Her Secret Lover

by Sara Bennett

  “No, I’m sorry, I haven’t been able to discover the wretch.”

  She was so relieved, she only just remembered not to let him see her emotion. “But…you are still looking?”

  “Of course. It is my job as magistrate to see that justice is done.”

  At that moment Mrs. Wonicot brought in a tray with tea and cakes, and was duly complimented by Sir James. He seemed to be on good terms with her, and although unsurprised, Antoinette was certain it was not because he was friends with Lord Appleby. The two men were worlds apart.

  “You knew Sir John Langley?” she ventured, when the housekeeper had gone.

  “Yes.” He looked surprised. “A grand old gentleman.”

  “He seems to have been well regarded. Did he have any family?”

  Sir James hesitated, but when he spoke his voice was even and without subterfuge. “There was the daughter, Priscilla. She never married and went a little odd. She used to concoct all sorts of herbal remedies for the villagers. Then there was a son, Adam. I haven’t seen him for a very long time.”

  “How old would Adam be now?” she inquired.

  “Oh, fifty years and more, I should say. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. Curiosity, I suppose. So there were no other children here? No other family members who made this their home?”

  Sir James tapped his cheek. “Children? I suppose some of the servants had children, and the tenants.” He gave her an innocent look.

  Antoinette gave up. If the highwayman was telling the truth, and had walked the maze as a child, then she wouldn’t discover his identity from Sir James. She hadn’t seen her lover since he tricked her into the maze and pleasured her so thoroughly, but she intended to question him the next time.

  “And now Lord Appleby is the owner of Wexmoor Manor,” Antoinette said quietly, watching Sir James’s face.

  His smile didn’t shift. “He is. Quite a prize, having such an important and wealthy man moving down here. We’re hoping he will interest himself in local affairs.”

  Antoinette smiled back, but she didn’t believe him. He was lying. Everyone at Wexmoor Manor was lying, and they couldn’t all be in league with Lord Appleby.

  When the tea was poured and cake offered, Sir James leaned forward and said, “You seem more content than you did when you last visited me. I hope you are recovered from your, eh, shock. It would be a shame if it spoiled your stay here.”

  “A great shame.” Antoinette sipped her tea.

  “Have you been inside the maze yet?”

  Her cup and saucer rattled. Did he know? But how could he? She and her lover had been alone, lost in ecstasy, or so she’d thought. In truth she’d been so caught up in the moment, the Coldstream Guards could have marched through the maze and she wouldn’t have noticed.

  “I—I believe it is difficult to find your way out again.” She tried to brazen it out.

  “Well, yes, so it is. You need a guide, Miss Dupre.”

  “Can you recommend someone?” she asked sweetly.

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again. The name in his mouth was the one she wanted to hear, and she knew it as positively as she knew her own name.

  The identity of the highwayman.

  Chapter 21

  Gingerly, Lord Appleby took hold of the single sheet of paper by one corner. The writing was blotted and smudged and so poor as to be barely legible, but it was surprising how many of his customers had poor literacy skills. Some of the wealthiest men in the land could barely pen two sentences.

  He began to read.

  At first he couldn’t accept what he was seeing, so he read it again, slowly and carefully. The letter was from a servant at Wexmoor Manor, and she declined to give her name. She was a woman wronged, according to her own description. Her lover had fallen in love with Antoinette Dupre. She begged His Lordship to remove his mistress and to punish her for her immoral behavior. Wasn’t she supposed to be true to only him?

  The question was rhetorical, it seemed, because when he turned the page over, to see if he could find an answer, he couldn’t.

  His face darkened and the paper crackled as he tightened his fist. He sat staring at nothing, reliving the moment when Antoinette refused his offer. She’d been polite about it, trying to disguise her shock and disgust, but he’d seen how she really felt. He knew it was that insult as much as her fortune that was now driving him into an enforced marriage. How dare she act as if she was better than he!

  She’d taken a lover.

  It made his blood boil.

  She’d refused him, and now she’d given herself to a nobody. Hardly the actions of a lady, and yet that was what he’d believed her to be. His visits to her home in Surrey, the way she conducted herself there, her affection for her sister…Appleby had been impressed and hopeful that a happy marriage with such a woman might be possible.

  Her uncle had certainly thought her a remarkable specimen of womanhood. Appleby remembered Jerome raving on endlessly one afternoon at their club in London. It was Jerome’s description of the Dupre fortune that first caught his attention and caused him to begin circling the two sisters. At that time he had other possibilities in mind, but his need for money was becoming critical, and the other heiresses he’d chosen were either surrounded by too many watchful relatives, or were too well known. Orphaned and living quietly, the Dupre girls seemed perfect for his purposes.

  He couldn’t change his mind now; it was too late. Appleby knew he had no option but to go ahead with his plan. But could he still marry Antoinette if she had taken a lover? Could he stomach soiled goods?

  He looked down at the letter, crumpled in his fist, and began to straighten out the thick paper. He worked methodically, patiently, as he did everything, and as he worked he knew he could still wed Antoinette. In fact her bad behavior made it seem as if he was doing her a good turn by marrying her and scotching any scandal. And if she didn’t like it, if she kicked up a fuss, people would think her ungrateful. Of course if she had developed a taste for low-class men…no, he couldn’t tolerate that. He’d wait until he had her fortune in his grasp, and then he’d deal with her.

  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t dealt with an inconvenient wife before.

  His mind made up, Lord Appleby rang for his secretary. He’d leave tonight to go and fetch Antoinette back to London and he would do it personally. If he took the train and then hired a coach, he could be at Wexmoor Manor by morning. It was time they were married. When Appleby had broached the subject today with the prince consort, he had more or less given his approval. If it seemed overhasty, then people would believe Appleby had fallen in love—autumn and spring; it was not unknown. They might laugh behind his back and call him an old fool for hitching himself to Antoinette, but they wouldn’t dare do so to his face. And it would amuse him to know the truth, that in reality he was far from foolish.

  And if she refused…?

  But no, her wish to save her sister from a similar fate would ensure her cooperation, no matter how unwillingly. She would marry him and probably think to pay him back by making his life a misery. Appleby smiled grimly. Well, let her. She’d only have herself to blame in the end.

  He let himself imagine the moment when Antoinette realized how clever he was. Would she fall to her knees, begging for a second chance? He hoped so, he really did. Revenge could be very sweet.

  But in the meantime, he believed he’d done his best to prepare for all eventualities. He slid the wrinkled letter into a drawer and rose to his feet, as his secretary knocked and entered the room. Out in the hall, a very pretty young woman with fair curls and sparkling blue eyes was removing her gloves while servants carried in her luggage.

  “Cecilia, my dear!” he declared with real pleasure.

  Cecilia Dupre, beautiful and innocent and far easier to deal with than her sister. He’d invited her to London as soon as Antoinette left for Devon, and he was very much looking forward to getting to know her better.

  Lord Appleby rubbed his
hands together. Oh yes, he was prepared for all eventualities.

  “Sally, you are the best cook in the country,” Wonicot said with a sigh, patting his belly as he settled back in his chair.

  But Sally wasn’t of a mind to be complimented. She’d been moody all day. Wonicot had a feeling it was all to do with Master Gabriel and Miss Dupre being together. It was none of his business; that was the line he preferred to take. Sally thought differently, and after she’d insisted that Wonicot interrupt them by playing at being in drink, she’d hoped the trysts might stop.

  They hadn’t.

  “Lord Appleby didn’t think I was a good cook,” she said now. “He hardly touched a thing when he was here.”

  “Does his opinion count for more than mine?” Wonicot tried to turn it into a joke.

  “It’ll be His Lordship who decides whether we stay on.”

  Mary, half listening to their chatter, looked up in surprise from her sewing by the fire. “But he won’t send us away! Why would he? We’ve been here forever. It’s more our home than his.”

  “But if he sells Wexmoor Manor, Mary,” Wonicot explained gently, “then there’ll be no need for us. New owners tend to want their own servants around them. We were lucky that His Lordship kept us on for so long, but it can never be like it was when Sir John owned the manor. Those days are gone.”

  “But I thought—” She bit her lip, looking positively stricken.

  The two Wonicots exchanged a puzzled glance. “What did you think?” Wonicot asked.

  “I thought that Master Gabriel would get the manor back and then we could all go on as before.”

  “Well…we hoped for that, too, but Lord Appleby is a very wealthy man with powerful friends. As far as I’m concerned Master Gabriel can stay here and I’ll do my best to hide him, but if His Lordship sells the manor, it will be hard to keep his being here a secret. If Lord Appleby finds out he’s here he’ll have him arrested and sent to jail, and nothing Sir James Trevalen says or does will make any difference.”

  It was a big speech for Wonicot and was followed by a respectful silence.

  “But Lord Appleby can’t sell!” Mary cried, crumpling the sewing in her hands.

  “Mary, we can’t tell His Lordship what to do,” Sally chided, irritation wrinkling her brow, “and if we did he wouldn’t take any notice of us.”

  “Perhaps he won’t sell, not for a while,” Wonicot soothed. “We don’t know what his plans are, do we? Let’s just hope that nothing upsets him,” he couldn’t help but add, with a grimace. “He seems like a vengeful type of gentleman to me.”

  “What could upset him?” Sally mocked. “We have Master Gabriel hiding here and he’s been spending all his time cavorting with His Lordship’s mistress. Upset him! Of course he’d be upset…if he knew!”

  Wonicot gritted his teeth as pots and pans were clashed violently on the stove. His wife was worried; it was understandable. Mary shot him a sympathetic look and stood up, quietly leaving the room. She looked wan, he thought, but soon forgot it in the need to soothe Sally.

  Gabriel woke with a start. Someone was in the house with him. He could hear steps on the old stairs, creeping closer. He barely had time to jump out of bed and find his weapon—a hefty slab of wood—when his bedroom door cracked open.

  Candlelight spilled in, and he saw who it was. Relief made him sag, and then a new sort of tension tightened his muscles. He set the wood down and, bare-chested, went to meet her.

  “Mary? What on earth are you doing here?”

  She’d been weeping. With her reddened eyes and the stains on her cheeks, she was like a child. Instinctively he drew her into his arms to comfort her. Gabriel also felt a pang of guilt. The girl had been acting peculiarly of late and he’d found himself avoiding her, not wanting to have to hurt her with another rejection, or to explain himself where Antoinette was concerned. But now she was in obvious distress, and all he could remember was that they had once been friends.

  “Mary,” he said again, gently, “what is the matter?”

  “I’ve done something very bad, Master Gabriel,” she whispered into his shoulder, and he felt her mouth tremble. “I—I was angry and jealous and I…” She took a shaky breath. “Don’t hate me, please don’t hate me!”

  His heart sank, but at her final words he rallied. “As if I could, Mary. You know I would never hate you. But you need to tell me what you’ve done. Come on, trust me. Perhaps it isn’t as bad as you think.”

  “It is,” she wailed, and clung closer, her body trembling.

  Gabriel sighed, waiting, holding her until she calmed. Slowly the trembling stopped, and the tears, and she lifted her woebegone face to his.

  “That’s better,” he said brightly, forcing a smile.

  “No, it’s not,” she retorted, her face wrinkling up, but somehow she held back the tears long enough to tell him, in a small staccato voice, what she’d done. “I sent a letter to Lord Appleby. About Miss Dupre. That she has a…a lover.”

  He went still, staring down at her. “Mary, what do you mean, ‘that she has a lover’?”

  Silently Mary begged him for forgiveness. “I meant you.”

  His eyebrows rose high. “But…how did you know?”

  She gave something between a laugh and a sob. “I know everything about you, master. I was jealous and I thought if I told His Lordship he’d take her away and then we could…could…”

  He’d stopped listening. “So Appleby knows?”

  “Aye.”

  Gabriel dropped his arms, his mind racing. He knew Appleby too well to expect His Lordship to ignore such news. Antoinette’s behavior would lodge in his black heart like a thorn, and from that moment on he’d be planning his revenge.

  Mary was babbling, and some of what she was saying caught his attention, enough for him to understand that quite a lot of her tears were self-pitying, for her own situation. Instead of being angry, Gabriel felt relieved to know she wasn’t truly in love with him after all.

  “What will happen to me?” the girl cried. “I didn’t think of anything but him coming and taking her away, and that we would be back to the way we used to be. But now I know I was wrong. Nothing can be like it was, can it? And if His Lordship finds out the lover I was talking about is you! Oh, Master Gabriel, I’m that sorry…”

  Gabriel cut her short. “He won’t find out from me. Don’t worry, Mary, you’ve done the right thing by telling me. Now, I’ll have to go away for a time, and I’ll have to take Miss Dupre with me. But I promise you that one day I’ll return and all will be well. Do you believe me?”

  Mary nodded miserably but he could see she didn’t.

  “Go back to bed. If Lord Appleby turns up and starts asking questions, then just say you have no idea who the lover is. No, wait…” He grinned. “Tell him it was Coombe.”

  She gave a tentative smile back. “Yes, Master Gabriel.”

  “And that you think Coombe will take Miss Dupre to Truro in Cornwall because Coombe has relatives living there. Be sure the Wonicots know what to say, too.”

  “Where will you really be going, Master Gabriel?”

  He touched her cheek. “I can’t tell you, Mary. If you don’t know, then it can’t slip out. I don’t want to put you in danger.”

  “I’ll miss you,” she said woefully.

  “No, you won’t.” He laughed and spun her around. “A lovely girl like you, Mary, must have dozens of suitors. You’ve been so busy wasting your time with me, you haven’t noticed them. Just wait and see if I’m right.”

  Dazed, she let him accompany her to the door, and with another reminder to be careful, Gabriel sent her off into the night. He felt energized. Alive. At last something was happening. He hadn’t realized until this moment just how much he’d begun to sink into a mire of his own making. A stodgy soup of subterfuge.

  Gabriel grinned as he hurried upstairs to get dressed and pack some of his belongings. Appleby was on his way, probably getting closer by the moment, and he neede
d to get Antoinette away.

  He paused. How was he going to do that? She’d argue, and at the very least demand an explanation before she set foot outside the front door. Now wasn’t the time to go into detail; all that must wait until they were somewhere safe and secure.

  Gabriel knew there was only one way to make her trust him enough to leave with him.

  He’d have to be Coombe.

  Chapter 22

  Antoinette had been tossing and turning, dreaming but unable to drag herself fully awake. There were wolves chasing her through the dark woods but their faces weren’t animal faces, they were the faces of the people currently in her life—Lord Appleby and the highwayman, Mary and the Wonicots, Cecilia and her late uncle. She ran but the wolves were too fast and too strong, and finally they cornered her. But just as she was about to be torn asunder, Coombe’s hand reached down to her from above and she was drawn up into the trees. “You’ll be safe now,” he said, and she looked up into his grubby face and wondered if it was true. Because there was something about him, something so familiar…

  The knocking on her door broke into the dream. Startled, she called out, “Who is it?”

  “Mrs. Wonicot, Miss Dupre. Please let me in.”

  Antoinette sat up, her hair in her eyes. “Come in,” she said.

  The door rattled and then the knocking began again, louder and more urgent.

  What was wrong with the woman? Antoinette struggled out of the tangled bedclothes and padded across the floor on bare feet. That was when she saw the dresser blocking the doorway, and remembered how she’d dragged it there last night, thinking to spare herself the complication of another of the highwayman’s visits. Besides, that name still rankled: Marietta.

  Now she heaved the dresser back out of the way and opened the door. Mrs. Wonicot stood outside holding a lamp, a paisley shawl draped over her voluminous white nightgown. Her plump face appeared to have grown new lines since Antoinette last saw her, and her eyes were ringed with tiredness.