When She Was Wicked (Honeycote #1)

by Anne Barton

  Anabelle sighed and threaded a needle. In the harsh light of morning, the workroom was hardly the romantic retreat it had been last night. Mounds of fabric covered every surface in the room, reminders of the many dresses she still had to complete to fulfill the deal. She might have believed the prior evening had been a dream if one of the atlases resting on the bookshelf didn’t have several drops of cooled wax on its cover. She had checked it—just to be sure.

  A tap at the door sent her heart into her throat. “Come in,” she called, heat creeping up her neck.

  “Good afternoon, dear,” said Mrs. Pottsbury. “Dennison said you had a message delivered this morning but that you hadn’t risen yet.” Wonderful. If the butler hadn’t already thought Anabelle was a lazy opportunist, he must be convinced now. “When you didn’t come down for breakfast I feared you were sick. You know, I believe you are a little flushed.”

  “I’m fine,” Anabelle said, certain she was becoming redder by the minute. “Sorry I worried you. Since I overslept, I wanted to get to work as soon as possible.”

  “It’s not like you.” The housekeeper eyed Anabelle critically, as though she might be harboring a ghastly illness. “In any case, I told Dennison that I would deliver your message and check on you personally.”

  Anabelle took the letter, which was addressed in Daphne’s handwriting, and frowned. If Daphne had paid for a messenger instead of using the Post, the contents must be urgent. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the note.

  “Are you sure you are all right, dear?” the housekeeper asked doubtfully.

  “Yes. Thank you for bringing this.”

  “Ah, that’s fine, then. See that you make it down for lunch, and be careful that you don’t take a chill.” With a jangle of her keys, Mrs. Pottsbury swept out of the nursery.

  The moment she was gone, Anabelle said a quick prayer that Mama had not taken a turn for the worse. Taking a deep breath, she read the note.

  Dearest Belle,

  I simply could not wait for your next visit to tell you the events of this morning. I awoke in my chair as usual, and when I looked over at Mama’s bed, she was not in it, but instead, standing next to it. I was horrified, at first, to find her there, wobbling on unsteady legs—I was certain she’d fall and hurt herself and scolded her for trying to go somewhere without me.

  However, I then realized that, for the first time in several weeks, she was out of bed, and she’d done it on her own. When I asked her what had possessed her to try to walk by herself she sheepishly told me that she was hungry and didn’t want to wake me. She was hungry! Her appetite is returning—a miracle to be sure. Even better, though, is her eagerness to rejoin the world of the living.

  You are forever teasing me about being too cheerful and optimistic. I think you will agree, however, that Mama’s progress is cause for great celebration. We have your generous duke to thank, as well as Dr. Loxton. I hope I can forgive Mr. Conwell one day but fear that day is a long way off. In the meantime, I will focus on Mama’s recovery.

  I know you will want to see Mama and witness her transformation for yourself, but you may believe me—she is vastly improved from her grave condition just two days ago.

  It is only because of your valiant efforts and sacrifices that Mama has survived and none of us has starved. I hope you are well and look forward to seeing you so that we may rejoice together.

  Your loving sister,

  Daph

  Anabelle read the letter again to make sure she’d understood correctly.

  Mama had gotten out of bed.

  She was improving.

  The note slipped from Anabelle’s hands and fell to the floor; hot tears sprang to her eyes. Her heart was so full of joy, she feared it might burst. As she looked out the window at the dark gray clouds, she thought she’d never seen such a beautiful overcast day. Who needed the glare of a brilliant sun or the incessant chirping of happy birds? There was much to be said for the quiet, unassuming calm that accompanied a perfectly dreary day.

  “Anabelle?”

  She turned from the window to see Olivia and Rose standing behind her, concern creasing their brows. She must look a wreck. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and although she wanted to reassure them, her throat was too tight to speak.

  “What’s wrong?” Olivia asked.

  Anabelle shook her head, picked up Daphne’s letter, and handed it to Olivia.

  Rose looked over her shoulder, and when both girls finished reading, they smiled. “Your mother is improving?” Olivia asked. “You’re crying because you’re happy?”

  Feeling foolish, but not really caring, Anabelle nodded.

  Rose clasped her hands under her chin, and her eyes glistened. Olivia bounced happily. “This is wonderful!”

  The girls joined Anabelle on the window seat, wrapped their arms around her, and began crying, too. There was not a handkerchief to be had among the three of them, so much sniffling ensued until the tears finally petered out.

  A rather violent hiccup escaped Anabelle’s throat, sending them all into fits of giggles. “I think that one or both of you ought to try on a gown so I can keep up the pretense of working and avoid being sacked.”

  “Oh, yes,” Olivia said. “Being sacked would definitely spoil your day, and that would be a shame after the wonderful start.”

  Anabelle hugged each sister fervently before picking up her needle again.

  If last night had been magical, this morning had been miraculous.

  She couldn’t wait to see what the afternoon would bring.

  Immediately after tea, Anabelle met Owen in the foyer for his promised drive across Town to visit Mama. He stood next to a gilt table, rifling through notes and calling cards left on an ornate silver stray, and her breath caught at the sight of him. His dark hair hung over the slash of his brows, and the angles of his face were somehow both harsh and beautiful. Though he barely moved, a vibrant energy flowed out of him and seeped under her skin.

  Olivia had informed Owen about the wonderful change in Anabelle’s mother and insisted that he escort her home for a visit. Although she really shouldn’t take off another afternoon or monopolize Owen’s time, she told herself the visit would be quick. She’d use the coach ride to figure out the rules of their unlikely but very real relationship. Her pulse skittered at the thought of broaching the subject, but broach it she would. And she still wanted to bring up the matter of his sisters. The lines she’d practiced in the workroom had sounded very diplomatic to her own ears. Pity she couldn’t remember a word.

  He turned as she approached, a smile stretching lazily across his face. “Are you ready?”

  She’d thought she was. But with him standing so close it was impossible to appear cool and unaffected. Dennison rolled his eyes as he handed Owen his hat.

  “Yes.” She felt slightly cheated that she couldn’t take his arm as they walked outside, but that was silly. A few moments later they were ensconced in the private luxury of his coach and could speak freely.

  Owen sat on the bench opposite her. “I’m happy to hear your mother is improving. I’ve asked Dr. Loxton to meet us at your home so he can give you his professional opinion as well. I thought it might give you some added peace of mind.”

  “Thank you.” It was an undeniably kind and thoughtful gesture, but his manner was polite and distant—at least compared to last evening. Her earlier joy wilted.

  “Last night…” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “… you mentioned that you wanted to talk with me about Olivia and Rose.”

  “Yes.” She swallowed her disappointment and straightened her spectacles. “Your sisters are curious about your life. They want you to confide in them more.”

  He took on the dazed look of a boxer who’s received a blow to the head. “What?”

  “They’d like to know more about you. What you do during the day, your views on various subjects, your marriage plans—”

  “Christ, Belle.”

  She shrugg
ed. “They seem to think a wife would soften some of your rough edges.”

  “Is this about—”

  “No! I’m simply trying to help you. You wanted to understand your sisters better. They want the same thing. Only, the three of you need to talk with each other.”

  “I sincerely doubt Rose and Olivia are interested in my daily activities. Why would they care about tenant problems and taxes and sheep?”

  “Maybe they wouldn’t. I cannot say, but I don’t think you should underestimate them.”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “My private life is none of their concern. They don’t need to know the sordid details.”

  She flinched. Last night had not seemed sordid to her. “You’re embarrassed.”

  Regret washed over his face. “Not of you, Belle. But of some of the things I’ve done. I haven’t always set the best example.”

  “I’m not suggesting that you discuss those types of details with your sisters. Rose and Olivia are interested in knowing about the proper young women that you may one day marry—those who could be their sister-in-law.”

  He stroked his chin as he gazed at her for several moments; the rumbling of the coach’s wheels over cobbled streets was the only sound. “I just want to know what Olivia and Rose are plotting. They’re keeping something from me, probably because they fear I’ll lock them in their rooms for the next two months—an idea with significant merit. I don’t see how talking about my bloody dance partners will make a difference.”

  “Well,” she said dryly, “when you have a conversation, you share some information, and then the other party shares. If you want to know more about Rose and Olivia, you have to reveal more of yourself. They’ll follow suit. When they do talk to you, you must listen without issuing judgment.”

  “I knew it.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “They confided in you, didn’t they? Are they involved in anything that could hurt them? Tell me that much.”

  “No.” Although Rose’s budding romance with the stable master could be problematic in many ways, she didn’t think Rose could get hurt. For the time being, at least, there was no opportunity for her to be with him, so… “If I believed either of them was in physical danger, I would tell you.”

  He nodded, but had the cynical expression of an older brother worried about myriad misfortunes befalling his sisters.

  They had almost reached Anabelle’s street. “There’s one more thing.” She had debated whether to say anything about Lord Winthrope to Owen. She could never reveal the earl’s secret. But if Owen could figure it out without her help, then she wasn’t violating her List of Nevers. “I think I may know what happened to Rose the night that she disappeared at the house party.”

  His eyes focused sharply on her. “You know what changed my sister?”

  “Not for certain. I need to find out a bit more. But, in the meantime, she needs to feel safe. She needs to know that you’ll stand by her no matter what.”

  Owen lifted his chin as though mildly insulted. “She already knows that.”

  The coach pulled up in front of her building. Anabelle reached across the cab and laid a hand on his knee. “But she—and Olivia—might like hearing it once in a while.”

  His beautiful mouth was closed in a tight, thin line. Finally, he said, “I don’t see Loxton’s coach yet, but I’m sure he’ll be here soon. I’ll send him up.”

  “You’re not going to come upstairs?”

  “No. I thought I’d give you and your mother and sister some privacy. Please give them both my best.”

  “Of course.” Despite the warm sentiment, his distant manner gave Anabelle a chill. Wobbly and confused, she gathered her reticule, patted her cap, and edged toward the door where a footman waited outside.

  Owen reached out and squeezed her arm, stopping her. “You’re different today.” His tone walked the line between hurt and accusatory.

  She was different? She shook her head, trying to dislodge the cobwebs which were surely there. Sitting back against the velvet squabs, she raised a brow and smiled. “I suppose I am different. I’m wearing several more articles of clothing today. My nightgown didn’t seem appropriate for a cross-town coach ride. Also, I’m making a valiant attempt to adhere to basic social strictures.”

  “That’s better.” He grinned, and her traitorous heart skipped a beat. “I didn’t mean to imply that you should traipse around in a filmy nightgown. I wouldn’t object, you understand, but I appreciate the need for clothes, on occasion. After last night, though, it was a shock to see you in your cap, spectacles, and drab gown.”

  “Careful, Your Grace, you’ll turn my head.”

  He grimaced. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Why not? Last night didn’t change who we are. You’re still a duke. I’m still a penniless seamstress.”

  “That’s not who you are.”

  She leaned forward and enunciated carefully, willing him to understand. “Yes, it is. I work for a living and earn a deplorable wage making beautiful gowns for wealthy, privileged ladies. I am a seamstress.”

  He shook his head as though disgusted and gazed outside.

  She tried a different tack. “You aren’t the same as last night either. Today you are in utter control—a duke from the toes of your polished boots to the folds of your starched cravat. This is who you are. A member of the ton’s upper crust. A dashing aristocrat.”

  With a hollow laugh he said, “I pray to God I’m more than that.” Stiffly, he opened the door, stepped out of the coach, and helped her down, leaving her wondering what on earth she’d said wrong.

  Owen watched as Anabelle walked inside and up the stairs toward her rooms. He waited another minute and then went inside, knocked on the landlady’s door, and heard her shuffle toward it.

  “Who is it?” she called through the scraped and paint-chipped door.

  “The Duke of Huntford.”

  After a beat of silence, “Sure, and I’m Marie Antoinette.”

  For the love of—“Mrs. Bowman, I apologize for coming unannounced. Miss Honeycote is upstairs visiting with her mother and sister. Could I please have a word?”

  She opened the door a crack. “Hmm. I’d heard you’d escorted Anabelle to visit her mother.” Her wise old eyes traveled the length of him as though he were a ruffian straight off the streets. “Very well. Come in.”

  The landlady’s apartment was stuffed with furniture, and almost every surface was covered with knickknacks and decorative objects. He felt cramped the moment he entered.

  She pointed to the portrait of a stern-faced man above her mantel. “When my husband passed—God rest his soul—I decided to rent out the rooms upstairs. I had to clear out those rooms, of course, but I couldn’t bring myself to sell the things we’d accumulated during our wonderful life together. So it’s a bit crowded.”

  Owen doubted she’d disposed of a single item since the reign of George the First.

  She waved him toward a faded green sofa, where he sat between a tabby cat and a silver antique that looked part candlestick, part serving platter. The cat was sleeping. At least he hoped it was sleeping.

  “Shall I prepare tea, Your Grace?”

  “Thank you, no. I won’t take much of your time. As you may know, Miss Honeycote has been working for me.”

  Mrs. Bowman arched a sparse white brow. “I’d heard.”

  He shifted on the couch, and the cat’s tail twitched.

  “Actually, she’s making gowns for both of my sisters.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Bowman laced her arthritic fingers with unexpected grace and scrutinized him as thoroughly as any queen might.

  He’d better get to the point. “I’d like to pay the Honeycotes’ rent, in advance, for the next year.” He handed her a pouch of coins. “I’ve included a sum for you as well—all I ask is that you not mention anything to the Honeycotes.”

  “You don’t want them to know that you’re paying their rent?”

  “Not yet.”

  “And why n
ot, Your Grace?”

  Anabelle was too proud to accept an outright gift. She’d insisted on staying to complete the dresses for his sisters even after he’d released her from their agreement. “I would prefer to be discreet.”

  Although the woman’s eyes were cloudy with age, they pinned him to the sofa. She clinked the bag of coins against her open palm. “Miss Honeycote is a fine girl who was taught the manners of a lady—her grandpapa was a viscount, you know.”

  “What?” His heart thudded against his ribs. Why would she keep that from him?

  “He wasn’t happy when his son married a common sort of girl and refused to support them. Anabelle’s father made ends meet somehow, but after he died, her family fell on hard times.”

  Owen wrestled with this knowledge. Belle was the granddaughter of a viscount, hell bent on insisting she was nothing but a seamstress.

  “Anabelle is a fine girl,” Mrs. Bowman repeated, “who would do just about anything for her mother and sister. I’m sure there are some who would take advantage of her dire circumstances.”

  The cat beside Owen stretched a paw sleepily and dug its razorlike claws into his leg; he pried the animal off and turned his attention back to the landlady. “You misunderstand. She’s working for me—as a seamstress. I’m simply trying to help her family.”

  “And do you routinely pay the rent of your servants’ families? Do you even know their families or where they live?”

  He pondered this. “No. But perhaps I should.” He stood and walked to the door. “I don’t intend to hurt Miss Honeycote.”

  The gray-haired woman smiled sadly. “Your kind never does.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Over the course of the next four weeks, Anabelle’s mother continued to recover. Although still thin and tired, she no longer spent the majority of time in bed. During Anabelle’s frequent visits home, she rejoiced at the rosy tinge to Mama’s cheeks. Even better was the return of the woman Anabelle remembered—who worried and chattered, and occasionally meddled.