Anne began peeling off her traveling clothes, replacing them with sturdy walking boots and a tightly woven, navy-blue day dress that could withstand the pricks and scrapes of the woodland’s underbrush. She finished her outdoor ensemble with a well-worn scarlet cloak, not bothering with a hat.
Setting off in search of the housekeeper, Anne strode toward the servants’ staircase. The austere condition of her route held few clues about Fenmore’s master—only that he kept a well-qualified housekeeper on staff. Everything was in its proper place, not a speck of dust to be found.
Upon her arrival, she had noted the quality of the manor’s furnishings and the alternating warm and cheery tones decorating the rooms. And, of course, attentive servants were located in areas where one would expect to find servants in a home this size.
It all felt wrong. She recalled having the same reaction to Shevington’s town house. No doubt both homes carried his mother’s touch. The decor fit his lordship’s mother perfectly.
How long ago had it been since Shevington’s father died? If the loss had happened recently, she could understand why he had not yet added mementos that reflected his likes, beliefs, or dreams. But if his father’s passing had been awhile ago, why hadn’t he at least made his town house feel like home?
Taking the servants’ staircase to the ground floor, Anne found the housekeeper in the kitchen speaking to the cook in low tones. Anne cleared her throat. “If anyone should need me, I’ll be back within the hour. I’m going to take in a bit of fresh air.”
“Enjoy your walk, Miss Crawford,” the housekeeper said, her expression neutral.
Anne paused at the rim of a vast and varied garden. To the left lay several neat, mounded rows of herbs for the kitchen. To the right, a whimsical display of topiaries in the shapes of frolicking animals. The middle contained an intricate labyrinth of stone pathways, trim hedges, thorny roses, flowering bushes, and ornate fountains.
She set off down one of the winding pathways. Even while she breathed in the fresh air and admired Shevington’s gardener’s handiwork, she was acutely aware that nothing of his presence could be found outside either.
An odd pang scored her chest. In a hundred years, his descendants would look back and find only a vague mention of Marcus Keene, the seventh Marquess of Shevington. “How sad,” Anne whispered.
Pushing away the melancholic thought, Anne picked up her pace. She could not be distracted by the handsome marquess and the reasons behind his detached existence. Nothing about his demeanor bespoke of unhappiness or disappointment with his lot.
Indeed, he accepted his responsibility to Jacqueline with little more than an enigmatic lift of his aristocratic brow. Did nothing bother him? Make him angry or sad or frustrated or confused? Or happy?
Although she had spent several hours in his company over the last fortnight, she knew only of his fascination with mysteries. Deep down, she sensed he used his sardonic humor as a shield to keep everyone at a distance. Which begged the question: Why?
Why did he resist developing close relationships? Anyone who visited his Mayfair town house did so to see his mother—never the marquess.
Once again, she forcibly banished Marcus Keene from her thoughts. She had come outside hoping the fresh air would cleanse her mind and body of the constant, inappropriate musings she’d been having about his lordship. Even though the garden held no physical hint of his presence, he was all around her. Somehow he had managed to penetrate her every vulnerability.
How had she let this happen? And how could she undo it?
Anne glanced around to locate the footpath leading to the curious dome-topped structure. Anything to take her mind off Lord—no, she would not say his name again. That way lay devastation. Finding the pathway, she set off at a hurried pace.
Movement at the corner of her eye drew her attention and slowed her steps. At the forest’s edge, in the shadow of an ancient tree, hovered the silhouette of a man. Or at least, she thought it was a man.
She stared at the spot, waiting for the figure to step forward or melt away now that she had noticed him. But nothing so much as twitched. Not a tuft of grass, nor a dangling leaf. Birds, insects, and even the wind held their collective breaths. Silence, stillness. She had never experienced anything so absolute. So volatile. So disturbing.
It was as if someone had snapped their fingers and stopped time. The only sound that kept her grounded was the thunderous beat of her heart. Go back! it shouted.
She glanced at the pathway leading toward her destination, not wanting to give up this small respite from her duties. But prickles of unease forced her attention back to the shadows. Her gaze raced left, then right, no longer able to locate the silhouette.
Had she imagined it? Or had the stranger finally disappeared into the woods?
An image of Lord Whitfield’s lust-filled face surfaced. She reared back, certain she felt the heat of his humid breath on her cheek. The unsettling fear simmering in the back of her mind since Whitfield’s attack pushed to the fore, compelling her into motion. Back to the house, away from the threat.
Not until she reached the center of the formal gardens again did she allow her pace to ease. It took her heartbeat much, much longer to believe she was safe. She hurried into the kitchen, startling the cook and housekeeper.
“Back so soon, Miss Crawford?” the housekeeper asked. “Did you not enjoy your walk?”
She forced a smile. “Quite the contrary, Mrs. Eppelwhite. The grounds are lovely, and the air is as fresh as can be. I simply recalled something I must do before this evening.”
“Cook has a special meal planned for tonight.” Mrs. Eppelwhite’s gaze roamed over Anne, assessing. “Be sure to bring your appetite with you.”
Anne tried to infuse warmth into the smile she sent the reed-thin cook and sturdy housekeeper, but her attempt turned brittle. Lord Shevington’s continued insistence that she share her meals with the family did her no favors with his staff. She had always dined alone at the other households where she stayed, an arrangement Anne did not mind.
In her experience, dinner conversation generally consisted of gossip about the master or mistress of the house, other staff members, or the neighbors. With the exception of Lord Whitfield, she’d always cared for those she worked for and with. But she’d never had the same compelling need to dissect every piece of their lives. Sometimes it was best not to be aware of certain details. Everyone made mistakes, even though many gossips tended to forget their own.
Anne only needed to know one thing about the people around her—were they, at their core, good people?
“Thank you, Mrs. Eppelwhite,” Anne said. “I look forward to sampling Cook’s delicacies.”
The moment she reached her bedchamber, Anne rushed over to the window and scanned the tree line. From this distance, everything blended into hues of green, brown, and black. She could make out no distinctive shapes or patterns, only an interconnecting landscape.
She sighed, both relieved and dismayed. Would she never feel safe again? Would she now see menacing strangers around every corner? Had her awful encounter with Whitfield destroyed what little freedom she enjoyed?
Anne cradled her face with trembling hands. She concentrated on the exotic domed folly in the distance while her fear warred with her desire for independence. Soon, the quake in her muscles disappeared, and she dropped her hands away, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. She drew in a fortifying breath, and with it her natural confidence returned.
No, Lord Whitfield would not take away her precious freedom. Not today.
Chapter Eight
“Monsieur, the Marquess of Shevington has retired to the country.”
Bélanger slammed the pad of his fist against the carriage door. His journey to this godforsaken island had been rife with one delay after another.
First, he’d had to detour around three angry crowds protesting Bonaparte’s new policies. Then his ship had not been able to set sail for several hours because of a viole
nt storm that blew across the channel.
A smaller, yet no less aggravating, problem ensued the moment he hit English soil. The dockhands would do nothing to help his party secure a conveyance to London. Once they heard his manservant’s accent, the mongrels either stared right through him or scurried off in the other direction.
When the carriage axle broke in the middle of nowhere, his patience had shattered. He had raged. He had threatened the coachman. He had been forced to ride in the back of a vegetable cart for five bruising miles.
Now, after finally arriving in London, days after he had intended, exhausted and irritated, he was met with another delay. “How much farther?”
“A three-hour ride, monsieur.”
Bélanger checked his timepiece. Evening would be upon them soon. “See if my business associates are available to meet tomorrow. If so, we will retrieve Giselle’s daughter the following day.”
After making the decision to track down Jacqueline, he had sent word ahead to several gentlemen in the city, requesting an audience. He had hoped to attend the meetings between making arrangements for Jacqueline’s return. The fact that the girl was no longer in London meant he would have to modify his schedule. Again.
Once he had Jacqueline in his possession, Bélanger would make the English bastard who had cuckolded him pay for the misery he had suffered since learning the truth about his daughter—Giselle’s daughter.
How he did not know, for nothing could be more painful than losing a child.
Chapter Nine
With his feet crisscrossed atop his desk, Shev pulled out his timepiece and sent the gold chain spiraling around his index finger. He repeated the action, again and again, until the repetitive motion lulled his mind away from the stack of paperwork on his desk.
For the first time ever, Shev found himself uncomfortable in a beautiful woman’s presence. He’d promised the governess that she had nothing to worry about. That he could control his ungentlemanly urges.
Any other time, with any other woman, he could have kept his word. Never had he allowed his body to control his mind. His good judgment. His honor.
But Anne was different from the other women he’d known. At times, he would catch her studying him across the dining room table or from her favorite perch in the schoolroom when he stopped by to check on Jacqueline.
The intentness of her gaze made him feel exposed, raw, lacking in some elemental way. He feared she could see beyond his façade, straight through to the lie that he lived.
Much of the ton thought him nothing more than an entitled profligate. People with such mindsets often became careless when discussing sensitive topics, thinking he either didn’t care or couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of their statements. He used their ignorance to his advantage. To his country’s advantage.
Since the collapse of the French ancien régime fifteen years ago, London’s ballrooms, drawing rooms, card rooms, brothels, and gentleman’s clubs had housed any number of passionate, counterrevolutionist émigrés and British-hating visitors.
For the past decade, the dissolute, detached Marquess of Shevington had been there, watching and listening. Reporting all he heard to the Earl of Somerton, England’s greatest spymaster.
Before Miss Crawford’s arrival, he had cared little about how others perceived him. The persona he’d carefully crafted hurt no one. Most found his antics amusing rather than off-putting. The one character flaw he’d needed no help in creating was his inability to care deeply about any topic.
What he did for his country he did because of a strong dislike of idleness and the mind-numbing boredom induced by his set’s pastimes. Of late though, he’d found himself looking forward to the day when Britain and her allies crushed Bonaparte’s growing empire, thus ending the Corsican’s reign and terminating Shev’s pact with Somerton.
A sound in the corridor outside his study caught his attention. The rotating chain clanked to a halt. He peered out the window and realized midmorning had arrived while he’d sat here ruminating over an angry, distant child and a desirable, forbidden governess.
He checked his timepiece and saw that it was time to unveil his surprise. He hoped it would accomplish what he had failed to do since Jacqueline’s arrival—make her smile.
Standing, he straightened his clothing, anxious to get through the next thirty minutes without making matters worse. For someone who was unaffected by the feelings of others, Shev found himself navigating unfamiliar territory with his daughter—and the governess.
Many of his actions and comments were now carefully crafted around what he thought would please them. And, to be honest, him. It didn’t take a wise man to discern Anne’s unease at having to dine with the family. But he couldn’t elevate her need to avoid him above his need to have her close.
Selfish bastard.
Jacqueline’s impatient voice reached Shev’s ears before he even made it into the entry hall. He quieted his footsteps until Miss Crawford and the girl came into view, their backs to him.
Dressed in a serviceable buckskin-colored dress trimmed in black, the governess spoke to Jacqueline in soft, guiding tones. Tones that matched the gentle contours of Anne’s beautiful face and the subtle curves of her body.
“When do we leave?” Jacqueline asked in French.
“As soon as Lord Shevington arrives,” Miss Crawford answered in English.
Jacqueline turned her attention toward the grand staircase, no doubt expecting him to descend from the family quarters rather than approach from his study. Although her expression remained impassive, her small frame vibrated with anticipation. The dread he’d been feeling all morning lifted.
“Where is he?” Impatience laced the girl’s words.
“His lordship said he would meet us here at half past ten.”
Jacqueline squinted at the large antique clock resting against one wall. “He’s late.”
“Not yet.” Anne indicated the clock’s long hand. “Half past is when this arm is pointing toward the six. It’s only on the five, which means Lord Shevington has five more minutes.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed on the clock.
Anne smiled. “I’ll introduce you to time telling soon enough.”
Shev stepped out of the shadows. “Time telling? Why would a five-year-old need to know the time?”
They both jerked as if Cook had caught them with their fingers in the meringue. “To know whether a young man is late or not, of course,” Anne replied.
“I’ve found punctuality to be a dead bore. Anticipation keeps things interesting.”
“Only if you’re the one creating the anticipation.”
“Sounds like you are too often the recipient and not the creator. Something I shall have to remedy.”
“Instead, why don’t you explain why you’ve arranged this outing.”
Shev glanced down and found wide brown eyes riveted on him. “What do you think, Jacqui?” Shev asked in English. “Shall I allow Miss Crawford to win this battle?”
The girl’s brows scrunched together at his shortening of her name. Slowly, she nodded, as if she were waiting for an unpleasant response.
“Win goes to the lady, then.” Shev smiled at Anne before leading them outside—toward the large barn.
The moment Jacqueline realized their destination, she hurried to his side and asked in French, “Do you have horses, sir?”
“Pardon?” he asked in English. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”
Jacqueline’s jaw clenched, weighing how far she could push the issue. Anyone who knew him well could have told her that Shev rarely lost such challenges.
She asked again, this time in broken English.
He rewarded her with a smile. “A few. Why? Do you like horses?”
“Oui.” Cautious joy lit her solemn face. “Father would not let me near—” She cut her confession off and lowered her attention to the ground.
“The horses?” Shev finished for her, halting.
Every muscle in he
r small body locked in place. With her chin tucked in so tightly against her chest, her dark hair created a shield around her face. She said nothing.
Bending low, Shev asked, “Why won’t your father let you around his horses, Jacqui?”
Silence.
“Do you like to poke them with a stick?”
Her head snapped up. “No!”
“Do you steal their food?”
“No.” She stamped her foot for emphasis.
“Do you tickle them until they’re rolling on the ground?” Shev put words to action and, his fingertips attacked her middle.
While trying to defend her ribs, Jacqueline stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. He understood then that no one had ever tried to make her laugh. No one had ever played with her until she shrieked with abandon. Shev increased his efforts until the girl’s giggles filled the air, then he swooped her up into his arms and lifted her chin. Her laughter died.
“Why are you not allowed near the horses?” he asked quietly.
When she did not answer him, he glanced at Miss Crawford, who only sent him a soft, sad smile in return.
Shev was at a loss. He knew nothing of children and even less of little girls. They were strange creatures, girls. And they only grew more perplexing as they matured. So he did the first thing that came to mind.
Lifting his free hand, he waited for Jacqueline’s curiosity to get the best of her. The moment she transferred her dejected attention to his hand, he curled his fingers into a claw, then aimed for her stomach.
“Tell me, or face the tickle monster.”
“Non, non, non!”
“Tell me now—in English—and I’ll call the monster off.”
She leaned way back, pushing against his chest. Never taking her eyes off his hand. “Little girls are too loud. They scare the horses.”
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