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

by Audrey Ashwood

  The countess signalled that the remnants of dinner could be cleared away. At last, Marcus thought, who had hardly eaten anything and was starting to feel the effects of the three glasses of wine. Now was the time for casual chit-chat in the parlour. Annabelle had also stood up from the table and was led by the archbishop, who was visibly smitten with her and seemed to be almost unwilling to part with her, into the blue room. Marcus followed them and waited for the perfect opportunity to catch up with Lady Madeline, who had also fallen back into the stream of chattering guests.

  She linked arms with him. At least, she had abandoned the unseemly bad habit of greeting someone with three kisses, a custom in France, from where her parents had fled to England during the French Revolution. Her undeniable foreign flair was just as apparent in her dresses, which were the height of fashion, as well as in her exuberant mannerisms that always evoked a combination of fascination and reservedness in him.

  “My dear friend, what on earth is bugging you?” she asked and leaned in closer than was necessary. “Does it have something to do with your little wife, who keeps scowling at me?”

  Annabelle had done no such thing. After all, she was busy enough listening to the Archbishop’s anecdotes. As he knew the man, those were most likely stories with pretty risqué content. The archbishop did not know that Annabelle’s virtue had been untouched! The thought distracted him from his present company. It was the impatient, typically French clicking of her tongue that catapulted him back into reality and into the role he needed to play. Another female arm pushed itself from the other side into his elbow.

  It was the Duchess of Evesham who gave him a stern look. Her eyes were so similar to her daughter’s that it stung him, with the significant difference that his mother-in-law did nothing to hide her feelings. “I believe that Annabelle needs someone to rescue her from the presence of that depraved old man,” she declared with her melodic voice. She squeezed his arm affirmatively. Behind him, an amused, dry laugh sounded. Without having to turn, he knew that it had escaped the mouth of the Countess of York, who undoubtedly was enjoying herself splendidly.

  Women!

  Marcus ignored the older lady at his back and turned instead to Annabelle’s mother. “I am certain that you will master that task superbly,” he replied gallantly, passing the ball right back to her. He felt as if he was playing one of those fashionable sports, whereby two opponents tried to intercept the ball from each other. “If you would be so kind as to excuse Lady Madeline and I, we have some business to discuss,” he added smoothly. Marcus did not go so far as to shake off her arm, but he did hope that the duchess would not press him any longer. In fact, he pleaded for it, since his nerves were not particularly strong tonight, and he did not want to be discourteous, not if it could be avoided.

  Their hostess glided elegantly next to his mother-in-law.

  “Come with me, my dear. We will kidnap Annabelle for a little walk into the gardens. The air is mild, and since she is a married woman now, you have nothing to fear. Nobody would dare approach the Earl of Grandover’s wife with indecent intentions.”

  “Nobody, besides the archbishop,” Marcus commented and then watched as the two women walked away. The shoulders of the older lady quivered with suppressed cheerfulness. He waited until they had taken Annabelle into their midst, and the three of them walked through the parlour’s wide-open doors out onto the terrace.

  “Any news from France?” he asked Lady Madeline, handing her a glass filled with sherry. She took a tiny sip and pulled her rosy, pouty lips into a grimace.

  “No,” she replied. “My worthless husband is and remains missing as if the earth has swallowed him whole. Speaking of marriage,” she pronounced the word with an exaggerated accent and fluttered her eyelashes at him just as Mrs Vandyke approached them. “What do you intend to do with your little wifey? Does she know about us?”

  Marcus did not appreciate how condescendingly she spoke about Annabelle, but he knew better than to show her his anger. Madeline might have looked as if she had filled her head with nothing but fashion and forbidden pleasure, but her wisdom resembled an encyclopaedia of useless knowledge. She remembered things that nobody was interested in, but after half an eternity proved fatal to her opponents. On top of that, he trusted her only conditionally. She was pretty, entertaining, smart and witty, but he would not bet half a crown on her loyalty.

  “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 wa
ited 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 Wickham 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 l
ady – 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.