by Carrie Lomax
“Do you have a sister named Edith?” asked Antonia. Mrs. Leakes’ face rearranged itself into wary hope.
“I do. Run off to London to seek her fortune on the stage, more’s the pity. Haven’t heard from her in months. Do you have news of her?”
Antonia slung the bag of money down from her shoulder and shuffled up the walkway. Her palms bore blisters from where the leather handles had creased the leather of her gloves and rubbed with each step. “I was asked to deliver this to you.”
She dropped the bag on the steps.
“What is it?” As though there could be any doubt.
“Miss Webber’s personal effects. I was asked to deliver them to the family.”
“Where is she?”
Antonia hesitated. “Edith is dead. These were found among her personal effects by the theater manager.”
Lies. More lies. She had sworn to start her new life as a man without them, but how could she when she was fabricating her very identity?
This was not the way forward. Antonia swallowed. “I only know your sister’s body was fished out of the river and buried anonymously. There is a notice in the bag with the coordinates, if you wish to have a headstone made. It’s not up to me what you do with the money.”
Mentioning the resurrectionist seemed unnecessarily cruel, so Antonia didn’t. Another falsehood. They weighed her down just as that bag had done. Each coin an untruth. A piece of her soul sold for a few moments of freedom. Each stolen minute a chain holding her back.
But one inescapable fact seared through her as she deposited the bulk at this small woman’s feet. She could not become Anthony Lowe. He was and would remain a convenient fiction to be trotted out when she needed him. That was all.
Antonia was done living lies.
Edith Webber’s sister stared at the dropped sack. Tears filled her eyes. “We never expected her to come back. We hoped, of course. That was why we bought her the locket before Edith left.”
“I am sorry.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot. Such an inadequate word for the weightiness of this conversation. Though the day had been relatively warm for mid-February she had been out for a long while and cold was beginning to creep into her bones. No matter how little she wanted to move she had a long walk back into town, too.
“Thank you for bringing us her effects,” Mrs. Leakes called after her. Antonia ought to help her carry the bag into her cottage. Yet an irresistible pull of her feet in a different direction. She nearly tripped as her entire body torqued back in the direction she had come from not a quarter hour ago.
Halfway back down the hill, the sound of hoofbeats thundered over hard-packed earth. Antonia knew that sound. It brought bile rising to the back of her throat. The world fuzzed gray at the edges as stark terror seized her innards.
I was trying to make things right.
The fast riders might not be coming for her, anyway. Yet in her morning of wanderings up through Idless asking where the Webber family—and then, pinpointing which branch had the most direct relation to Edith—Antonia had seen perhaps a handful of other people about. Not one had come down this sleepy road that coiled around the countryside to farms, and onward to tin and copper mines.
Two bulky forms hunched over gray and bay horses spied her and hauled up fast. Antonia shied off to the side of the road.
“You, boy. Have you seen a woman?”
Antonia’s knees nearly gave out. “Up at the farm,” she croaked in a voice far too feminine to her own ears.
“On this road, have you seen a woman traveling with a heavy sack within the past half-hour or so?” demanded a hard-looking man atop the dancing gray.
“No. Only myself, sir.” Her American accent peeked out around the edges of her vowels, flattening them into a drawl that must surely give her away.
“Which farm?” demanded the man on the bay with heaving flanks.
“The…” Think, woman. One more lie to save your hide and then you can stop forever. “The Webber’s.”
Gray horse’s rider scowled. “And you didn’t see a woman. You are certain.”
Her heart stopped. She was caught. Antonia would hang. When would she learn that caring about people never caused anything but trouble? Every instinct she possessed screamed at her to flee, or to fling herself to the ground and beg mercy. Yet, it seemed her time was not quite up, for Bay Rider spat onto the cold dirt and growled, “He knows nothing. She cannot be far ahead. We’re wasting time.”
The two men dashed off. Antonia’s body sagged with relief, to heavy and weak to move. It had been simple to discard the skirt and jacket in favor of the trousers she already wore and a well-fitted men’s jacket and topcoat. A twist of her hair up beneath a concealing hat and she had walked into the hamlet as a man. Her personal trunk awaited her return at the inn—if only her legs found the strength to carry her there. Antonia placed one foot before the other. The world did not spin or fall away. It held her up. Cold air pulled into her lungs and burned her throat. Moisture clung to her skin and dampened her under shirt damp where it turned clammy with the cold.
She would live to lie another day.
Antonia was so tired of the lies.
Her tired legs shuffled her down the hill. At the bottom, she stopped to rest on an old oak stump. In a quarter-hour or so, she would return to the inn, order a meal and collect her baggage. And then…and then what? Where would she go? Paris had been one option, but she hadn’t learned French. Scotland? Ireland? Or southward to Spain?
Antonia had finally stopped running. Not because she had found a sense of belonging or satisfaction. Because she had left the only friend she had ever cared about. Worse, she had left him. The gentle, kind man whom life had gifted with more material wealth than any man needed and saddled him with parents who couldn’t love one another.
Fear of pain had carried her this far. Yet she had washed up in a town of a few hundred souls in Cornwall with no idea who she was any longer. Everything she cared about was back down this road. All she had to do was follow it to Idless, get back on a stagecoach and travel longer, busier roads until she reached London. She would give her life for one more chance to touch Malcolm’s face.
The sound of horse hooves on packed earth made her swallow regretfully. Her curse had always been an inability to be content with what she had. She ought to get up. Move off from this forlorn tree trunk holding her bottom up off the cold ground. Fight to stay alive. Yet suddenly, Antonia no longer cared whether she was caught and punished for her crimes. Let Bow Street take her.
“Miss Lowry?” a man called out. Her chin jerked up, and Antonia was horrified to discover her cheeks were damp with tears. Shocked, she scrambled up. Her arse was numb, her hands so chilled the nail beds had turned blue, and her stomach empty of food but physical discomfort fell away as hope flooded through her. Havencrest’s driver.
“Yes!” she called out, waving. The great black coach lumbered up to her. Before it halted the door flung open and Havencrest leaped out. He stumbled a little as his feet hit the ground, righted himself, and caught her by the waist.
“You’re safe. Antonia.” Kisses, warm and life-restoring, rained down on her cheeks.
“I was coming back,” she gasped. The words were truth, not lies, and they burst out of her very soul. “I couldn’t leave you. Even though I did. I had one last thing to accomplish and when I was done, I had no more reason to run.”
Havencrest scooped her effortlessly into his arms. Antonia may as well have levitated into his embrace. She had tried to run from her pain. In doing so she had abandoned all hope of happiness. Caring about others meant pain, but for the first time she could remember her heart beat free with wild joy. Her hands clutched at Havencrest’s dark locks. Her hat knocked askew over her forehead. Beneath the battered brim she kissed and touched his face as though to reassure herself he was real.
He had come for her.
Havencrest stilled. Antonia’s feet touched the ground and she stood, listening. Hoofbeats
.
No. Not now, when she had so much to lose.
“Get in the coach,” Malcolm demanded. Antonia threw herself at the door. The footman’s jacket shifted as he went to open it. Dread slowed time. It slammed closed behind her and locked from the outside.
Trust him.
Antonia had spent so long trusting no one but herself that she was no longer certain she knew how to. She remained motionless on the seat. Her toes tingled as warmth from a brick seeped into them, returning life to her numb digits.
She lay her head against the squabs. The hat fell to the leather seat beside her and lay in a squashed heap. Her dark tresses uncoiled from the knot she had pinned them into and tumbled about her shoulders. Antonia listened. She hoped so hard that her body began to tremble fit to shake down the walls that guarded her heart.
* * *
The two men on horseback whom he had followed for two days thundered down the hill. Their steeds had been fresh an hour ago when they changed horses but now lather flecked the animals’ flanks. The Bow Street men had ridden hard to find Antonia.
“Have you seen a woman dressed as a man?” the first man demanded without preamble.
“No,” Malcolm lied succinctly. Kissed a woman dressed as a man, yes. His eyes had been closed though. “Who inquires?”
“Sam Higley, of Bow Street. My partner and I are working on behalf of six fine families who have been deprived of their jewels by a depraved thief posing as an American woman named Miss Antonia Lowry. We believe she has recently delivered a satchel of gold coins to the family of a woman who was recently fished out of the River Thames.”
“I do not understand,” Malcolm replied slowly. He really ought to travel in an unmarked coach more often. Without a crest to inform them, these men had no idea who he was.
“We have cause to believe the money was from the sale of said jewelry.”
“Forgive my lack of intelligence, kind gentlemen,” Malcolm said, with mild condescension and a brief bow. “I do not understand why a woman would steal jewels to give the family?”
“We think she may have murdered the woman.” But a note of uncertainty crept into the man’s voice.
“Then, why would she wish to make amends? Assuming she is indeed so cold-hearted.”
“Women have softer hearts. Miss Lowry’s was touched with remorse, I’ll bet.” He shifted on his horse.
Malcolm’s mouth stretched into the wolfish smile he had used to intimidate so many people. Until Antonia, it had worked wonders. It did so again now.
“I regret to inform you that I am the source of the money recently delivered to the Webber family.” Malcolm adopted a touch of bashful humility as though he were being forced to reveal his role. “I am the Duke of Havencrest, and I have a duty to demonstrate compassion. I was touched by the late Miss Webber’s death. I paid for her to be buried. Once I discovered her true identity, I sent a boy ahead to deliver the money. It was all to be quite secret, you understand.”
“You—your Grace,” the man sitting astride the bay horse mumbled. His mount tugged at the reins as though eager to be its way.
“I advise you to seek a culprit for your clients’ stolen gems elsewhere, good gentlemen. Miss Lowry has taken a brief journey to visit her friends. Upon her return, Miss Lowry will be the next Duchess of Havencrest. Do I make myself clear?”
A long moment passed.
“Sir.” Higley’s anxious gray side-stepped. He used this as an excuse not to meet Malcolm’s gaze. The proper thing to do would have been for both men to dismount so they could conduct a civil conversation like grown men, but no matter. Keeping these two up on horseback put them in the best position to leave, with all possible promptness.
“Find another scapegoat. Edith Webber, for example, is in no position to protest her name being dragged through the mud. Do so quietly. As far as the family is concerned, Miss Weber was a working actress. It mustn’t be repeated to the family. They have borne enough grief.” Malcolm produced a hefty purse from his pocket. “I trust this is adequate compensation for your efforts to clear Miss Lowry’s good name. Which start” —he tossed the leather bag to Higley, who nearly fell off his horse trying to catch it— “now.”
The man perched atop the bay touched the brim of his hat. “Understood, Your Grace. If you ever should find yourself in need of two competent and honest investigators, Higley and me are at your service.”
Considering the way he had just bribed them, Malcolm harbored doubts about the men’s honesty, but all he said was, “Thank you, gentlemen. I bid you good day.”
They were off as quickly as their horses would carry them. Malcolm strode to the coach where his footman stood guard.
“My gratitude for your protectiveness.”
The footman startled. “Sir.”
“You may stand down.”
The liveried footman bowed and moved to open the door. Inside, Antonia had curled her body onto the seat beneath a warm blanket. Her face had lost its pallor and warmth pinked her cheeks. She was soft and strong, willful and wondering. The sight of her made his heart thud.
“Masterful,” Antonia said as a smile blossomed across her cheeks. “Did you mean it?”
“Every bit.” Malcolm hauled himself into the coach and settled himself beneath her legs. “If you would do me the honor of being my duchess, I would be most obliged.”
“What changed your mind?” she asked. The coach listed and groaned as the driver coaxed it into a complicated turn. They had a long road ahead of them. “I thought you never meant to marry.”
“The moment I stormed away from your bolt-hole, I felt keenly how much of a child I have been about this entire adventure,” he said ruefully. The laces of her boots snaked through the holes. Leather loosened and gaped. He tossed one onto the floor, then the other, and massaged her feet through her stockings. “I compelled you to participate in my scheme because I could not bring myself to ask for your help. The same way I could not bring myself to talk with my grandmother. But the moment I did so, Toni? Lady Summervale welcomed me into her home.” He kissed her. “The Heart’s Cry was only ever a symbol. The real jewel was you, all along, Antonia.”
The woman who had won his heart rolled up. Her heel dug into his thigh as she shifted position to kneel on the seat beside him. “I think this breaks the curse,” she whispered, cupping his face between her hands and touching her forehead to his. “The real damage is done when we value status more than the people we love, as your father did when he disregarded your mother’s feelings and took a lover. Or when we value an expensive diamond and gold necklace over the meaning behind your mother’s giving you and your grandmother each one half. She wanted you to come together, didn’t she?”
“You are as perceptive as always, Miss Lowry.” His hands found their way beneath the white shirt to the laces of her too-tight stays. “Or, the special frustration of a mother toward a daughter who won’t concede to her elders.”
Antonia stilled. “I have been guilty of the same thing. But the moment I handed off that bag of money to the Webber family I knew I couldn’t run anymore. I can’t lie anymore. I don’t regret taking that path, though. Chasing my idea of freedom brought me to you, and I found it here, in your arms.”
Antonia brushed her lips over his. Malcolm felt that movement reverberate through his chest. He opened and tasted, seeking and finding. His equal in everything. His love.
“Princess,” he breathed, wondering how she would react to hearing her true name. “I cannot make you a princess in truth, but I will make you a duchess if you let me. Can that be enough?”
“Yes. I never wanted to be a princess, either in name or in title. I don’t care about the title, Malcolm, but since it comes with you I suppose I shall have to accept it.” She rocked back on her heels and grinned.
“You know what else it comes with, don’t you?” he chuckled.
“Fancy gowns?”
“Jewels,” he smiled wolfishly. “Lots and lots of jewels of every varie
ty.”
Antonia threw back her head and laughed. “How very appropriate. I won’t need to steal them anymore.”
“No, your thieving days, Antonia, are over for good. You have already made off with the most valuable thing of all. My heart. I trust it to you for safekeeping.” Their kiss broke, and he whispered against her lips, “Forever.”
Epilogue
“There’s a letter for you.” Malcolm curved one hand around Antonia’s shoulder. Comforting. Protective.
Antonia did not receive many letters. Invitations, yes. But apart from Margaret and the Kilpatrick sisters, who cared enough to waste the paper?
Her mother, if only to excoriate her. Antonia Hepworth Dunn, Duchess of Havencrest, crossed the far end of the luncheon table and parked her silk-wrapped behind most improperly on her husband’s lap. “Is there, now?”
His hand found her waist as Antonia sliced open the glued letter. No fancy wax for her mum. If she would let her, Antonia meant to rectify that. Six months had passed since she and Malcolm had married by special license in a small, private ceremony. Margaret had attended. The Evandaws had not.
The Dowager Duchess of Summervale had appeared wearing the Heart’s Cry necklace. “I dare this diamond to curse me.”
Ships took months to cross the Atlantic. In this case, a failure to send advance notice could be forgiven. But Antonia wasn’t convinced her mother was acquainted with the concept. Did the cheap paper hold familiar recriminations, or something else? Antonia tore it open with bated breath. Malcolm’s hands explored the curve of her waist. Comforting. Waiting.
Princess,
I don’t know Antonia Lowry, but I recognize my daughter’s face in the picture with the news clipping you sent. I confess myself surprised yet not shocked by your marriage. If anyone were going to be a duchess it’d be you. Handsome man you’ve caught. Hope you can keep him.
Cyrus sends his love. Says thanks for the money, too. Now that we know you’ve got it legal-like, we don’t mind accepting a little help. Your brother Earl might fancy a trip to England.