Befuddled with wine and lust, Sir Edward did not hear the sounds of voices and steps in the hall until the door of the coffee room flew open, swinging in to hit the wall with a bang. The baronet blinked up at the imposing figure standing in the doorway. He had no doubt who it was—the tall blond man couldn’t be anyone but Annabelle’s brother. But Sir Edward hadn’t expected him to be so tall. In the dark caped driving coat, the man seemed wide as a bear, and twice as dangerous.
Lord Kingsley stepped into the room, Christa following and closing the door to give them privacy. Annabelle was near to weeping with relief, while Sir Edward straightened up, feeling at a distinct disadvantage.
“Good evening, Belle. I assume that this is Sir Edward Loaming, my future brother-in-law,” Alex drawled as he stripped his driving gloves off.
“Exactly so,” the baronet blustered. “Does this mean you are giving me permission to marry your sister?”
“She will be free to marry whom she chooses in a few weeks. How about it, Belle, do you really want to marry this”—his eyes raked Sir Edward’s willowy elegance—“this man-milliner?”
Annabelle was too distraught to answer. The surge of relief she had felt when Alex entered was overpowering. Yet she was in love with Sir Edward. Wasn’t she? Haltingly she asked, “You would not disapprove?”
“I have trouble imagining that I could ever approve of this shagbag, but if you want him, and he loves you enough to marry a dowerless girl, who am I to stand in the way?” Alex had taken the baronet’s measure in one glance, and he wanted Annabelle to know exactly what kind of man her suitor was.
Alex’s comment elicited a startled squawk from Sir Edward. “Dowerless? But everyone knows how wealthy the Kingsleys are!”
Alex’s smile was coldly amused. “Quite right. But unless you have a source at my man-of-business’s office, you can’t know how the money was left. My sister hasn’t a penny in her own right. Quite ramshackle of my father to leave my siblings wholly at my mercy, but doubtless he assumed I would be fair with them.”
Sir Edward’s jaw sagged open in horror. “But surely you wouldn’t turn your only sister out in her shift!”
Alex raised one eyebrow sardonically. “Of course not. She has a very considerable wardrobe. You won’t have to buy her anything for at least a year, though women’s fashions have been changing rapidly of late, don’t you think?”
Sir Edward ignored this sally. “But I’m drowning in the River Tick! If she marries me, she might starve. Or end up in debtors’ prison!”
“Not unless she chooses. My sister will always be welcome in my home. But you won’t be. Cheer up. Annabelle can visit you in Marshalsea Prison. She’s a softhearted girl and will probably bring you baskets of table scraps. I imagine I will allow that, when I am feeling charitable.”
Sir Edward looked at him with loathing. “You would see your sister’s name dragged through the mud? Why, if it becomes known that she ran off with me, your whole family will be disgraced!”
Lord Kingsley’s wide smile was the most heartless the baronet had ever seen. “You overrate my family pride. As you probably know, I’m a crude sailor, hardly ever at home. What do I care about a parcel of gabblemongers in London?”
Sir Edward was aghast, unable to believe what he had heard. “You mean you really don’t care what anyone says?” At Lord Kingsley’s cool nod he gurgled, “But what of the feelings of Annabelle and your younger brother?”
Alex shrugged. “Jonathan wants to enter the Army soon, so I daresay a fight or two over his sister’s good name won’t hurt him. Good practice, in fact. As for Annabelle”—he glanced over at her white face—“if she chooses to have her name on every loose lip in London, I’ll not stand in her way.”
Sir Edward was reeling from the succession of shocks he had received. “I don’t believe that a man can be as blind to his honor as you claim to be,” he muttered.
“Oh, I am not wholly indifferent,” Alex said cheerfully. “All things being equal, I would just as soon no word of this little escapade got out. So if you maintain a gentlemanly silence, I shall reward you.”
Sir Edward straightened up hopefully. Perhaps there would be some good from the situation after all.
“Yes,” Alex continued. “I shall let you keep your miserable hide intact.”
As Sir Edward blanched, Annabelle warned, “He’s fought at least one duel, Alex.”
“Splendid! I prefer not to kill a defenseless man. I trust that you don’t mind if I choose to use my cutlass, Sir Edward. After all, I am the injured party, and the choice of weapons is mine. The cutlass is a crude weapon next to a smallsword, but excellent for hacking and chopping.”
Sir Edward turned white. His one lesson in swordsmanship had ended when he found the sound of scraping blades unbearable.
Alex regarded him thoughtfully. “If you wish, we could make do with pistols, but I should think you wouldn’t like that as well. Rather than trying for a head shot and running a small risk of your escaping unscathed, I would have to aim for the torso. And as I’m sure you are aware, it takes a man such a long time to die of a bullet in the belly.”
“I won’t fight you!” Sir Edward gasped.
“You won’t?” Alex said in a silky voice. “What a pity. For most assuredly I will fight you, whether you defend yourself or not. And the world being the unfair place it is, I have no doubt that the justice system will cause me no inconvenience.”
Sir Edward gaped at his lordship, unable to believe that a peer of the realm could be such a cynical barbarian. The baronet’s stomach was churning and his ample supper threatened to return by the same route it had entered. Vastly amused by the proceedings, Christa chirped up helpfully, “If you would like to settle it now, Lord Kingsley, I brought your pistols in with me.”
Alex looked at her and they shared a mirth-filled glance before he returned to the business at hand. His voice softening, he asked, “Will you come with me, Belle?”
His sister nodded and rose, her body shaking from the effects of too many shocks. The last days had been hellishly difficult, and now she found that her lover was a scoundrel and a craven; in fact, his clay feet went all the way to his ears.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” she said in a trembling voice. “You were interested only in money. Everything you said about loving me and admiring me—it was all lies, wasn’t it?”
Slumped on the settle, Sir Edward refused to meet her eyes.
“Damn you, look at me!”
The baronet glanced up, unable to believe that Annabelle the Docile could say such a thing, and in such a tone of voice. Her white face was rigid, but the blue eyes burned with pain and humiliation.
Annabelle stared down into the handsome, weak face and felt sickened that she had believed—and kissed—those lying lips. With one spontaneous gesture she lifted the bowl of trifle from the table and upended it on his face. As she stalked to the door, determined to shed no more tears in the man’s presence, the silence was broken by the sound of Christa applauding. “Oh, très bien, Miss Annabelle! Very well done, indeed.”
Lord Kingsley picked up his sister’s cloak and draped it around her shoulders. With one last glance at Sir Edward, who sat in stupefaction while custard and raspberries soaked into his Brutus-cut hair and embroidered waistcoat, Alex said cheerfully, “See what I saved you from, Eddie? She’s a proper tartar when she’s angry. Come on, Belle. I think your former fiancé is about to flash his hash.”
Eddie! The insult nearly unhinged Sir Edward entirely. He glared at his lordship’s broad shoulders as the door closed, his chest heaving with furious gulps of air. Someday, some way, he seethed, he would find a way to get even with Viscount Kingsley.
* * *
Alex led Annabelle out into the passage. “Do you have any luggage upstairs?” When she nodded, he gestured to Christa. “Bring it down. Come on, Belle. We’re going home.”
It took Christa only a moment to retrieve the bandbox and join the Kingsleys outside the sta
ble. Alex placed Annabelle in the middle of the seat so she would be secure between him and Christa, since his sister’s flash of anger had burned out and she seemed to be in shock. Christa put a comforting arm around the girl as Alex swung the carriage into the road and south.
After a few minutes he said to Christa, “I’m inclined to change horses at the next post house and go all the way back to London tonight. Can you and Belle manage?”
Christa glanced at the bent blond head between them. Her numb mistress appeared indifferent to what was going on around her. “We are all tired, but if we can get fresh horses, it will be better to go all the way to London. If we return tonight, no one will know we were gone.”
Alex nodded, then whipped the horses up.
It was a long, chilly ride back, and as they pulled into the mews in St. James’s Square, the church bells were striking four times. Alex turned the horses over to a sleepy and taciturn groom, then accompanied the girls upstairs. Annabelle was still moving like a sleepwalker, and he thought that the full shock wouldn’t hit her until later.
In front of his sister’s room Alex looked down into Christa’s gray eyes, as tired as his own but still clear and holding a trace of humor. “I owe you a great deal, Christa. If you hadn’t discovered the elopement so quickly, Belle would have been tied to that scoundrel for life.”
Her smile had a trace of impishness. “It seems to me that you handled matters with great savoir faire. You have a considerable talent for foiling elopements.”
Alex shuddered. “Once is enough, thank you!” He squeezed Christa’s shoulder in token of the thanks she wouldn’t accept, then watched as she helped his sister into the bedchamber. Through his fatigue, he felt a passionate gratitude that the French girl had entered their lives.
Chapter Fourteen
Annabelle slept most of the day through, awakening in late afternoon. She was confused when her eyes first opened, and it took some moments to recall the events of the previous night. Then it came back to her, Edward’s lies, her own stupidity, and she started sobbing. At the first sounds, Christa entered and came to the side of her bed.
“How are you feeling, Miss Annabelle?”
“I wish I were dead.” Her voice was flat and despairing.
Christa patted her hand. “Very likely, but you will feel less like that after you have eaten.” She left the room in spite of Annabelle’s protest that the mere thought of food sickened her, returning a few minutes later with a tray that Monsieur Sabine had prepared especially to tempt an invalid’s appetite.
Annabelle’s unromantic stomach responded to the delectable scent of the clear soup, hot bread, and crème caramel, and she managed to eat a few bites before fretfully pushing the food away. Christa commented when she came to remove the tray, “Everyone thinks you have a touch of flu. If you wish to rest for awhile, no one will comment.”
Over the next week Kingsley House was flooded with flowers and messages expressing the hope that Annabelle would soon be restored to health. Christa arranged the flowers and read aloud some of the shorter messages. Others made her purse her lips and decide they were best left until her mistress was stronger.
Annabelle lay unmoving most of each day, eating a little but saying almost nothing. At night Christa could hear the wretched sobs from her mistress’s room, and feared that soon the girl would be truly ill.
The turning point came a week after the elopement. Christa came into the darkened room to find that Annabelle had read all of the notes, and she was crying hysterically.
“People know! Two of the women have made sly comments about how Sir Edward has left town, and how odd it is not to see me in the park with him, and … and …” She disintegrated into tears.
Deciding that enough was in this case far too much, Christa marched over to the windows and pulled the draperies open. Late afternoon sunshine flooded into the room.
“Close them! I can’t bear the light,” Annabelle sobbed.
“It is more than time we had some light in here.” Christa’s voice was biting. Annabelle raised her head in confusion, her eyes red and swollen, her hair lank. The abigail was standing in the sunshine, her chin up and her eyes a chilly gray.
“Yes, I know your heart is broken. Yes, you were a fool. But there are worse things than being a fool for love, and it is time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself.
“After all, you have escaped the consequences of your folly. Can you imagine how much worse things would be if your brother had not rescued you, if you had actually married that cod’s head? You would have been miserable as long as you both lived. There may be a few sly innuendos from the cats of your acquaintance, but there would have been such comments in any case. No one knows that there was an elopement, and when you start to go out again the whole matter will be forgotten.”
Annabelle was shaking. “I can never face anyone again!”
“Five days from now is your ball, and you are going to walk down there and dance and flirt as if you have never had a care in your life.” Christa’s voice was implacable.
“I can’t!” Annabelle wailed.
Christa exploded, her eyes flashing gray fire. “Sacrebleu! If you have no pride in yourself, have some for your name! If you disappear from society, the aimless gossip around your name will catch fire in earnest. In spite of what he told that fribble, your brother will fight for your honor. Do you want to be responsible for the consequences?”
She paused to let that idea sink in before continuing, “Have you thought, even once, about what you have done to Lord Kingsley? He has done everything he could to make you happy. He trusted you and you rewarded him for his trust by running away with a scoundrel. He rescued you from your own folly, laid no word of blame, and now you won’t even talk to him! Have you considered how that must make him feel?
“Have you even noticed that your brother has an injury in his side that seems to pain him constantly, and which is worse this last week? Have you thought about anything but your own selfishness and hurt pride? Even that fool of a baronet is in worse case than you—he is facing ruin, while you have no worse injury than your wounded amour propre.”
The words poured out of the French girl in an angry torrent. “Almost everyone in London has worse problems than yours. Women are selling their bodies, gin-soaked parents batter their children, men hang for stealing loaves of bread, yet the Honorable Annabelle Kingsley can afford to lie here in pampered comfort, whimpering like a kicked puppy.”
As Annabelle stared white-faced, Christa threw her hands up. “Go ahead, discharge me! I have no desire to continue in the employ of such a poor-spirited excuse for a woman.”
Christa stalked across the chamber to her own small room and slammed the door. Picking up her portmanteau, she started throwing things into it. If she stopped being angry, she would want to cry, and on the whole she preferred to be angry.
There was no way that Annabelle was going to forgive that kind of outburst from a servant. Of course the girl was suffering, but she had certainly brought it on herself. What really devastated Christa was seeing the hurt in Alex’s eyes every day when he asked about his sister and she refused to see him. Christa sensed that Lord Kingsley blamed himself for everything—his sister’s unhappy childhood, her elopement, her present misery. He moved more slowly now, the exuberant energy that was so characteristic of him dimmed.
Christa angrily dashed the tears from her eyes and started folding her linen into the case. The sooner she got away from this house, the better. She loved both Alex and Annabelle, but she had neither the position nor the power to comfort either of them, and watching their misery was tearing her apart.
After Christa had stormed out of the room, Annabelle lifted herself from the bed and crossed shakily to the window, pulling a wrapper around her. As she stared out, blind to the splendor of St. James’s Square, the maid’s words pounded in her head. Have you thought about what you have done to Lord Kingsley? Almost everyone in London has problems worse than yours. A poor-
spirited excuse for a woman. A poor-spirited excuse for a woman.
It was all true. She had been a fool, and there was no changing it. Alex had told her to avoid Sir Edward, she had known that Christa didn’t like him, yet she had run headlong into his arms, willing to believe him the embodiment of her romantic fantasies. Annabelle had no one to blame but herself.
Yet she was blessed in so many ways, with wealth and position, two brothers who loved her, a growing circle of friends, even passable good looks. All that, and she was hiding in her room like a badger in its sett.
Annabelle knew that Christa herself had lost her family and her home to revolution, yet the French girl had never been anything but cheerful, generous, and loving. Annabelle could understand why her maid despised her, and a wave of self-loathing started sweeping over her.
Stop that! Her fingers clenched on the brocade curtains and she squared her shoulders. She could not change her past mistakes, but she could try to avoid making the same ones in the future. And to the extent possible, it was time to make amends. Without realizing it, as Annabelle crossed the room she was taking the first long step from childhood to maturity.
Annabelle knocked at Christa’s door, then entered before she could be refused admittance. She was shocked to see the half-packed portmanteau. The French girl straightened and looked at her warily. Lifting her head a little, Annabelle said, “I owe you an apology. It cannot be easy living with the heroine of a Cheltenham tragedy. I have put you to considerable trouble and distress these last days, and I hope you will forgive me.”
Christa was for once at a loss for words. After a flustered moment, she said, “I should not have ripped up at you so.”
“If you hadn’t, I would still be lying in there like Ophelia drowning.” Annabelle paused, then said diffidently, “I know that my hen-hearted behavior has given you a disgust of me, but I pray you will reconsider and stay here.” With the ghost of a smile, she added, “I will need guidance on how to be more spirited, and I doubt I could find a better teacher than you.”
Lady of Fortune Page 21
