“Let that be my concern,” he replied, seemingly calm. He would not assure her, as he had done with Finch, to have his wife under control. “More important now is what you and I…”
“St. John,” an icy voice sounded next to him. Marcus wanted to groan aloud. It was his father-in-law who belatedly joined the dinner guests. As a friend to the prince regent, he could get away with such discourtesy, even though unmannerliness was not part of his nature. He did not seem pleased. Coolly and meaningfully, he stared at Madeline’s hand, which was placed possessively over Marcus’s arm. “A word.”
Madeline looked disgruntled, but she knew when to take a step back. No one opposed the Duke of Evesham, even less someone of questionable descent. For an English nobleman of the old school such as the duke, everything and everyone from the other side of the channel was suspect.
“Let us meet after the dinner, at my place,” she said loudly enough so that some bystanders did purposefully not look in their direction. “I think I found something that might be of interest to you.”
“That is impossible,” Marcus rejected the offer. “Not tonight.” He looked out into the garden and saw Annabelle returning. Why had the countess and her mother left her alone? What were they thinking? The two women knew full well what things could happen to a young, unaccompanied girl in a deserted garden at night! His father-in-law made a move to come back to him. It seemed as if he would, if need be, forcefully drag Marcus away from the woman clinging onto his arm. “Not tonight.”
It was not the first time that Madeline had summoned him to her home, under the pretence of insights of the utmost importance. Those pieces of news turned out to be traces that led to nothing and facts he had long found out for himself. Only their past was the reason he still entertained her.
“But it is important,” she persisted. There was an urgency in Madeline’s voice, which Marcus would have liked to ignore, but could not. He cursed silently and pondered how to tell Annabelle that they had to postpone their conversation. He glanced over at her and noticed that she was watching him. Her brown eyes sparkled. Was that suppressed amusement he saw flashing across her gaze? He turned his attention back to Madeline.
“All right. But first, I will escort my wife back home. Leave the back door open, as always.” The chuffed smile on her face stumped him, but he ignored it. “One more thing,” he added, lowering his voice. She looked up at him expectantly. “If this is one of your games, I will not forget it. You had better have something, or else…” he spoke a shade more quietly, “I will take appropriate steps.”
“Well, then you had better go. Your father-in-law is waiting for you. And I believe that your Belle is also coming closer.” She released her grip from him and laid her hand on his shoulder, not without sending a slinky smile towards Annabelle. Marcus had no opportunity to wonder about Annabelle’s lack of a reaction, for now his father-in-law came over to him full of wrath and with all the might of his ducal disapproval.
If he had been thinking that he had seen the worst, he was mistaken. For from the day he had been married, he had come to learn that there was little more deadly than family ties.
“Thank you for standing by me,” St. John said later as he followed Annabelle up the stairs to the front door of his – their – home. They had bid goodbye early, and during the ride home, they had not spoken much. After all the talking, it had felt like a welcome break for Annabelle to not have to say anything and not having to reply. There were many things she had to think about. Not that she wanted to, mind you.
“You mean, against my father?”
He nodded and waited for Wickham to take her coat and hat.
“That was very friendly of you,” he said.
The nimble-footed butler cleared his throat, before sliding past them. “I took the liberty of preparing refreshments in the library,” he informed his master, courteously.
“Thank you, Wickham. I will come back to that later.”
“How did he know that you have not eaten anything during the dinner?” Annabelle wondered. “I sometimes think that the man has magical powers. He must be in cahoots with the devil.”
Marcus laughed. It was a sound that reverberated loudly in the now empty entrance hall. “You should never let him hear you say that,” he said lightly. “He could take it the wrong way to being associated with the Antichrist himself.”
Had she once again spoken out too freely? But no, there was no accusation in his voice.
“I would not want to risk losing your butler’s goodwill. He is a good man,” she added in earnest. “Even though I sometimes get the distinct feeling that he is watching me.” A minute went by, during which they both just stood there, looking at each other. Marcus felt a strange reluctance at the thought of having to now leave her alone.
“Are you not going to take off your coat?”
“No,” he said. “You will have to excuse me, but we will have to postpone our conversation to a later date. I have another engagement.”
Annabelle looked at him carefully, and then she nodded calmly. “I will wait for you,” she said.
Once again, she had managed to surprise him. She did not ask where he was going, nor did she want to know the reason behind his late visit, as he might have expected – instead, she simply accepted his words. A strange feeling stirred in his chest. Annabelle trusted him. This sudden change in her behaviour should have baffled him, but it did not. Rather, he felt regret about having to disappoint her. However, he had one last question to ask, before he made his way to Madeline. “Do you know who I am going to see?”
Her full lips curved into a soft smile.
“That is not too difficult to guess. Lady Madeline is waiting for you, I assume.”
Against his will, a second question forced its way over his lips. “And that doesn’t worry you?”
“Not in the slightest,” she replied. “I know that you are not lovers.”
Chapter 9
It was unfortunate that St. John had postponed their conversation, but if Annabelle were honest, she was relieved about the short break. She needed time to sort out her thoughts before talking to St. John. The evening at the countess had not changed everything, but it had changed a lot.
She went upstairs and entered her room. She could hear Clarice rumble about in the room next door, where Annabelle’s extra attire and shoes were stored, and where Clarice sat sometimes to mend and make necessary repairs. Annabelle walked over, knocked politely and opened the door, but she did not enter. The room was small, almost too small to accommodate more than one person at a time.
“Will you help me undress, please?”
Clarice let out a soft squeal. Apparently, she had not heard Annabelle knock.
“I will come at once, my Lady,” she stammered, managing to complete the sentence on the third attempt.
Annabelle would have liked to tell her that it was not necessary after all, or that her maid was to take her time. However, experience over the last few days had shown her that Clarice did not cope well with signs of sympathy. In fact, it was quite the opposite – she seemed to be irritated by friendliness. Therefore, Annabelle nodded and left back for her room, where she sat down on the chair in front of her dressing table. She got a fleeting glimpse in the mirror and with a sigh, she began to remove her jewellery and the first hairpins from her hair, until Clarice came to her side.
Half an hour later, she was snuggled into her pillows. A small candle burned beside her bed. She sat upright, hoping not to fall asleep while she waited for St. John’s return. Perhaps, her warm bed was not the best place to wait and reflect on things. She pushed the blankets aside and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. The English summer had shown itself in all its splendour on the day of their wedding, only to quickly disappear again. With a pair of slippers on her feet, she padded towards her secretary and opened the drawers. She found sheets of paper, but no ink to write down her thoughts in an orderly fashion. Most likely, Clarice was asleep by now, and waking W
ickham from his well-deserved slumber seemed rather excessive to Annabelle.
She would have to do without ink and paper.
She closed her eyes. In the centre of her thoughts stood clearly St. John. He was the most important puzzle she needed to solve. Unfortunately, he was also the one person whom she could not fathom. All the other people in his entourage were much easier to “read”, as she called it. The comparison was very fitting, Annabelle thought. For her, the gestures and the small, revealing signs of the body, such as a glance towards the side or the twitch of an eyelid, were the letters that formed into words and told her a story. Only, the man she had married was written in an incomprehensible language composed of a secret code that she could not decipher. St. John, with his amber-sprinkled blue eyes, his blonde hair that curled against his neck, and his mesmerising, deep voice… Enough. If she was unable to solve the mystery of who he was – which was at the centre of everything – then she only had one other option. She needed to take a different approach, one from the outside, Annabelle thought, wrapping the shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
Felicity’s secret was also remotely linked to St. John. Then there was the viscount, who was connected to both of them, Felicity and St. John. However, her father… St. John seemed to believe that the duke had something to do with the forced marriage, but Annabelle found that highly unlikely. No, her father was ruled out.
Another participant in this shadowy game was Lady Madeline. Annabelle remembered the look and the mockingly triumphant smile that the brunette had sent her way. From a distance, and through the glass panes of the terrace doors, St. John and the Frenchwoman had looked like a couple. Their intimate connection had become apparent in the way Lady Madeline had tilted her head towards him and glanced up at his face when he looked in a different direction. The sudden pain inside Annabelle’s chest had surprised her, but she had managed to watch her husband and his female confidante regardless. And the longer she had looked at them – really looked at them, the lighter her heart felt.
Lady Madeline might be enamoured with him, and they both knew each other well, but there was no way that the two of them shared a bed. His reserved gestures could have been interpreted as those of a man who was all too aware of the prying eyes and curious ears surrounding them, at least in Annabelle’s eyes; however, as far as Lady Madeline was concerned, her posture sent conclusive signals. Annabelle’s relief had been only short-lived though because her discovery raised a good few new questions. What was the connection between St. John and the Frenchwoman, if it was not an adulterous secret?
In hindsight, Annabelle was firmly convinced that he had chosen his words regarding the friendship between himself and the Frenchwoman deliberately to sound like a lie. She was supposed to believe that Lady Madeline was his mistress. Well, he did not know that Annabelle was not one of those women who were blinded by jealousy and deemed a friendship between a man and a woman as impossible. But if the two were only connected by a harmless friendship, why would he make such an effort in his secret-mongering? What kind of truth could be more shocking than her supposedly being his ladylove?
Essentially, Annabelle thought, realizing that she was getting tired, I have returned to the starting point of my questions. She turned in a circle. The only person who could help her out of this vicious cycle was the man who brought up the questions in the first place.
She took the candle and got up. Just like Viscount Greywood, her sister had been notably absent this evening. Her mother had said that Felicity felt unwell. The viscount had apologised to the Countess of York – Annabelle had discreetly asked the old lady – but he had given no concrete reason for his absence.
Was there a link between the non-appearance of the two? It was possible. The next time she saw her younger sister, Annabelle would take her to task. This had to end. It was impossible to say if she regretted covering for her sister, hence slipping into marriage with St. John. She would walk through fire for her sister, again and again, but she was beginning to expect at least some explanation from Felicity for the shambles that Annabelle had fallen into since that fateful night in the gardens. In fact, shambles was a mild description, she thought and wondered whether she should climb back into bed or go to the kitchen to make herself some tea.
She finally decided against both options. She had promised St. John to wait for him, but she had not said a word about where she intended to do so. Her heart started to bounce, as she imagined going to his private bedchamber and making herself comfortable there. No, that was not possible. They were married, but only in name.
Annabelle stepped out into the hallway. The flame of her candle flickered under a soft breeze, and she held her hand protectively in front of it. Even if she had been daring enough to enter his bedchamber, she could not have done so – the room was locked, she realized, as she pushed down the handle. She could not gain access to his study either. This was unfortunate, because Annabelle knew that it held at least some answers to her countless questions.
So, her last options were the parlour, where she did not feel comfortable, and the library, which was explicitly forbidden territory. However, she exhaled excitedly – the library was unlocked! Carefully, as if she were poking along across a frozen lake, she entered the room. With the small flame of the candle she could not see much. It looked as if every inch of wall was covered in shelves, where books had not only been organised into rows but also stacked on top of each other. The further she delved into the library, the more agreeable she felt. The smell of leather and paper reminded her of her father’s study. Towards the back stood a recamier, a raddled blanket carelessly tossed over the backrest. As she touched the fabric with her hand, she wanted to sigh blissfully. The wool had been softened by its frequent use, and when she buried her nose into it, she thought that she could smell the faint scent of his eau de toilette.
This room revealed a side of St. John that she had never been invited to see, but which she immediately liked. It was a masculine room, no question, but masculine in a relaxed manner. It was cosy. Here, she could feel secure and protected. Maybe, here in this library, there might even be a chance to forget her worries for a few minutes.
Annabelle looked at the recamier and let her hand glide over the woollen blanket, once more. She put the candle onto the small table and blew it out before she pulled the blanket all the way up to her face and buried her nose deeply in St. John’s faded scent. Her eyes fell shut, and not a minute later she had fallen into a deep sleep.
Annabelle woke up inside the dark library and immediately remembered where she was.
The ‘where’ was not the problem. What made her feel uneasy was something else. She knew it was the middle of the night because it was so quiet. But it was not completely silent. She had grown accustomed to the nightly silence that fell around Eaton Square in the evenings. She thought that she had heard a noise in her half-sleep, which did not fit the time of night. But what had it been?
Perhaps she had heard St. John, as he returned from his meeting with Lady Madeline. Thinking about it now, her idea to wait for him in the library had not been such a great decision after all. Not only because St. John had explicitly prohibited her from entering the library – though she could not, by any stretch of the imagination, say for what reason – but also, because it was dark, and she now had to find her way back to her room. St. John would suspect her in her room, not here.
Did she want to keep lying here in the darkness and listening to the pounding of her heart? Annabelle shook her head and got up. It was utter nonsense to be huddled up in here. She would be better off in her own bedroom. If St. John actually did come to look for her when he returned… Annabelle realised that she was babbling nonsense even in her thoughts. Decisively, she walked to the door and opened it a crack.
Now everything was silent again. Not even the wood on the stairs creaked as she put her foot onto the first step. Then she heard a door open. Steps followed. The noise sounded furtive as if the perpetrator was maki
ng an effort to be quiet. Annabelle froze. It was more than one person, padding around on the marble floor downstairs. The heavy breathing told her there were two men.
Annabelle stood still. Her body was rooted to the spot as she contemplated her options in her mind. She was absolutely certain that they were intruders meddling down there who had no business being in the house. Probably ordinary burglars. Were they armed? She could scream and shout for help, but by the time Wickham or any of the other male servants heard her, it might already be too late. From where she stood, only a few steps separated her from her hallway. Surely the thieves would be much faster to overpower her than Wickham would be to wake up, get dressed, and run towards the source of the cries for help.
Another gasp sounded from downstairs. One of the men whispered something that she did not understand. Then she heard a dull thud as if something soft and heavy had fallen onto the floor. In Annabelle’s chest, curiosity and fear were fighting a short, yet fierce fight.
A faint hiss sounded. The smell of sulphur rose into her nose, while a small flame began flickering downstairs. That was the icing on the cake! What kind of thieves would light a candle during a robbery? Annabelle leaned over the balustrade and peaked downstairs.
She was barely able to suppress a scream.
Downstairs, in the entrance hall stood St. John and his servant, the sinister Finch. However, what scared the living daylight out of Annabelle were not the two men moving around their own home with unmatched secrecy. It was the long, round bundle lying between them. What Annabelle at first had thought to be a strange white rug around it, was a sheet. She forced herself not to avert her gaze when an unmistakable male boot poked out of one side. What was wrapped up was not a wounded man, but undoubtedly a dead one, for the two would not have treated live cargo with such carelessness.
The Cold Earl's Bride: A Historical Regency Romance Page 9