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

by Audrey Ashwood

  The boy repeated the message with a bored face.

  “You are doing very well,” Marcus encouraged him with praise, believing he had somewhat exaggerated. He did not know much about children and never knew how to talk to them when he met one – which almost never happened. However, this little guy had grown up on the street, in the East End no less, and he not only had the eyes, but also the mind of an adult who had to work hard for his daily bread. Only when a grin with missing teeth spread across the greyish-brown face, Marcus realised that the boy was maybe not as hard-nosed as he pretended to be.

  “Here are two more pennies,” he said, putting the coins into the small dirty hand. The boy tucked the pieces into his pocket and made to hit the road, but Marcus called him back. “As soon as you have delivered the message, tell Wickham to send you to the kitchen. There, you may eat whatever you want. And if you wait for my return, I will give you half a crown.” It was way too much for such a small task, but Marcus wanted the child to still be there when he returned. He could always use some extra hands in a house the size of his, and filling yet another belly was of no consequence.

  He watched the boy dart off, weaving his way onto the main road. Mysteriously, Marcus felt a little lighter around his heart, even though he had something coming now that would be more than irksome. He pushed down the latch of the back door, which was unlocked, and he listened. Somewhere in the back of the house he heard the typical kitchen sounds. Where was Madeline?

  Certainly she thought her hiding place was untraceable and would make no effort to conceal her presence. Marcus knew her well enough to know that Madeline was doing only two things at this time of the day: She either slept or was dallying with an admirer. His chances were good that the other women in the house were also asleep, while the kitchen was still in full swing preparing their breakfasts. He crept up the wooden stairs to the first floor and quietly opened the first door. The room was empty. So was the second and the third. Either the women who lived here were gone, or their number was far fewer than the countess had led him to believe. Regardless, it was not to his disadvantage if he and Madeline stayed undisturbed. The longer, the better.

  Behind the fourth door, someone was actually asleep, but the hair poking out from under the covers was blonde and matted. Then, behind the next door, he found her at last. She lay curled up underneath a luxurious damask blanket, which looked completely absurd in the shabbiness of the room. The sight made him furious. Before Madeline understood what was happening, he had her hands tied together and his hand on her mouth. The moment she opened her eyes and saw who held her captive was priceless. When his other hand pressed a dagger against her neck, he was less inclined than ever to be merciful.

  Marcus smelled her fear, and something that he had kept under control for months broke free. Nonetheless, his voice sounded ice cold as he spoke. “Tell me everything you know, and I might let you live.”

  Her eyes widened even further, and she tried to wriggle her way out of his hold. Marcus put the dagger away and took off his necktie. “Not a sound or you’re dead,” he warned her as he released his hand from her mouth to tighten the knot. With satisfaction he observed that she remained quiet.

  “Good girl,” he said in a whisper. Not because he feared someone could hear her, but because he knew just how threatening a whisper was in such a situation. The more quietly one spoke, the more control one appeared to have. It did not matter that one’s heart threatened to burst, because everything one had ever believed in turned out to be wrong. It was he whose world was in ruins.

  But unlike the traitor before him, he had a reason worth living for.

  “You and the Countess of York,” he now said. “Since when have you joined forces?”

  Something flickered past her eyes like a slithering snake, unbelievably fast and poisonous. No. He had not been wrong. She and the woman to whom he owed his acquaintance with Matilda had formed a league. The why was of no interest to him. All he needed was the confirmation of his suspicions. And fast, since Annabelle was now in the care of the countess and nobody knew what the woman was up to. His fear for Annabelle felt like an ironclad fist tightening around his heart.

  Madeline uttered an obscene curse word that he had never heard a French man say, let alone a woman. He did not react but glanced at her as if he had all the time in the world. “We can drag this out for as long as you want,” he said with a cold smile. He pictured Annabelle’s pale face, the green eyes and the stubborn look on her face when she tried to protect those she loved.

  With the force of a thousand punches he came to understand that he missed Annabelle. All this was no longer just revenge for Matilda’s death. Annabelle did not replace the love he lost, but she had conquered her very own place in his heart, in his soul.

  A fearful sound from Matilda’s mouth tore him back into the here and now.

  He saw that she had turned pale underneath her enraged blush. “We can strike a deal,” he offered. “You tell me what I want to know, and I let you go. You leave the country within twenty-four hours. Should you ever set foot on British soil again, I will deliver you to the authorities. Should you ever, in any way, try to harm my wife, her family, or myself, I will come and find you. In that case, there will be no trial for you. Am I understood?” His pulse was racing, but his face felt as if it had been carved out of stone.

  She began to talk as if she never wanted to stop.

  Chapter 19

  Annabelle felt as if the countess would never stop talking.

  Without tiring, she talked about Matilda: stories from her childhood, visits to Scotland and France, about how close she and Matilda had been. Annabelle was stunned. She could do nothing but listen and occasionally utter a sound of approval that the Countess did not seem to notice. She was lost in her own world, in which Marcus’s great love and the woman whom the countess held so preciously near, were still wandering amongst the living.

  Annabelle hoped she would talk long enough for Felicity to wake up. It was like a story from Arabian Nights, only this time in reverse. It was not Scheherazade who told a story to stay alive, but it was the caliph who was telling one memory after the other. Annabelle absorbed every detail and was almost glad that the duchess seemed to have forgotten about her. The more she learned about the countess, the longer she would be able to keep her in this blissful state of remembrance should the flow of words run dry.

  Knowledge is power, Annabelle reminded herself. By now, she had learned a great deal about the woman, who had – without a doubt – at the beginning of the night mixed a tranquiliser into her sherry. It was highly likely that the drug had caused her sister to excuse herself so early. Annabelle’s head felt light as air; she was coherent and awake, but nonetheless, she was unable to move. Or, perhaps it was the hypnotic voice with which the Countess of York told her life’s story. About John, the Earl of York, who had taken Marcus under his wing. About Matilda, who had fallen in love with Marcus the very first time she had laid eyes on him. About herself, who was moved to tears at the prospect of grandchildren, or at least something akin to it. About Greywood, who had also courted Matilda, and who had time and again emphasized the dangers of Marcus’s life, exposing even those he loved to unmentionable dangers.

  As soon as she had spoken this sentence, the countess fell silent. Her pupils seemed huge. Nothing was left of the bright greyish-blue colour except small narrow rings which enhanced the darkness in the centre of her eyes all the more.

  “Marcus loved Matilda very much,” Annabelle croaked, squeezing each word out between tight lips. “He has often told me just how happy they were.” Yes, those were the right words. The countess smiled, and her clenched hands loosened slightly. “And he also told me how much he was looking forward to their wedding. She was the love of his life and he would have gladly given it for her.” The drug was starting to wear off. With every word, it was easier to speak. If only her throat were not so incredibly dry!

  “If only he had,” the countess gasped
out. “But he had to chase down some criminals in France who followed him all the way to England to take revenge on him. Did he tell you what they did to my poor child?”

  Annabelle shook her head. She was scared and felt like crying at the same time. Her hand was tingling, and she tried to lift it to touch the woman sitting across from her, but that did not work. Not yet. “I am so very sorry,” she whispered, feeling the tears run down her cheeks.

  “They killed her as if she were nothing but an annoying insect. And then they sent my girl back to Marcus, in…” her voice broke. The countess cleared her throat, “in her own carriage. Marcus carries the guilt.”

  The last sentence sounded like a court judgement. Annabelle felt ice-cold.

  Finally, she understood. The Countess of York had something to do with the mysterious shadow-man whom Marcus was chasing. She looked at the woman opposite her and tasted the words on her tongue. Shadow-man. Shadow. Man. No. Not man – but shadow-woman. How could she have been so blind? She of all people, who had relentlessly complained that she was not recognised as a human being – but merely as a woman – had made the exact same mistake. She had assumed that the enemy in the darkness was a man, simply because women did not do such things. She had been wrong.

  The Countess of York was the one who had tried to have Marcus killed. She was the shadow-man.

  Annabelle gasped for air. The noise that escaped her throat tore the older woman from her thoughts. “I see that you are beginning to understand.” She sounded strangely satisfied. “I have always thought of you as remarkably smart. Even though it was most foolish to marry a man such as St. John.” She looked sharply at Annabelle. “Have you realised as much by now?”

  The question sounded incidental. Almost too incidental, as if Annabelle’s answer did not really matter. Should she agree with the countess and affirm that her marriage had been a mistake? Or should she tell the truth and admit that she had fallen in love with Marcus? Annabelle felt that the woman opposite from her would not take kindly to a lie.

  So, she took a deep breath and prayed that she could guess correctly what the countess wanted to hear. “He is a very handsome man,” she began hesitantly. The countess’s reaction was a snort. “He is a hard man, at least at first glance.”

  “I did not ask you for a characterisation,” the countess shut down her attempts. “Did you not listen to what I have been telling you all night? I know Marcus better than anyone else, apart from maybe Finch and John. But John is dead and Finch… well.” There was something peculiar in the way she so abruptly ended the sentence. “Do not think for one second that I will not know if you are insincere in your response. You are trying to figure out what answer I would like to hear.”

  “And if I say something that you do not like to hear?” The way the countess addressed her had changed to a less cordial tone, and so Annabelle did the same. The intimate and frightening situation she was in demanded more than just a disrespectful form of address. “What will happen to Marcus and me?”

  The countess shrugged her shoulders. It was a gesture of perfect indifference. “Surely you have understood by now that I want to see him dead. He will die – one way or another. His life does not depend on your answer.” She peered past Annabelle. “It is starting to get light outside. If he is as clever as he thinks he is, he will have an idea by now in what kind of game he has gotten himself into.”

  Annabelle’s thoughts were racing. She had written him a letter telling him about Hawthorne’s visit, and she had mentioned that she was going to travel to the countess’s manor today – no, that was yesterday. So, he knew where her sister and she were. However, Annabelle did not know if, in the meantime, he had succeeded in solving the mystery of the string puller’s true identity.

  She still did not understand what the Countess of York had to gain by bringing Annabelle here and sedating her.

  “Why am I here?” she asked straight out. There was no point in flattering or lying to the countess. Perhaps she could manage to anger her, which might give Annabelle some sort of leverage. She was starting to feel her legs again and was able to wiggle her toes. If the drug’s effect wore off as rapidly as it seemed, she would have to hold out for another ten or twenty minutes before she could move again. Escape was out of the question, as long as Felicity was staying here too, but maybe she could manage to overpower her hostess.

  There had to be something she could do!

  Marcus rode the horse as fiery and relentlessly as was possible without harming the animal or himself. His hope of catching up with Finch had turned into smoke, once he realised how much time had passed since Madeline’s interrogation and his subsequent return to the house. At least the little boy had successfully delivered the message and, according to Wickham, Finch had promptly set off. In addition, with commendable foresight, his butler had had Marcus’s fastest horse saddled.

  London was already a good hour behind him. By now, he could not have said how many carriages and farmer workers he had passed. He was focussed solely on finding his way to the countess’s estate. Needless to say, Finch knew the route from his time as a factotum to the Earl of York, and Marcus himself had visited the place three times. He believed to recognise a small village with the pompous name of Holywood Saint Mary’s, which was at root nothing more than a random collection of farmhouses. Relief flooded his body when he realized that he was less than half an hour away from the house where the Countess of York waited for him with his wife and sister-in-law.

  Madeline had not been able to tell him anything else about the countess’s plans. Marcus did not trust her, but she had been afraid enough to tell him everything she knew. He pushed the French woman out of his mind and looked to his left and right. The path was lined with harvested wheat fields. In the distance stood a dead tree, once struck by lightning. It stretched its branches towards the sky like a pleading suppliant. Marcus remembered its knobby form well. He was on the right track.

  Shortly after the tree, little bushes began to surround the road, and it was not even five minutes later when he slowed his exhausted black mount. The cool air of a small grove embraced him. A click of his tongue, and his horse fell into a soft trot. Marcus did not want to risk announcing his arrival from miles away. After all, he had no idea what the Countess of York was planning. He simply had to believe that Annabelle was still alive!

  Whatever his opponent wanted from him, he was more than willing to give it to her – as long as she would let Annabelle go. The road narrowed and was now just wide enough for one carriage. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed some broken off branches to either side. Not too long ago, a wider vehicle had made its way through here. At the same time, he watched for Finch. He had ridden at a fast speed, and while he had not caught up to his friend, he could not be far behind him. Most likely, Finch hid near the house to intercept Marcus. He was prudent enough not to act rashly.

  With his sleeve, Marcus wiped the sweat off his forehead. The noises of the forest, the chirping of birds and the occasional rustling of an animal were now, at his slow trot, easy to hear. His mouth was dry, and his throat as parched. His neck tingled. Someone was watching him.

  A shot was fired.

  His black horse reared up. Marcus forced his body to go limp. The fraction of seconds that passed before he could let himself fall off his horse with relative safety seemed like years to him. It was a manoeuvre that brought him dangerously close to the horse’s stomping hoofs, but he managed to roll off to the side. He hoped that the illusion of a man being hit by the bullet was believable in the distance. He almost cried out as he landed on his still injured shoulder, which he had forgotten during the ride. The ground to the side of the road was covered with moss that cushioned his fall, but not enough to prevent the biting pain.

  Stars danced in front of his eyes.

  He did not have to force himself to lie still, for the pain prevented any movement apart from the one essential for his survival. Inch by inch, his hand crept towards the pistol he ha
d hidden under his spencer and pulled it out. In agony, he rolled around until he was lying sideways facing the road, his hand holding the weapon hidden by his body, so it could not be seen. At least, that’s what he hoped.

  He waited. The shooter had to think that the bullet hit its target and Marcus was dead, thus making no effort to dampen the sound of his approaching steps. Marcus strained his ears.

  He forced himself to keep his eyes closed and to breathe as shallow as possible. He knew the rhythm. The man who approached him was no stranger. The friend, whom he would have trusted with his life, wanted to see him dead. It was a bitter blow. The agony was almost as bad as the physical pain in his shoulder.

  The footsteps slowed until they fell silent.

  In his mind, Marcus pictured what Finch was doing. He would not discard his mistrust about this being a feint. He would give preference to certainty. Marcus envisioned Finch watching his motionless body from a halfway safe distance. He pushed the hurt of his betrayal into the farthest corner of his mind and silently counted backwards from five.

  On three, Marcus tensed his muscles.

  On two, he heard the unmistakable clicking sound of a pistol being cocked.

  On one, he rolled onto his back, lifted his healthy arm with his gun, and shot at the same time as his former friend.

  He let himself drop back onto his side. It did not matter on which. Marcus had had his one chance and if he had missed, then he was as good as dead.

  His foe’s bullet passed close to his head and buried itself in the moss behind Marcus. In relief, he exhaled the breath he had been holding. Aware of having gained a few precious seconds, he struggled to his feet and scanned the area with his eyes.