The Three Evesham Daughters: Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Trilogy

by Audrey Ashwood

  She had expected her words to hit him, maybe even hurt him, but nothing of the sort occurred. The only sign that he had heard her words was a lowering of his eyelids. After a while, which seemed like an eternity to Annabelle, he finally spoke. His voice was so subdued that it was barely more than a hoarse whisper.

  “That is what I’m asking myself, my dearest wife.” There was a pause in which she not only heard him breathe, but also perceived the raising and lowering of his chest. “Who are you, Annabelle? Who are you really?”

  She glanced up, but his facial expression was unreadable. Desperately, she searched for the right words to answer his question, but there was too much that went through Annabelle’s head and at the same time – too little. It was as if his closeness sucked the last bit of reason out of her. Had she not read somewhere about a mad man who claimed that there was animal magnetism? Back then, Annabelle had dismissed the claims by the professor as folly, but here and now, she could have sworn that St. John possessed the power of mesmerism. Heavens, she could not even reflect one thought when St. John was present. He must think her one of those women who lost their senses at the sight of a man.

  He did not wait until Annabelle had composed herself thus far to give him a coherent answer, but instead, he turned and left. Even though he did not know it, he had just carried away a victory, Annabelle thought. For as much as she strived against the notion, the less she could deny the bitter realisation: whenever St. John was near her, she lost the ability to think clearly, just like those other women she had observed and looked down upon in silent mockery.

  The insight, however, also had one advantage. Now that she knew that she had some sort of weakness for him, she could begin to sort out the reason for her feelings. Only a weakness which was accepted as such could be overcome. As she padded back to her bed, to hide there for the rest of the day and night, her only question was why this decision did not make her happy.

  “You must be more careful, or else this little vixen will have you–” Finch began when Marcus stormed into his study and slammed the door shut behind him. However, this time he did not want to hear his friend’s advice.

  “Stay out of it,” Marcus interrupted Finch roughly and sat down in his armchair. The high back and hard upholstery helped him regain some of the composure he had just lost so grandiosely in the bedroom with that woman. The thought of it almost made him laugh, as he imagined himself crawling under the bed in search for his lost self-control. “Whatever it may be that she is waking up inside me, I have it under control.”

  Finch raised an eyebrow, which, in combination with the scar that graced one side of his face, made him look almost frightening.

  “Yes, I know,” Marcus grumbled and ran both hands through his hair before he loosened his too-tightly-bound cravat. He looked at his companion, whose mouth twitched treacherously.

  He had not slept one wink last night, and the tension in his body hardened his muscles. The search for his attacker had come to nothing. Finch had lost Greywood in Whitechapel, and as interesting as the question was – what kind of business would take the viscount to the city’s worst poverty-stricken quarters? – it was as insignificant for now. He and Finch had followed the trail of blood drops that had remained mostly undisturbed thanks to the early hour – and that even after he had stormed Annabelle’s room. The trail had ended in an alleyway, where the imprints on the ground pointed towards a waiting coach. It had been a heavy carriage, as was easily to conclude by the deep ridges created by the sunken-in-wheels. However, there was no one who could provide a description of the carriage, or, what would have been even more valuable, of the man who had climbed it. Well, it did not help to mourn a missed opportunity. Greywood might have been the attacker, but it was equally possible he had hired an accomplice.

  Two minutes later, he filled two glasses with brandy, one for Finch and one for himself.

  “There is something about this woman that drives me to the brink of insanity,” he admitted, savouring the burning sensation of alcohol running down his throat. Finch sat with crossed legs on the floor, a nonchalance he allowed himself only in privacy with his old friend.

  “I have to admit that I do not particularly like her,” Finch said. “But the first rule of our business is…”

  “… that there aren’t any rules,” Marcus finished his sentence simultaneously with Finch. “You mean that she is not the joker whom Greywood or his ally brought into play, but landed in my house by some crazy coincidence?”

  “We should not completely dismiss the possibility.” Finch was not a man of many words if it could be avoided. More often than not, his silence was more eloquent than a thousand sentences by another person. What Marcus valued about him, along with his unwavering loyalty and the unconditional friendship that bound them together, was his remarkable ability to give Marcus room to think. He sighed.

  “I would really like to solve this puzzle,” he said and took another sip of his brandy before he set the glass down on top of a precariously high stack of papers. “But the risk is enormous, and I am not willing to take it. At least, not yet.” He paused again.

  Nothing could disturb him in the comfortable silence of his study – except the thought of Annabelle, his unwanted wife.

  “I could ask her directly, but if I am mistaken and she really is in cahoots with our enemies, I will give them an inadvertent advantage.” Finch did not reply, but the way he frowned his forehead was answer enough for Marcus. “If I am not mistaken…” He fell silent, as the face of his wife unintentionally crept into his thoughts. “If she is a victim of his intrigues, and he has her or her younger sister in his hand, then I could endanger her with my questioning. Annabelle is smart. She won’t be satisfied with half-truths once she has an inkling of what is going on here.”

  “And if she is acting on behalf of Greywood, your inquisition could do more harm than good.” Finch untwisted his legs in a way that looked rather painful in Marcus’s eyes every time he saw it, and what Finch explained as a remnant habit of his time at the other end of the world. “What are you going to do?”

  “On Friday, she and I are invited to the Countess of York’s annual dinner,” Marcus said. “Greywood will also be attending, as you know. I will unobtrusively give the two an opportunity to talk to each other in private and observe them. Then I’ll decide. Either I will talk to her openly, or I will get the truth out of her in another way.” He drank the last swig from his glass. “Friday, so it shall be. I have wasted too much time in speculation already, and I am sick of assumptions.”

  “It could work,” Finch said, letting a few seconds pass before voicing his objection, which Marcus knew would come as surely as the sun never set in the British Kingdom. “But Lady Madeline will also be present. You know how… temperamental she can be.” Finch was very cautious with his words.

  Marcus avoided his friend’s gaze. “I have already instructed Annabelle to be nice to her.”

  Finch’s eyes almost dropped out of his head. He did not try to hide his amusement. “If I were you, I would not show up unarmed at the Countess’s dinner. You are sure to anger one of the two ladies. I would not want to be in your skin when the two collide. If you are not careful, you may find you have started a new Anglo-French war with this arrangement.”

  Had he not just thought that Finch was not a man of many words? Well, evidently, the idea of a meeting between Annabelle and Madeline had loosened his tongue.

  “That will not happen,” Marcus assured him, calming Finch as much as himself. “I will find an opportunity to appease Annabelle,” Marcus said, and in his mind, he promptly imagined how to bring it about. He already had an idea.

  Chapter 8

  Annabelle looked forward to the Countess of York’s dinner with mixed feelings. Although she was looking forward to seeing her mother and sister, she did not dare to hope for a pleasant evening. She liked the countess very much, and she always felt comfortable in her presence, however, the meeting between the viscount
and St. John was not an occasion which would contribute to a casual atmosphere she had come to expect at the countess’s dinners.

  Already inside the carriage, the mood between her and St. John was not the best. She knew that she should stop worrying about his mood swings towards her, but they hurt her, nonetheless.

  Firstly, even before he had wished her a ‘Good evening’, his gaze had slid towards her ears. “If you are searching for the jewellery you kindly sent to me via Clarice – I am not wearing it.” Although she had been very tempted to put on the emerald earrings and necklace, she had decided against it.

  “I thought that you would like it,” St. John replied and managed to make her feel guilty.

  “That is the case,” Annabelle admitted and slid deeper into the luxurious cushions of her seat, which almost made her forget about the notoriously poor condition of London’s streets. “However,” she looked directly at him, “I would have been delighted about a personal note from you, since you could not deliver those precious stones yourself.”

  “I was busy,” he growled. “The events that have unfolded in these last few days have demanded all my attention.”

  “I know,” Annabelle replied, leaving open whether she was referring to his first or second sentence. And again the gloomy shadow, which she already knew so well, darted across his face. “I will wear them as soon as I have a matching dress,” she soothed him, wondering at the same moment why she did that. “The colour of the stones does not match the bright colours of my wardrobe.” She lifted the corners of her mouth to attempt a smile. Never before had she had so hard – as in his presence – to maintain the facade of courtesy. On top of that came her conflicting feelings! Annabelle did not appreciate her emotions spinning around in such a wild storm of feelings. “As soon as I–” she started again, not knowing how to finish the sentence. She meant to say that she intended to wear the earrings and the necklace at the next opportunity that presented itself, but who knew if her marriage would even survive the coming days.

  “First, let us get through this evening together,” St. John suggested, leaning back. Surprised, Annabelle tried another smile, which felt easier than before. In the twilight of the setting sun, whose rays lit up the interior of the coach only to a meagre extent, she could only vaguely decipher his facial expression. If she closed her eyes and concentrated solely on his voice, that deep, reassuring purr of a contented tomcat, Annabelle was able to imagine, for a moment, that she still had a chance. If not for the beaming happiness she had desired as a young girl, then maybe for something else. But what would that be?

  “What are you thinking about, Annabelle?” A shiver ran down her spine when he spoke her name.

  Without opening her eyes, she repeated what had just been going through her mind.

  “I am remembering my dreams. As a young girl, when my parents had not yet introduced me into society, I always imagined that one day I would find my fulfilment alongside a man with whom I was passionately in love.”

  The noise that he uttered caused Annabelle’s eyes to open. She felt the heat that rose into her face. “What did I just say?” She swiftly placed her gloved hand over her mouth and realized that her body seemed to burn with heartfelt embarrassment.

  St. John leaned towards her. His fingers reached for the hand which she still held pressed against her lips and lowered it back into her lap. “There is no reason to apologise for juvenile follies. We both know that this is not a marriage of love.” A thick lump formed in Annabelle’s throat. “But tell me one thing.” St. John’s face came even closer to hers, which Annabelle had hardly thought possible. His minty breath brushed her ear. An unnameable sensation tickled her stomach and threatened to spread throughout her body. “What do you want now, Annabelle?” Her mouth opened, but not a single word came out. “Evidently, you cannot be satisfied with expensive jewellery.”

  “I want a husband who respects me. Whom I can love and admire. One who perceives me as a human rather than a possession or even a burden.” She bit her lip when she realised how much of herself she had divulged, again, and more so, to whom. Her cheeks burned. For a second, she had believed that he was truly interested in her as a woman, and that he, perhaps, even regretted his despicable behaviour towards her. But far from it. To St. John, she was little more than a child who needed to be pacified, kept busy and quiet. She drew in her breath when she remembered who else she would be seeing at the countess’s dinner, apart from her family and the viscount.

  Lady Madeline Scorch. The woman she was supposed to befriend. St. John had sent her the jewellery to bribe her, so that she, Annabelle, would be a good girl. Obedient. A wife who smiled in his mistress’s face; who was polite and overlooked her husband’s escapades, regardless of how foolishly he behaved.

  “The man I love must be one thing above all else – honest.” And with that, she had said everything she needed to say.

  Although she did not want to, she peeked out of the corner of her eyes to her right, in his direction. Between his brows, a steep V had formed. He did not seem angry as such, but irritated. “The same goes for the woman I love,” he returned.

  “I would be honest, if…” she began, but just at that moment the carriage came to a halt. Annabelle heard the driver, Finch, jump off his coach box as he rushed to their side.

  The door sprang open, the steps flapped down, and St. John stepped outside. He stood and held out his hand to help her from the carriage. “We will continue this interesting conversation at a later time,” he murmured threateningly, and offered his arm to her. St. John held himself very straight, while his gaze scanned the street up and down.

  “I am looking forward to it,” Annabelle returned and pulled her shoulders back, despite not feeling well at all. “Always assuming that later does not mean next month or perhaps next year.”

  “Tonight,” he confirmed, without looking at her. “As soon as we leave the dinner party and arrive home.”

  Annabelle had assumed that St. John intended to send her back to their home in Eaton Square under Finch’s care so he would be able to amuse himself in the company of Lady Madeline or at the card table.

  She warded off the budding hope that filled her heart. It remains to be seen if he keeps his promise, she thought, concentrating on the sidewalk, which was only half visible through the tears in her eyes. Somehow, she suspected that an attack on his life would not be the gravest obstacle preventing St. John and her from having a much-needed discussion.

  Greywood had not appeared. That was suspicious, but not enough proof of his involvement in the assassination attempt. St. John did not know how badly he had injured his opponent. Annabelle’s presence in the window and her fainting had distracted him. Later on, it was hard to gauge the amount of blood the attacker had lost on the dirty pavement and muddy side alleys. He also believed that Greywood was not the sort of man who would get his own hands dirty. The method of the viscount matched to his cowardly nature. A stab by a hired backstreet assassin fit his character – an attack by his own hand did not.

  He was dealing with an opponent who continuously managed to evade him. Just like fog, Greywood slipped through his fingers again and again, and so did the person in the background.

  Marcus had hoped that during the long waiting hours, Finch could sneak up on Greywood’s coachman, while he himself kept an eye on the viscount. But as it turned out, all of his plans had once more been rendered obsolete, and he had to change them. Rapidly, he sent Finch a brief note instructing him to go to Greywood’s house and, should the viscount embark on one of his excursions, to follow his heels.

  The countess had not placed him and Annabelle next to each other, but across each other at her table, and Marcus was unsure whether he felt thankful towards the eccentric lady, or if he resented her for it. That way, Annabelle was steadily in his line of view. Which per se was beneficial, if one wanted to keep someone under close scrutiny – as he did. He snorted quietly. Even if Greywood had appeared, the two could hardly have
exchanged secret messages underneath the table. For that to happen, they would have had to overcome the spindly legs of the Archbishop, who was sitting next to Annabelle, and Mrs Bancroft’s sprawling, hopelessly old-fashioned skirts. Marcus’ dinner partner may not have had any daughters of suitable marriageable age, but she did have a panting, flatulent lapdog, who put him off his dinner.

  When he pushed aside his dessert untouched, he noticed the glint in his hostess’ eyes, and he knew that she had purposefully placed him next to Mrs Bancroft and her dog. It was one of those dinners where the only common ground between the guests was their diversity. The countess loved to entertain herself by forming the most impossible pairings.

  “It strengthens the character to endure even those types of people that one loathes,” she had replied, when he had asked her for her reasoning concerning the placements after a particularly exertive dinner. Her petite and unladylike tanned face had lit up with devious delight, just as it did now, as she returned his gaze.

  It had not escaped Marcus’s attention how warmly the countess had greeted Annabelle, and it had strengthened his decision to clear the air this evening. It was obvious that the Countess of York treasured his wife, and he trusted her insight into human nature almost as much as he did his own. His mouth twisted into a smile. The way things looked, he trusted her instinct even more than his own, for the old lady’s opinion caused him to push his suspicions about Annabelle into the background, at least for the time being.

  Annabelle chatted ingenuously with the archbishop. What amusing things did the two have to talk about? One would assume that a young woman and an old swashbuckler, grey-haired by his faithful service to the church had nothing in common. But his wife seemed to be having a marvellous time. Definitely more so than he and his eyes, which were burning under the onrush of the dog’s transpirations. He longed for the moment when he could finally get up and talk to Madeline. Although it was the ruling custom that the ladies and the gentlemen retreated to separate rooms after dinner, the countess would not be the countess if she did not maintain her own ideas in this regard as well.