Ever Yours, Annabelle

by Elisa Braden

  Annabelle closed her eyes. Stopped her horse. Swallowed against the sick. “I loved him more than I should,” she whispered. “He loved me less than I wanted.” She should have used the present tense. He loves me less than I want. Wasn’t that the heart of the matter? When she opened her eyes, light rippled gray and white as tears came.

  Jane drew her mare close enough to reach out and grasp Annabelle’s hand. She said nothing, merely held her hand and let her regain her composure. If Annabelle hadn’t already adored her sister, that single kindness would have earned her devotion.

  Looking past Jane to the trees rustling along the path through the park, Annabelle worked to pull away from the memories. The bridge. The sigh of water and leaves. The stark realization of how much of her heart she’d given away and how much he’d pitied her for it.

  “You were so young,” Jane murmured. “He was what? Eighteen? Five years is a trifling difference now, but back then …” She shook her head. “He saw you as a girl, which is as it should be. That does not mean he didn’t love you.”

  Annabelle looked down at their clasped hands, let the cold wind whip away her tears, and forced her lips into a smile. “It is all in the past, now,” she lied. “His strength has improved.” An understatement. One need only glance at his shoulders to realize that. Or be held in his arms. A pleasurable shiver stole across her flesh at the memory. “If anything, his heretofore undiscovered talents for land management have been honed to a remarkable degree.” She released Jane’s hand and nudged her mount forward. “He cannot stop working long enough to trim his hair. Heaven knows what other tasks he’s neglected. Something must be done.”

  Before Jane could reply, a deep, masculine voice came from behind them. It rippled with irritation. “What is everyone’s preoccupation with my hair?”

  Annabelle stiffened.

  Jane stopped and turned her mare to face him. “Mr. Conrad. My, that is a sizable horse you have, there.”

  “He is a recent acquisition.”

  Knowing that Robert had never been the loquacious sort and Jane’s shyness would slow her conversation to a halt within moments, Annabelle took pity on them both and turned her mount to join them.

  Heavens, he was handsome with his hair properly trimmed. Brooding blue eyes glinted like steel in the gray light. A hard jaw flexed as he touched the brim of his hat. “Lady Annabelle.”

  “Mr. Conrad.” His gaze held her captive for a long, lingering silence. Suddenly, the bite of cold wind became heat. Melting, liquid heat. Searching for a distraction, she examined his horse. She blinked. Was it her imagination, or was the horse’s face lopsided? And the eyes. The eyes were at half-mast, as though the gigantic hunter wished for nothing more than a field of daisies to munch at its leisure. “Your horse appears a bit … drowsy.”

  “He prefers a slower pace. I’ve come to appreciate such circumspection.”

  Ignoring the veiled reference to her own nature, she blinked again, tilting her head. Had the horse just winked at her? “It is the blaze, I think.”

  “What of it?”

  “Makes him appear a bit off balance.”

  Robert stiffened, his shoulders rolling, his brow glowering. “He is a sound mount.”

  “Oh, I quite agree. Stout as a great oak. And equally fast, I’d wager.”

  “Speed is overrated. Stamina is what matters.”

  “Perhaps you should inform all the horse-mad gents who bestow their mounts with such names as Highflyer and Phantom.”

  “Those are racehorses. A hunter must last longer than mere minutes. He must traverse rough terrain over hours. He must be strong. Determined. Patient and fearless.” He patted his horse’s neck. “Names are a frivolity for a hunter.”

  She narrowed her eyes upon Robert then his lopsided, sleepy mount. “What is his name?”

  Robert’s glower deepened into mulish lines. “Why do you wish to know?”

  “Because you clearly wish to keep it from me.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “That’s his name? Rubbish?”

  “Stop being cheeky.”

  “Tell me.”

  Ruddy color painted his cheeks. She’d bet every pair of silk slippers she owned that it wasn’t due to the cold.

  “Robert. What is your horse’s name?”

  He muttered something beneath his breath.

  “Pardon?”

  “Dewdrop,” he barked, his eyes flashing. “It is the name he came with. I plan on changing it.”

  She tried to keep herself from laughing, and she almost succeeded. But Jane let a giggle escape, and that was that.

  “Oh!” she gasped, covering her unruly mouth with one hand and clutching her belly with the other. “Y-you mustn’t. Too … p-perfect.”

  Jane was snorting now, knuckling beneath her spectacles as she fought the same mirth that had taken hold of Annabelle.

  Robert, by contrast, was far from amused. “His prior owner’s daughter named him as a foal. He can hardly be blamed for that.”

  Annabelle pressed her lips together and nodded her understanding, though another giggle did manage to escape. She avoided looking at the big, sleepy, lopsided Dewdrop for fear it would set her off again. But Robert’s expression also tickled her. He was offended on behalf of his horse’s dignity, a very Robert reaction. He’d never liked for innocent creatures to be harmed, even when they were oblivious.

  Dewdrop was certainly that. The gelding gave a slow blink, a snuffling sigh, and shifted as though settling in for a long wait.

  Annabelle controlled her laughter long enough to grin at the man astride Dewdrop’s back. “He is splendid, Robert. Positively splendid.”

  He glared as though she were being sarcastic.

  “No, really!” She guided her own mount alongside Dewdrop so she could run a hand along his stout, brown neck. Lazily, the animal turned his head to sniff her skirts. “You are unique, aren’t you, boy?” she murmured. “Too many mounts haven’t the patience to stand still.”

  The horse gave her another slow blink then, oddly, appeared to nod.

  Once again, she laughed, this time with delight. “Did you see that, Robert? He agrees with me.” When she raised her eyes, however, laughter quickly faded.

  Good heavens, he looked like he might snatch her up and carry her away. Brooding blue fairly singed her. Suddenly, the air was thin and her wool habit both too hot and too tight.

  Jane cleared her throat. “I do believe the Aldridge sisters are headed our way.”

  Annabelle tore her gaze from Robert’s to view the curricle approaching from the east end of the park.

  “Shall we attempt a swift exit?” Jane asked hopefully.

  She shot her sister a chiding glance.

  “Drat,” Jane muttered.

  By the time the curricle rolled to a stop, Annabelle had positioned herself to greet Lucinda and Margaret Aldridge with a smile. The twins wore matching blue spencers, though Lucinda’s gown was lavender muslin and Margaret’s was primrose silk. Lucinda, who always wore large pearl earbobs, waved excitedly while her sister clutched her lap blanket and shivered.

  “Lady Annabelle! Just who I had hoped to meet!”

  Annabelle moved her mount to the side of the carriage where Lucinda waved a newspaper to and fro.

  “Have you seen this morning’s edition? Scandalous! Simply scandalous.”

  Margaret nodded her agreement. “Outrageous, I daresay.”

  Not to be outdone, Lucinda bobbed up and down like a duck on choppy water. “Oooh. Yes, outrageous. That is precisely the word, dearest Margaret.”

  Annabelle sighed. “Good heavens, Lucinda. Do calm yourself before you topple your curricle.” Calmly, she took the newspaper from her friend’s hand.

  Behind her, she heard Jane introducing Robert, followed by more excitable chatter from the twins. Voices faded from notice, however, when she examined that morning’s edition of Green’s Daily Informer. On the front
page was the usual gossip, the usual drivel about beautifying cures for spots, notices of furnishings for auction, and offers to hire cooks with “knowledge of genteel households.” But inside the folded pages, tucked in its usual location, was a print signed by Edward Yarrow Aimes.

  Hardly noteworthy, except for one small thing. Well, two small things, really. First, the caricature was inferior work. Cruel rather than witty, mocking rather than wry, a lie rather than truth. It featured Victoria Lacey as a poisonous flower conspiring with Atherbourne’s sinister highwayman to lure a handsome hound—obviously Stickley—first to the altar then to his death. The caption held no subtlety, simply a dialogue between Lady Victoria and Atherbourne describing their conspiracy to “make you a duchess ere we sup together at His Grace’s table.” The implication was as foul as it was absurd. Lady Victoria had never met Atherbourne prior to the Gattingford ball, let alone conspired with him to first marry then murder Stickley.

  This was libelous. This was, to use Margaret’s word, outrageous.

  And this was not Annabelle’s work.

  Her throat tightened into a choke. Wind rushed in her ears.

  How could this be? She examined the drawing. The curves were all wrong. The noses were flattened, the eyes lifeless. Hands were difficult to draw, particularly when styled as leaves or animals’ limbs. She’d worked forever to master them.

  These hands were amateurish. Disproportionate. Awkwardly angled.

  The least Green might have done was to hire somebody competent. As it was, he was using her name—well, her fake name—to legitimize hackneyed rubbish.

  Worse, slanderous hackneyed rubbish.

  Oh, God. She was going to be sick.

  “Annabelle.” His voice drew her, as it always had. He’d pulled up beside her upon Dewdrop, broad and solid, steady and strong. Blue eyes were shadowed by a concerned frown. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  She longed to tell him, which was pure idiocy. He would never understand. Worse, it would confirm his assertions about her recklessness. He’d think her mad for posing as a male caricaturist. Perhaps she was. But Edward Yarrow Aimes was her creation. And someone had stolen him. Made his work—her work—into a lie.

  Robert sidled closer, clasped her upper arm and bent his head to hold her gaze. “Tell me,” he murmured.

  She couldn’t. She wanted to. But even Jane thought her work was ill-advised. How could she expect this man, of all men, to accept the risks she’d taken? To understand the betrayal she felt?

  Still, she nearly confessed. Right there in the middle of Hyde Park, she wanted him to gather her close, wanted to rest her head on his ridiculously broad shoulder and feel his strong arms surround her again.

  “Do you suppose Blackmore has seen it, dearest Annabelle?” It was Lucinda’s voice, high and grating.

  Annabelle blinked and drew away from Robert to return the wretched paper to her friend. Gathering her composure enough to offer a placid smile, she replied, “Doubtful. I suspect his grace prefers The Times.”

  “I thought yesterday’s edition was scathing, but this.” Lucinda clicked her tongue and shook her head.

  “Outrageous,” Margaret repeated.

  Annabelle frowned at Lucinda. “Yesterday’s?” She hadn’t seen it, too preoccupied with Robert’s pursuit of her and Jane all the way to a bookshop on Piccadilly. “What was in yesterday’s edition?”

  “Oh, you remember the bad bit of business with Sir Harold Standish and that charlatan, Mr. Bickerstaff, don’t you? Well, Mr. Aimes implied …” Lucinda fluttered her lashes in Robert’s direction. “Of course, I wouldn’t wish to spread untoward rumors.”

  Annabelle rolled her eyes. “Just tell me, Lucinda.”

  Margaret took Annabelle’s demand as permission to pick up where her sister had left off. “He implied that Sir Harold knew Mr. Bickerstaff planned to flee to the Continent with the funds he’d swindled from his investment scheme.”

  Lucinda nodded emphatically, her earbobs bobbing. “Indeed, Mr. Aimes’s drawing suggested Sir Harold was Bickerstaff’s partner.”

  Her stomach churned and fired hot. A second fraudulent caricature? How long had Green been planning to replace her with this talentless imposter? The wretch could not even invent new themes, playing the same tired note twice. One would think all members of the ton were plotting dastardly deeds in asinine conversations. Had the wretch any familiarity with the beau monde, he would quickly realize most of them were too sotted, slothful, or stupid to engage in convoluted schemes.

  No, it was the Mr. Greens of the world—the ones driven by greed and unhampered by conscience—who deserved exposure.

  The bitter cold of the day caused the Aldridge twins to shiver and depart. It caused Jane to insist on returning to Berne House. It even caused Dewdrop to snort and shake his head.

  But Annabelle did not feel it. She felt rage. And the only remedy was to confront its source. She glanced to her side, where Robert continued sending her brooding glances from beneath heavy brows.

  Yes, she would deal with Mr. Green. But first, she must stop the most determined man she’d ever known from following her like a shadow.

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Watch the sunrise? My dear Mortlock, do not let impending mortality render you an imbecile. Two good things occur before breakfast: Servants clean, and I slumber. All else is rubbish.”

  —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham in a letter to the Marquis of Mortlock admonishing said gentleman for suggesting a change in routine.

  *~*~*

  Dearest Robert,

  My newspaper habit has grown such that Papa insists I must choose between subscriptions and slippers. Naturally, I chose slippers. However, my interest in matters political has persuaded me to try sketching new subjects. Judging from the outrage toward gentlemen producing similar work, I have begun contemplating names under which I would publish, should such an opportunity arise.

  I would like the name to be something true about me. Something unchanging. The only thing that matches this description is my love for you.

  Must think on this further. Artists use initials, don’t they?

  Ever yours,

  Annabelle

  —Letter to Robert Conrad dated January 30, 1813

  *~*~*

  Annabelle’s mood was black as charred beefsteak. This was the third morning she’d awakened at an atrociously early hour. The third morning she’d attempted to evade Robert Conrad.

  But it was the first morning she’d made it this far.

  A wagon full of caged hens clucked and rattled past as she neared a noisy tavern. Lurching to a halt, she waited, heart pounding, as a slovenly drunkard stumbled through the tavern door onto the walk in front of her. The red-nosed wretch squinted a bleary grin and meandered toward the adjacent alley. He smelled of ale and sweat.

  She glanced up and down the Strand. Fifty feet ahead was D’Oyley’s Warehouse. Around the corner and fifty feet farther was Green’s office. Most shops weren’t open at this ungodly hour, but Green would be onsite to oversee production of the Informer’s latest edition.

  She’d written him thrice so far demanding an explanation. No reply. Not even a curt, “Leave off, Miss Aimes.” Infuriating.

  The morning was misty, but for once, it wasn’t raining. The Strand’s usual traffic hadn’t thickened yet. Instead, the street was quiet, save for occasional donkey carts and wagons laden with wares for Covent Garden, along with the odd coal cart ambling by on morning rounds. Rather than throngs of pedestrians eyeing shop windows, the few souls braving the dawn went about their business with brisk purpose.

  That’s right, she thought. Pay no attention to the lone woman making her way toward D’Oyley’s Warehouse. Just doing a bit of shopping—three hours before the place opens. One never knows when one might need a dozen dessert napkins.

  Twenty feet. Ten. Almost there.

  She reached the nearest corner o
f the brick warehouse by the time she saw him—a wide, squat fellow in a dark coat and tall hat. He’d rounded the corner from Catherine Street, her destination, and now stood half-turned away from her. He pulled a watch from an inside pocket and flicked it open. Had she not recognized him, she might have breezed past without a care.

  But she knew him. This was Thomas Bentley, Matilda Bentley’s father. With coats that always appeared oversized and graying whiskers extending from his temples to his jaw, the paunchy man was unmistakable.

  She halted. Scarcely breathed.

  He was frowning at his watch, now. Glancing left.

  Oh, heavens. His head was turning in her direction.

  She spun on her heel until her back faced him and walked west. Slowly. Steadily.

  Breathe, Annabelle. Just breathe and walk. No reason to take notice, Mr. Bentley. No reason whatever.

  Bloody hell, this was the opposite of where she should be heading. But she couldn’t let anybody recognize her near the Informer’s office. She’d have to find somewhere to idle away the time until Mr. Bentley left. But where?

  Ahead, she spotted the tavern she’d passed earlier and wrinkled her nose. The sign above the door displayed a rough likeness of either a dog or a fish. It was weathered and hanging crooked, so she couldn’t read the name. Perhaps she should keep walking.

  She took three steps before noticing an enormous horse emerging from a side street. The horse had a lopsided blaze and a broad-shouldered rider.

  “Drat,” she muttered beneath her breath. She glanced behind her. Mr. Bentley was still milling outside the warehouse. “Drat, drat, drat.”

  The tavern would have to do.

  Quickly, before either man turned in her direction, she rushed to the old, scarred door marked either with a dog or a fish. Or was it a snail?

  Inside, the place was shockingly small—smaller than the drawing room at Berne House. It stank like burnt wood soaked in bad ale. Crowded around a long, central table were three men, all intoxicated if the listing and backslapping was any measure. They appeared to be brothers, as they were similarly large and flat-nosed.