anna Rees. As cold and heartless as you father—”

  “Indeed. Tell me what it will take, Madame.”

  Mrs. Wrayburn sniffed, her nostrils flaring. “Unlike you, I do not seek out family for payment. Either you return with me to London or I remain in Codridgeton. I daresay the Marquess will look upon your company less favorably if his precious wife is forced to make room for me in her parlor as well.”

  “I daresay the marquess could have you exiled to Australia if it suited him or his wife.”

  Madame brushed that concern away with a careless sweep of her hand. “Too much trouble for him. Easier to send you packing, which he’ll do and quick once he learns the truth of things.”

  “Once he hears your lies, do you mean?”

  “I thought it might come to this. Very well, if it is proof you require . . .” Madame trailed off dramatically and stepped over to the bed to retrieve a stack of letters from a small leather satchel. She handed them to Anna with a smirk. “. . . Here it is then. All the proof you, or the Haverstons, could ask for. Letters between the marquess and myself in which we discuss, and agree upon, the terms of the settlement.”

  Anna snatched the letters out her mother’s hands and opened one at random. To her shock, she discovered that it had been sent from Madame to the late marquess. “How on earth did you acquire these?”

  “The previous Lady Engsly was happy to sell them back to me for a nominal fee,” Madame explained with an indifferent lift of her shoulder. “My affair with the marquess was over long before their marriage, and she was in considerable debt. An opium eater, that one. Now . . .” She took the letters back, stuffed them back in the satchel, and handed the bag to Anna. “You have the night to explain things to the marquess. I want to leave for London by morning. Wear something decent. I can’t be seen traipsing about the countryside with my daughter in rags.”

  Anna shook her head, baffled, horrified, and disgusted. “You gave me this gown.”

  “Not for you to wear in public. Some things aren’t meant for the public. You don’t see me traipsing about in my nightclothes, do you?”

  Nightclothes? There was no response to that, only the growing worry that, perhaps, in her success at keeping her distance from Madame at Anover House, Anna had missed the indications that her mother was growing a little mad.

  She stepped backward, toward the door. Her mother had always been odd, and more than a little mean. But this, all of this, was beyond the pale. “I’m leaving, now.”

  “Yes, of course. I said you could.”

  Anna stopped when she felt the wood of the door against her back. With the satchel gripped in her hand, she spun around and let herself out as fast as she could. The last thing she heard before closing the door behind her was her mother’s voice.

  “I expect to have those letters back, Anna. I expect you to bring everything back.”

  Chapter 21

  Max knew something was wrong the moment Anna walked into the library. She wasn’t hiding and fidgeting as she’d been on the day the Haverstons had arrived, nor sad about the eyes as she’d been when Mrs. Culpepper left. She was stiff as a pole, and paler than he’d ever seen her.

  A sick fear lanced straight through his belly. He reached her in three long strides and took her by the hands. “Something’s happened. What is it?” His eyes raked over her form. “Are you ill? Hurt—?”

  She shook her head stiffly. “No. It’s my mother. She’s in Codridgeton.”

  “Your mother,” he repeated and gave the fear a moment to abate. This wasn’t welcome news, but it was a far cry better than a few of the alternatives that had flashed through his mind. “You’ve had word from her?”

  “I’ve spoken with her.”

  “You went to see her? In Codridgeton? Alone?” He swore ripely when she nodded. “Tell me you had more sense than to walk there.”

  “I borrowed one of the carriages. It wasn’t the best, and I’d have asked first, but . . . I didn’t want to tell anyone where I was going. Besides, Lucien is out with Lilly doing”—she withdrew one of her hands to waggle it in the general direction of the outdoors—“whatever it is a marquess and marchioness do. Settling a dispute, or collecting rent, or I don’t know.”

  “They’re at a neighbor’s. Sweetheart, there was nothing wrong in taking the carriage. You needn’t have asked, except that you shouldn’t have gone alone.”

  “I shouldn’t have left her that blasted note, that’s what I should not have done,” she muttered. “And I shouldn’t have taken Madame’s carriage. We should have taken a mail coach. She’d not have been able to come after me so quickly.”

  “Why has she come? Not to wish you well in person, I presume?”

  “No.” Anna worried her bottom lip, clearly wanting, and not wanting, to tell him more.

  He rubbed the pad of his thumb gently along her knuckles. “What is it, Anna?”

  She looked at him, her fae gray eyes searching his face. “Can I trust you with a secret?”

  You can trust me with anything. The words nearly tripped off his tongue. It was a neat and easy promise, and one he badly wanted to make, in part because he was so desperate to make her happy, and in part because he wanted it to be true.

  But then he thought of Beatrice, standing battered on his front door step, and he was reminded that he was capable of failing those most important to him.

  And so, in the end, what he said was, “Yes.”

  Because he could, if nothing else, he knew he could be trusted with a secret.

  Fortun
ately, it was all Anna seemed to require.

  “Madame . . . Madame says the Engsly estate owes me nothing.” She shook her head. “Nothing. She gave me these.” Her free hand shook as she reached into the leather satchel she had over her shoulder and withdrew a handful of letters. “They’re letters from mother to the late marquess. The marquess’s second wife sold them back to my mother. She says the proof is in here.”

  “All right,” he said carefully and gently took the letters from her. There was a new catch in her voice that made him distinctly uneasy. “We can look through them together if you like.”

  “She’d not have given them to me if she’d lied about the contents.” She stared at the letters with eyes that were beginning to shine. “My father settled with my mother. I came here under false pretenses and now—”

  “No. You came here with information you believed to be accurate in every way. There is a considerable difference.”

  “Not considerable enough. Once Lucien hears of the truth, he’ll . . .” She opened her mouth, closed it.

  “He’ll what?” Max pressed.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know how he’ll react.”

  “Clearly you believe he’ll act poorly, else you’d not be so worried. You should learn to have a little faith in your brother.”

  Her brow lowered in annoyance. “That’s ridiculous. How does one learn faith? That’s a contradiction of—”

  “Have some faith in Lucien,” he amended. Good Lord, the woman did grow argumentative when she was upset.

  “I do,” she returned, but the strength of her conviction was diminished by a sheepish wince. “Truly, I do. Just . . . not as pertains to this. He’ll have every right to be angry. I should have taken better care.”

  Max considered his response carefully. Anna was as tenacious in her misconceptions and worrying as she was in everything else. If she thought the discovery of a journal, a pile of letters, and a signed contract constituted having not taken enough care, it was unlikely she was in the mood to be convinced otherwise.

  Clearly, a new approach was needed.