Then he’d stumbled across sa proper petite beauté de sommeil, his own little sleeping beauty. Seeing her curled up like Gran’s tabby on the worn Grecian couch, vulnerable in sleep, he’d been lost. The old tale his grandmother had been fond of telling in the nursery had sprung to mind. Somehow, though, he doubted this particular beauty would appreciate being awakened with a kiss.
Apparently having no blanket, she’d covered herself with a woolen pelisse — serviceable but subdued and plain, and not the type of outer garment he’d ever expect Lady Annabella Price to own. It hadn’t covered nearly enough of her. The bolster didn’t seem a fitting resting place for one so fair, but she’d cradled her head on the cylindrical cushion, one hand curled beneath her chin. Her face had been completely at peace, the tiniest of smiles lifting her lips. Golden curls had lain across her forehead, though she’d woven most of her hair into a thick plait that fell over one shoulder.
One… very bare shoulder… with pale ivory skin peeking from beneath the ill-fitting servant’s dress.
How long had he stood there watching her sleep? It had hardly been decent of him, almost as if he’d been assaulting her, though he hadn’t so much as brushed her hair from her face. Not that he hadn’t wanted to… it had taken herculean effort on his part to turn and walk away and leave her to her dreams.
And in that single life-defining moment, Jon had secured a horse and ridden into Haselmere, from where he’d sent a message off with the mail coach. Not the one he should have written, but one that would hopefully purchase a bit of time to get to know the enchanting Lady Annabella Price.
Grey’s sister.
Stepsister, he corrected.
The horse began to step livelier as they drew near to Wyndham Green. Jon took in a long breath of sweet-smelling spring air. He could see why Grey loved the estate, but why the devil had he stayed away?
Well, Seabrook, you know a bit about staying away from places you love, don’t you?
A groom seemed to appear from thin air as Jon pulled Bertha up in the stable yard. He dismounted and gave the horse a pat on the shoulder before the young man led him off.
“Beg pardon, m’lord.”
Jon turned. “Yes?”
A wizened man approached. Thick wrinkles shot out from the corners of his eyes almost all the way to his temples. He waited until he stopped in front of Jon before he spoke.
“My apologies, m’lord, but we was puttin’ up your coach and noticed the left rear wheel is out o’ round. Might not be bad enough so’s you’d notice but I wouldn’t count on it making a trip of any great distance without causing you some difficulty.” He offered an apologetic shrug.
A faulty wheel would certainly explain that jolting trip from Town. At the time, it had seemed likely the roads were suffering from the previous rainy winter. Jon stroked his jaw as he considered his next move. “I don’t suppose you’ve a wheelwright on the estate… er, I’m sorry, what was your name?”
“It’s Toby Johnson, m’lord.” The gnomish man gave a quick bob of his head as he answered. “I ‘ave a man we use in Haselmere as can look at it. I can send a message off to him if you like.”
“Yes, Mr. Johnson, I should like that very much.”
“Straight away, m’lord.”
“Thank you.” With a nod of polite dismissal, Jon set off for the cottage. One of the bawdy sea tunes his grandfather had taught him long ago — much to his mother’s vexation — popped into his head and he began to whistle as he strode along the narrow lane toward the cottage where Annabella waited… And if she wasn’t waiting specifically for him, he could overlook that minor detail.
The wind picked up, its low moan pushing through the wooden eaves of the stone cottage, reinforcing the notion that the weather was about to change for the worse. Jon slowed his steps, his gaze drifting upward. Did he dare hope the roofing slate was intact enough to keep the weather at bay? He could think of nothing more dismal than a leaky stone house in a rain shower.
Another moan rose. Jon’s brow pinched into a frown. Odd… the wind had actually died down.
“O-o-oh-h. U-u-um.”
That was human!
Annabella! Had she somehow been injured? Jon barely felt his feet strike the uneven ground as he raced toward the rear of the cottage. He rounded the corner and pushed through the unbolted servants’ entrance into the kitchen.
And stopped short.
Annabella sat on the three-legged stool, her eyes closed, head thrown back, revealing a pearly expanse of skin beneath the collar of her dull gray dress. Jon crept forward a few steps and leaned closer. She clutched a single bite of golden scone lathered with cream and jam in one hand. A bit of dark purple clung to her lower lip, the remains of blackberry jam, no doubt.
The tip of his tongue tingled with sudden longing to sweep that smear away. Awareness roared through him like a prowling lion.
Without opening her eyes, she popped the bite into her mouth. Another groan spilled from her lips as she chewed, her motions slow, savoring the morsel. Her body softened and she sagged back against the worktable. Pure ecstasy took over her features as she swallowed.
Jon shuffled backward and cleared his throat to announce his presence.
Annabella’s eyes sprung open and she gasped. “Seabrook!” She straightened her back but then pressed herself against the table. “I-I mean, my… lord. I thought you’d left.”
Jon controlled his inclination to smile as he doffed his wide-brimmed hat and set it on the table next to a straw basket. When had that habitual hesitation before she addressed him formally become such a source of amusement? “I accomplished an errand… although I must say I thoroughly enjoyed my ride through the countryside.” He allowed the smile to bloom when his gaze fell on the golden scone peeking out of a linen napkin. “And now I find I’m quite ravenous.”
Annabella shifted on the stool, brushing her arm across the top of the table and grazing the plate sitting there. With a gasp, she scrambled and grabbed for it, but the dish was already tumbling to the floor.
Jon lunged forward, stretching out his hand. The plate landed with a splendid crash, sending shards of fine white china skating across the floor in all directions.
“Oh!” shrieked Annabella, leaping away from one flying sliver. “Just look at—”
Her movement drove her into his palm and Jon instinctively curled his fingers around her right shoulder.
For a moment, her jaw slackened and her eyes grew as wide as saucers. With his forward momentum halted by Annabella’s sweet, soft body, Jon sighed with relief. Her fruity-floral scent wound around him, filled him, provoking his senses until his mind tormented him with wanton images.
“How dare you!” Annabella twisted in his grasp. Delicate fingers curled into his cravat and she yanked. Hard. With her face inches from his, the scent of blackberry combined with lemons and roses.
Those luscious pink lips… they would taste of the berries… and of her. Had she ever been kissed the way he wanted to kiss her? Had she ever been overcome in the throes of passion and—
Annabella twisted her fingers into the cravat, pulling him impossibly closer. His heart skipped a beat. Was she planning to kiss him?
Green eyes flashed. “Do not ever touch me again.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off those pretty pouty lips as she spoke. Not much likelihood I’ll follow that directive. His heart squeezed against his lungs as little darts of excitement raced through him to settle with fluttering heat in his middle. That smear of blackberry beckoned. Jon touched the tip of his tongue to his upper lip.
“You overbearing lout!” Grunting, she gave him a mighty shove.
Locking his knees, Jon stood his ground. Only the table behind her kept Annabella from tumbling backward with the force of her effort. She blinked with surprise as she caught herself, and Jon allowed himself a smile of victory.
Annabella drew in a long breath. “You inglorious, depraved buffoon!”
Jon’s smile stretched into a
grin.
The door slammed shut with a deafening bang. Both of them jumped and Jon spun around.
“What — who was that? Who was there?” Her face had gone the color of ash. She pulled her elbows tightly against her waist as though trying to shrink inside of herself.
Jon stared at the door. Had someone been there? A movement – no more than a faint shadow – passed the window. Frowning, Jon stepped around Annabella, strode to the door with four brisk steps, and yanked it open.
The wind whipped at the leaves on the elm tree across the yard, causing them to spin on their stems. The shrubbery near the door rustled and the long grass near the stone fence bent over and touched the ground. A strong gust tugged at the door in his hand.
No movement, no one in the yard, nothing amiss.
“Well?” Panic lent an edge to Annabella’s voice. “Is someone out there?”
Jon stepped back into the shelter of the cottage and shut the door, taking care to secure the latch before he turned around. “It’s the wind. Quite a storm blowing up.”
But nothing he’d seen in the yard might have chased a shadow across the window.
Annabella seemed to relax by inches, letting out a slow breath, then dropping her arms to her sides and allowing her shoulders to sag.
Was the girl in some sort of trouble? She seemed oblivious to him as he watched her. And her hand trembled when she lifted it to brush her hair from her face. She stared at it for a moment then shook her head and laced her fingers together. Her eyes slid to the side, definitely looking at something.
His gaze followed hers. A flat wooden box stood beneath one of the worktables across the room, shoved tightly against the wall. The coat of arms emblazoned across the top might have been Wyndham’s, but it was hard to discern. In any case, it had been some time since Jon had seen Grey’s family crest. He barely remembered his own family’s coat of arms.
What was in the box? Was she absconding with the family silver, perhaps? The thought of Annabella sneaking around and pilfering bits and pieces of a fortune she couldn’t possibly have need of was just ludicrous enough that it lifted Jon’s mood.
The wind howled against the eaves outside and the glass in the window rattled.
Giving a little jerk, Annabella glared at the panes and straightened her shoulders. But the spirited hoyden had disappeared. Quite suddenly, he missed her.
She turned from the window. “Kindly stop staring at me!” Her forehead pulled together into a frown. “And why must your face always be contorted in that insufferable grin?”
Ah, there she was. With deliberate intent, he met her eyes and widened his grin. “Why must you always wear that dark scowl? It rather makes you look like a troll. Perhaps you should consider hiding under a bridge, waiting for some poor unsuspecting chap to happen by.”
Deep rose rushed into her cheeks and she narrowed her eyes to near slits. “Have you need of something from the kitchen?”
“Not anymore.” Jon retrieved his hat then reached into the basket and snagged the single scone with a wink. As he sauntered from the cooking area, another tune sprung to mind.
Pretty maid with the golden hair,
Come take my hand and climb the stair…
He pursed his lips and began to whistle as he stepped into the hallway.
Something struck the door just as he closed it behind him, the basket from the sound of it. At least her temper had chased that dreadful pallor away. But as he entered the sitting room and sank onto the Grecian couch, her reaction to the slamming outer door troubled him. Of all the reasons Annabella hadn’t gone on to London with her aunts, he had never once considered that she might be in hiding for reasons other than to cause mischief for his friend.
Chapter Six
Brambles clawed her arms and snagged on the sleeves of the gray dress. Even the sturdy material was no match for the determined thorns. Using the slender box as a shield, she pushed some prickly stems aside. But the branch slipped off the polished wood and slapped her left arm. Searing pain exploded from her elbow to her shoulder. Tears sprung to her eyes, and she blinked furiously until the sting cleared.
What an ill-fated excursion her latest scheme was turning out to be. She should have stayed at the cottage, hidden in the scullery to open the wooden case. After all, Seabrook had absented himself on another mysterious outing shortly after tea, leaving her quite alone. Logic told her that Abby wouldn’t return before she delivered supper. Still, something about the way the case had been secreted in the wall… While it piqued her insatiable curiosity, it also stirred a bee’s nest of unease in her middle. She could think of no legitimate reason for its being set there. That alone seemed to call for the utmost caution when investigating its contents.
A branch whipped into her face and she gasped with surprise. Perhaps her decision to travel into the woods had been a bit extreme. She stared at the wall of tangled brush before her. The deer track had long since dwindled to nothing. But surely the secluded thicket where she and Juliet had once played was near. She turned to her right. A hedge of blackberry bushes loomed, delicate white blossoms fluttering in the light breeze. Hope soared. They’d often collected the fat, sweet berries and shared them, laughing at the way the juice stained their lips dark red. She must be close.
At the snap from behind her, Annabella glanced over her shoulder. Had she been followed? She stilled her movements and waited. The leaves overhead whispered in the warm breeze. In the distance, a lark trilled a lonely song. The brook bubbled somewhere ahead. She was definitely on the right trail. She waited a moment longer, but no more twigs snapped, and she didn’t so much as hear a rustle from the tall grass at her feet. Annabella moved forward.
As she slipped between two thick trees growing close together, the sound of the brook grew suddenly stronger. This time when she shoved aside the clutching brambles and pushed through, she stepped into the tiny glade she’d been seeking.
The three flat-topped boulders that resembled a table and two chairs stood off to one side, the bases now partially obscured by lush green grass. Annabella picked her way carefully. If so much as a volemouse scampered across her feet, her courage would desert her.
The largest boulder was dusty, with small bits flaking off in patches, leaving shards of sharp gravel strewn across the top. She brushed at the mess but only managed to dirty her hand. With a shrug, she set the wooden case down. She studied the box for a moment then pulled out a hairpin and jammed it into the simple lock. It took a few tries before she was rewarded by a tiny snick.
Thank you, Juliet, for showing me how to force a lock.
The hinges were stiff but the lid lifted without a sound. Papers fluttered and resettled with a sigh.
Annabella stared. “Banknotes!” She pushed them aside only to reveal more beneath. “Piles of them! There must be hundreds of pounds here. Maybe thousands.”
One-pound notes, ten-pound notes. The case was filled with them. All with different dates and drawn on a handful of different banks. Annabella recognized none of the bank names but that was unsurprising, as she held little interest in financial matters.
She rifled through the notes, frowning. Who on earth would put such an abundance of wealth in the wall of a derelict old cottage? Surely the former tenants wouldn’t have left such a thing, even if they’d had the means to amass such riches.
She peered at the ten-pound note in her hand, drawn on the Salisbury & Shaftesbury Bank, and dated only a few months previously. And another from a bank in Middlesex, dated the previous year. Rose Cottage had fallen into disrepair years before, when her stepfather was still living.
“What is all this?”
As though in answer, a finch tittered at her from the bushes.
And what did it mean that it had been hidden in the wall? Should she return the case to the hiding place so its owner could find it? But once again, that brought up the dilemma of just who the owner might be. She shuffled the bonds again. They all seemed to be made out to “bearer,” so th
at was little help. She pushed more of the papers aside and picked up the last handful. Her eyes fell on a name she recognized. Graeme Roland Dominick Markwythe, Sixth Duke of Wyndham.
“Markwythe!” These were his? It hadn’t been enough that he’d given them the cut? He’d concealed thousands of pounds worth of banknotes in an old cottage whilst she and her mother had suffered in near poverty? Annabella had witnessed her mother struggle to keep Wyndham Green running on ever-dwindling funds. The lines around her eyes and across her forehead had deepened as she’d tried to hide her worry that one day they might end up having to leave their home. “That hateful— Oh!” No curse was adequate for such despicable treatment.
Her ranting raised a grouse from the grass rimming her little glade. She grabbed up all the notes and shoved them back into the case. She had half a mind to storm to London herself and shove the banknotes in his face, demanding answers.
Juliet!
Annabella’s heart jumped into her throat. Of course, if she raced to London with her discovery of Markwythe’s treachery, their own deception would be found out. Juliet would be caught in the middle. Better to bide her time, perhaps use some of the funds to send for “Annabella.”
Abby could help her. She wouldn’t want Juliet to be in trouble, either. Of course, that meant she’d have to confess to the maid what she and Juliet had done and pray Abby held a bit of sympathy — for Juliet at the very least.
Her mind made up to approach Abby, Annabella closed the wooden case, but the top wouldn’t go down. The notes seemed to want to spill over and the lid simply would not lower enough to set the lock. Frowning, she rubbed her hand back and forth, shifting the papers, trying to get the notes to settle into place. When they still wouldn’t fit, she pulled out a wad of them, clutching the notes tightly against the tug of the capricious wind. About halfway down, the reason for the change became apparent. A leather pouch rested in one corner, pushing up some of the notes. The metallic chink as she picked it up captured her full attention and she tugged on the ties. That sounded like…
Kay Springsteen Page 6