The next evening she attended a musicale given by the wife of the Baron Lenwood. Annabelle thought there must be eighty or a hundred people there—not a huge crowd by any means, but a large enough group to ensure that one could avoid undue attention to oneself.
She and Aunt Gertrude had just stepped into the Lenwood drawing room when Lady Hermiston was approached by Mrs. Lenwood, who detained her in conversation. Annabelle stood slightly aside, politely waiting. She tried to be discreet in surveying the room at large. Yes. Drat it. There he was. Thorne Wainwright stood in conversation with a number of others, including Helen Rhys. Well, Miss Rhys was welcome to him!
“May I have a private word with you, Miss Richardson?”
Annabelle turned at the unwelcome voice just behind her. “Lord Beelson. I cannot imagine that you would have ought to say of interest to me.”
He showed his teeth in what might have passed for a smile were there any warmth in his eyes. He gripped her elbow. “You may be surprised, my dear.”
To jerk away would cause a scene, so she merely said through clenched teeth, “Take your hand off me!”
He tightened his grip. “I will speak with you. Lenwood has kindly offered his library just across the hall. Five minutes will not compromise you.”
She weighed her choices. “Very well. Five minutes.”
He relaxed his grip, but only slightly, as he steered her out the door and into the room across the hall. She jerked away from him, but noted with some small relief that the door remained open.
“Now—what is it that you want?”
“A little ordinary courtesy might be in order. Especially as I am in a way of offering you a service.”
“A service? I want nothing—nothing—of you.”
“I think you will want my silence, Miss Bennet. I think you might even be so very appreciative of my silence as to be willing to pay for it.”His voice was smooth, oily, smug.
She looked at him in surprise. “You are out of your mind.”
He laughed, a dry, mirthless sound. “Oh, I think not. You are Emma Bennet. I paid one of Murray’s idiot clerks dearly for that handy bit of information.”
“And now you expect me to reimburse that expense?”
“And then some. Just recompense for the embarrassment I suffered at your hands. I figure a monkey will do nicely.”
“Five hundred pounds? Five hundred pounds?” Her voice rose in astonishment. “You want five hundred pounds—from me? ”
He seemed taken aback by her vehemence. He glanced at the open door. “Keep your voice down,” he said sharply. Then he added in a falsely conciliatory manner, “If you would find that sum difficult all at once, I would settle for half in—say—two days and you can pay me the rest in a week.”
“Or—you could settle for nothing at all. For that is what you will have from me—nothing.”
“You had best think very carefully about that, my dear. How will the exalted members of the ton react to this news? Your friend Rolsbury will likely find it quite interesting.”
“You despicable cur!” She had heard of people being so angry as to “see red,” but it was a new phenomenon for her.
“Tut! Tut! Save the name-calling. It could only cost you more, you know.” He still sounded insufferably smug.
“Now you listen to me.” She pointed a finger at him, her hand shaking in her fury. She clipped each word precisely. “I shall not pay five pounds—let alone five hundred—not even a farthing!”
“Brave talk for a girl who has avoided public censure before. How will you like this news in every drawing room in the city tomorrow?”
It will be in every drawing room in a week anyway, when the book comes out, she thought irrelevantly. Aloud, she said, “And how will you react to having the doors of those same drawing rooms closed to you? Just which hostesses would still receive you if our little talk here became general knowledge?”
She could see that he was totally surprised by her counterattack. He had undoubtedly expected her to dissolve into a flood of tears, begging his mercy or some such thing. Six months ago, his threats might have been effective. But now? She gave him a contemptuous look and strode toward the door.
“You had best reconsider my offer,” he said, nearly snarling, but he did not touch her again. Which was just as well, she thought, for she would have screamed like a mad woman, scandal or no.
She returned to the drawing room, still shaking with rage. Looking for Aunt Gertrude, she found her gaze locked momentarily with Thorne’s. He simply raised an expressive brow and turned away. Oh, Lord! He had seen her leave the room with Beelson. She gave a mental shrug. So? Let him make of it what he would. She resented his apparent dismissal of her.
Fourteen
Thorne had watched her leave the room with Beelson and he could tell she was upset on her return. Had that cad done something to hurt her? By God, if he had—he caught himself up short. If he had—what? It was no concern to Thorne Wainwright. Two days later, she did not appear at her friend Letty’s party and he worried now that Beelson had threatened her in some way.
Thorne knew very well that Beelson lived on the fringes, so to speak. The man managed to continue to be accepted in Society, but only barely. He was known to be a high-stakes gambler, and rumor had it that his scruples in certain gaming hells were none too nice. However, he cleverly did not practice those arts at ton gatherings.
Beelson had a reputation for—and took pride in—being a ladies’ man. But Thorne would have staked his life that what transpired between Beelson and Annabelle at the Lenwood affair was not a romantic assignation. Had Beelson perhaps found out about Emma Bennet, too? After all, Innocence Betrayed had leveled its harshest invective against Beelson and Ferris. And Thorne knew Beelson well enough to know the viscount would be seeking revenge.
“Luke.” Thorne addressed his brother when that young man finally showed for breakfast one morning.
“Hmm?” Luke grunted in response.
Thorne chuckled. “I know you to be of little use before you have been fed and watered—so do drink deeply of your coffee. I want to ask you something.”
Luke took a big swallow and nearly choked. “Dang it, Thorne, I do believe you must have developed cast-iron innards in the army.”
“Put some water or milk in it if you are not quite up to real coffee.”
“If you can stomach this, so, by golly, can I!”
“That’s the spirit, little brother!”
Luke took another swig and swallowed with greater ease. “So, what did you want to ask me?”
“Have you seen much of Beelson lately?”
“You aren’t going to ring another peal over my head about associating with Ralph, are you?” Luke sounded defensive, his guard up.
“No. I warned you about him. You know how I feel. The man is a blackguard, but if you want to associate with him anyway, so be it. However—”
“I know. You want nothing to do with him.” Luke seemed less defensive now. “As a matter of fact, I’ve not seen him much of late. I hear he has money problems, though.”
“Up the river Tick,. is he?”
“Well, standing on its banks anyway. Jessup said something about a ship he and Beelson invested in—went down in the Indian Ocean.”
“But Beelson owns a good deal of property—as well as knitting mills in Manchester.”
Luke took another sip of coffee and began to plow into the plate of food set before him. “All mortgaged,” he said around a mouthful of eggs and bacon. He swallowed. “Mortgaged to the hilt, Jessup says.”
“Hmm.”
“Why are you interested? Thought you hated him.”
“Hate? Maybe. I do not like him. That’s certain. I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“Cut line, Thorne. This is me—Luke—you are talking to. You never ‘just wonder’ about such things.”
Thorne gave his brother an assessing look. “Very well. I saw him the other night with Miss Richardson at the Lenwood af
fair.”
“Annabelle? With Beelson? I don’t believe that!”
“Not with him, exactly—”
“I wouldn’t think so. I don’t think she likes him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Hell, Thorne. You read that Bennet woman’s piece. Most of that stuff was true.” Luke blushed at this admission.
“That so?” Thorne gave him a teasing grin. “Ah, well, some lessons come that way.”
“I suppose so.” Luke found his food of particular interest at this moment.
“Given his character, Beelson would hold a grudge against Miss Bennet.”
“Yes, he probably would,” Luke agreed. “That is, he would if he knew who she was. But I doubt he knows any more than the rest of us.”
Thorne made no reply to this. Luke excused himself and Thorne was left to muse alone. He wondered why he had not told Luke—or Aunt Dorothy—of his own discovery of Emma Bennet’s identity. Then it dawned on him that he had heard no whispers in that regard. He had encountered Wyndham at the club and at a committee meeting and there had been no change in the man’s attitude. Apparently, then, Annabelle had said nothing, either. He wondered why she would keep silent, but at the same time he was grateful.
You might have thought that through more thoroughly before lashing out at her, he told himself in some disgust. After all, it was not as though he had not enough time to consider all the angles. He needed to start thinking less like a hot-headed soldier storming the ramparts and more like a politician plotting careful strategies.
He picked up the stack of mail Perkins had placed near his plate. He recognized the handwriting on two of the missives. The first came as a distinct shock. It was Emma Bonnet’s—that is, Annabelle’s. He started to put it away to be dealt with later. “Maybe in the next decade,” he muttered. But something stopped him. He quickly broke the seal and scanned the contents.
Dear Sir,
While you probably do not welcome a missive from me, I feel circumstances dictate some communication about the matter you brought up at the League meeting last week. Therefore, for the sake of a good many others beyond ourselves, I would ask you to meet with me.
I ride in the park every morning between the hours of 8 and 9. If that would be inconvenient for you, please apprise me of a time and place more to your liking.
Yrs.
A. Richardson
“Hmm.” Thorne sat thinking about this, reading and rereading. It was certainly formal and to the point. She was right. The consequences of the situation could go far beyond themselves. Picking up the rest of the mail, he went to the library, where he quickly penned a one-line response.
Tomorrow morning at 8 will be fine.
R.
He dispatched the note with a footman, then turned with more warmth to the other letter—also in a feminine hand. His sister Catherine wrote that at last she was accepting his standing invitation to visit in town. She would, of course, be accompanied by her husband and the children—all four of them, ranging in age from seven years to five months.
Thorne was delighted at the prospect of her visit. He had always been close to Catherine, who was a mere two years younger than he. Her first Season had ended disastrously. Thorne had fretted when he was en route to the Peninsula by the time of her second Season. But she had met and married a fine man in the Baron David Brideaux, whose family dated back to the Norman invasion. By the time Thorne finally met the man, the couple had been married over three years and already had two children.
Catherine had written him faithfully while he was in the army, keeping him informed of her happiness, and her growing family. She also supplied him detailed news of his father and brother—beyond his father’s cryptic “status reports” of the earldom and Luke’s labored schoolboy notes.
Thorne had repeatedly urged Catherine and David to come to London for the Season—even in those years when he could not or would not visit the city himself. Now they were coming.
He rang for Perkins and Mrs. Ewart, the housekeeper, to inform them of the impending visit.
“Oh, my,” Mrs. Ewart said. “The nursery rooms have not seen service since Master Luke was a boy. They will need a thorough cleaning and airing.”
“I am sure you are up to that task,” Thorne said.
“Yes, my lord. And it will be very nice to see Miss Catherine again—that is, Lady Brideaux—and her wee ones.”
A soft light came into the housekeeper’s eyes at the mention of the children; Thorne wondered what it was about babies that turned some adults into want-wits.
Later in the day he informed Luke of their sister’s anticipated arrival.
“Good! was Luke’s response. “Now you, too, will have the wonderful ‘uncle’ experience.”
He did not inform Luke of the planned meeting with Annabelle.
As she donned her blue riding habit, it occurred to Annabelle that she had worn the same attire when she went riding with Thorne at Rolsbury Manor. Not that he would care what she wore. This was not a meeting of lovers, after all. Well, she thought forlornly, if the word lover referred to “one who loves,” then maybe it was half a lovers’ meeting. She smiled at this bit of silliness.
“There. At least you are smiling on the outside,” she told the image in her glass.
When she and the groom who accompanied her arrived at the park, Thorne was already there. He had dismounted and stood beside his horse—the black gelding he favored so. Dressed in buckskin breeches and a dark green coat, he quite took her breath away. As she approached, he remounted and swung his black in beside her chestnut mare.
“Miss Richardson.” He tipped his hat to her.
“Good morning,” she said. So, it was to be a coldly formal encounter. Well, she had expected no less. She struggled to remember the speeches she had planned so carefully. None of the bright, cheery words of the evening before came to mind now.
They rode in uneasy silence for a few moments, the groom following just out of earshot behind them. Then Thorne cleared his throat and said, “I believe you asked for this meeting.”
“Yes. I did.” She finally had control—well, some control at least—of her thoughts. She pulled her mount to a stop and he did the same. She held his gaze. “First of all, I am truly sorry that you suffered embarrassment from any action of mine.”
“Yes. Well. Done is done.” He looked away and his voice was not encouraging.
“Secondly,” she went on doggedly, “I should like you to understand—I do not quite know why it is so important to me that you understand this, but it is—I truly was going to tell you of Emma Bennet before it became public knowledge.”
He turned slightly to look her in the eye. “An—Miss Richardson, I might point out that your failure to do so was not from lack of opportunity.”
“No, it was not lack of opportunity.” She chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “I ... It was ... fear. I suppose you were right about my being a coward.”
She thought his color deepened slightly at this. “Fear?” he asked.
She took a deep breath. “Yes. Fear. At first I simply did not want it known that I wrote that . . . that . . . piece. Did not want it known that I wrote at all. Then—” She paused, struggling with her jumbled thoughts.
“And then . . . ?” he prompted.
The words tumbled over each other. “Then I was afraid you would hate me for what I had done and I did not want that. I thought you would hate me even more for having hid it and it turns out I was right on both counts.”
He was silent for a very long while, during which she sat her horse beside his in abject misery.
“I did not hate you, Annabelle, though I admit to being angry—furious even.” He had spoken in a quiet voice and his use of her name seemed unconscious. “However,” he added just as her heart had lightened ever so slightly, “I doubt you mean to waste our time discussing my emotions.”
She straightened her shoulders and adopted a very businesslike tone. “No, of co
urse not, my lord. I ... I am mindful of the goals you and Marcus are trying to achieve.”
He raised a brow at this, but said nothing.
She went on. “I would not be an impediment to your work in that regard.”
“I am not sure I understand your point,” he said.
“Marcus does not know of your discovery of the truth about Emma Bennet.”
“But he does know of Miss Bennet?”
“Oh, yes. He has known from the very first.”
He gave her a penetrating look, then slowly shook his head. “My God! You must all have had great fun at my expense.”
She put out her hand in a supplicating gesture, but at his look of disdain, quickly pulled it back. “Please, Th—my lord. It was not like that. Truly, it was not. As a matter of fact, Marcus and Harriet both had serious reservations about ‘Innocence’ from the beginning.”
“If you say so. But I think that is not the point of our meeting like this.”
“No, it is not. The point is this—if Marcus knew of your . . . uh ... extreme unhappiness, he might—from some sense of loyalty to me—be less inclined to work closely with you.”
“Are you suggesting that Lord Wyndham’s support of reform measures rests on petty likes and dislikes for the people advocating them?”
“No! I am suggesting nothing of the kind!” Lord! Was the man that dense, or was he merely toying with her? “I am saying you and Marcus together are doing good work. I—along with many others—should like to see you continue in those efforts and I think they might go more smoothly if Marcus remained unaware of your antipathy to me. He is fiercely loyal to those he cares for.”
He appeared to weigh what she had said. “You do make a valid argument.” Then his voice twisted in sarcasm. “But how very convenient. Emma Bennet goes her merry way and all is well—is that your real purpose here?”
Her temper flared. “Think what you will of me, sir. There are matters more important here than Emma Bennet’s identity—or my regrets—or your injured sensibilities.”
Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) Page 16
