by Laura Landon
Anne smiled. “Freddie often saw beauty where others did not. It does not surprise me that he purchased something for the sheer pleasure of looking at it.”
“Where is this land located?” the marquess asked, speaking for the first time since Mr. Woolsey had begun.
“It borders Brentwood Estate at its northeastern corner, next to Covington Estate.”
“But that land is entailed,” Brentwood said.
Woolsey turned to face the marquess. “Yes, it was. Until the late marquess petitioned the courts to have it separated. Although I can’t see why. It’s quite desolate and traveled very little. I doubt anyone has set foot there for years, except, of course, the late marquess. That’s perhaps why he wanted it.”
“I’m sure it was.” Anne had already dismissed the piece of land that had no value. A small patch of worthless property would not save Becca and her from starvation. What she needed was enough money to support them until she figured out what to do.
“He also left this letter, with instructions that it be given to you in the event of his death.”
“Thank you.” Anne reached out to take the letter. The writing was in Freddie’s hand and she choked back the lump that wanted to form in her throat.
“I’m terribly sorry I do not have better news for you, Lady Anne.”
Anne smiled. Dear God, she prayed. Just let me survive this until they’re gone. Please. “It was expected, Mr. Woolsey.”
“Lady Anne?” the marquess asked as he sat forward in his chair. “What are your plans now?”
“Don’t worry, my lord,” Anne said, forcing her voice to sound strong and confident. “You are not responsible for us. Becca and I would be extremely embarrassed if you considered yourself thus.”
“Do you have somewhere to go?”
“I’m sure it won’t be too difficult to find an empty house somewhere. Perhaps in London. We do have a little income, as you recall Mr. Woolsey mentioning.”
“But not enough to live as you are accustomed.” His words brought the desperation of their situation into full focus. “And for how long?”
She sat even straighter. “Long enough, my lord. You are not responsible for us. Please understand that neither I nor my sister will accept charity from you or anyone else.”
“Wanting to help you is not charity,” he said in a gruff tone. “Although distant, you are, after all, my only relation. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing you were in dire straits. I won’t insult you by inviting you to remain here at Brentwood Manor. It would be most improper once I take up residence, and I know staying here for any length of time would be too difficult an adjustment. I will, however, offer one of the other cottages on the estate. The caretaker’s cottage, which I understand is unoccupied. Or the hunter’s lodge, which I have been told is open and quite roomy.”
Anne felt as if her prayers had been answered. They had no place to go. Nowhere to live. The caretaker’s cottage would give them at least a roof over their heads until she could figure out what options were open to them.
She turned to face Becca, and it was almost her undoing. The look on her sister’s face was filled with trusting confidence.
In a gesture too small to be noticed by anyone but her, Becca reached out and squeezed Anne’s fingers. The message pure and simple. She trusted that Anne would take care of her, not realizing that they were now left with little to call their own.
Anne braced her shoulders in resolve. “I would greatly appreciate your offer of the caretaker’s cottage, my lord. Your generosity is overwhelming.”
“Not at all, my lady,” the marquess said.
His glance lingered far longer than was seemly—or necessary. She didn’t like the manner in which he looked at her. It hinted at things she would never consider.
“I couldn’t bear it if some hardship were to befall someone so lovely,” he said, still holding her gaze. “You and your sister are welcome to stay as long as you need.”
“Thank you. You will be free to take up residence in the manor house by the end of the week.”
“There is no need to hurry.”
“Yes, there is. Brentwood Manor is now yours. I’m sure you are anxious to take possession of it.”
The serious look he gave her hinted at a newfound sense of self-importance.
“As you wish.”
Anne stood, praying that their guests would take the hint that their discussion was at an end. Thankfully, they did.
“If you have any further need of my services,” Mr. Woolsey said, clutching his folder to his chest, “please, do not hesitate to call on me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Woolsey.”
“The same applies to me, Lady Anne,” the marquess said. “And consider my servants at your disposal. They will see to anything you need.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Wordlessly, Ruskins appeared to usher the two men from the room. Only when she heard the soft closing of the front door was Anne able to move. She walked to the window and stared out onto the beautifully cared-for garden.
She would miss Brentwood Manor more than she let herself admit. She loved it here and thought of it as the home where she would grow old and die. She’d never dreamt of living anywhere else, of having a home other than this one. A home of her own would come with a husband, and that was a part of life she did not want. Would not have.
She took a swallow that burned her throat. She was suddenly very tired. She wanted to lie down and close her eyes and pretend that when she awoke, Freddie would be alive and the past few weeks would have been a terrible nightmare. But that wouldn’t happen.
“I think I have the answer to our problem,” Becca said from behind her.
Anne had almost forgotten her sister was still there. She turned. “What answer? What answer do you see that I have missed?”
“You, Annie. Oh, it will be so wonderful.” Becca clasped her hands in jubilation. “The London Season is about to begin. You can put yourself on the marriage mart and find a husband. It will be perfect.” Rebecca nearly skipped across the room in her excitement. “There are ever so many eligible men out there, each one more handsome than the last. Perhaps even the new marquess will be one of your suitors. You are not that closely related, you know.”
Anne shook her head from side to side. “No, Becca. I will not have you even suggest it. Marriage has never been the answer to any problem. A marriage of convenience is decidedly worse.”
“But marrying some wonderful man who will take care of us would be the perfect solution.”
“No. Marrying a man you do not love is like walking into a trap you have no hope of ever escaping. And loving a man who will never love you in return is even worse.”
The happy look on Rebecca’s face fell. “Was it really so terrible between Mother and Father?”
Anne lowered her gaze to the floor. How could she tell her sister, who was too young to remember their mother’s tears and the endless quarrels? How could she shatter the illusion of matrimonial bliss with tales of her parents’ unhappy union? She could not. She could do nothing but lie.
“No, Becca. It was not so terrible. Mother just loved Father too much, and Father…”
“And Father loved his liquor more than Mother or his children,” Rebecca finished for her.
Anne nodded. “Yes. He loved his liquor more.”
“But not every man is like that.” There was a glimmer of hope in Rebecca’s eyes that yearned for Anne to deny her fears. “Freddie was never like that.”
“No, he wasn’t. Perhaps he saw the heartache being a drunkard caused and knew how drinking destroyed everyone who cared for you.”
“I don’t want to believe it’s impossible to fall in love with a man who loves you just as desperately as you love him, Annie.”
Anne wanted to tell Rebecca that her dream was impossible. That she was not sure any man could ever love that much. That her mother had found that out and died when she had to face her failure.
&
nbsp; But Anne couldn’t disillusion Becca. She was so young. “You’re right, Becca. It is possible to find your prince charming and live happily ever after. And some day you will do exactly that.”
“Just as you, too, will find your prince charming, Annie.”
“We’ll worry about that later.” Anne put her arm around her sister’s shoulder and held her tight. “Right now, it would be most improper to even consider marriage while we are in mourning.”
“But some day—”
“Let’s get over this hurdle first, Becca. In a few years I will give you a Season in London. You can search for the man of your dreams.”
“Oh, Annie,” Rebecca said, turning into Anne’s arms and hugging her in return. “I don’t want to get married right this moment, but marrying the perfect man is such a wonderful dream.”
Anne breathed a deep sigh and touched the flawless skin of her sister’s rosy cheeks. “Of course it is,” she answered her sister, although deep in her heart she was terrified of marrying a man who might turn out just like her father. Terrified of being stuck in a loveless marriage with no hope of escape. And terrified of loving someone so much you didn’t want to go on living when you realized he could never love you in return.
The risk was just not worth taking.
Anne pushed such thoughts away and gave her sister an open smile. She hugged her even tighter. “Why don’t you make a list of what we will take with us when we leave? I would like to go to my room for a while. I’ll be down in time for dinner.”
“You rest, Annie. I know what little sleep you’ve gotten since…since they brought Freddie home.”
Anne made her way to the door with Freddie’s letter clutched in her hand.
“We’ll be just fine, Annie,” Becca said from behind her.
Anne turned and forced herself to smile. She was thankful that Becca didn’t realize they would never be fine again.
Anne took Freddie’s letter with her to her room and sank down on the edge of the bed as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. With trembling fingers she opened the envelope and unfolded the papers. A river of hot tears filled her eyes and blurred the words she read.
Annie,
If you have cause to read this, then I regret that I have left you to face the future alone and without the financial security you deserve. As you probably know by now, everything you and Rebecca have always considered your own is entailed and belongs to someone else. Everything except the deed to the property you received along with this letter. I regret that I have not yet acquired enough wealth to adequately support you, Annie, but at the moment this parcel of land is all I have to leave you to preserve the Brentwood name. Know that there is no one else I would have possess it but you, and promise that you will never sell it.
Tell Rebecca that I loved her dearly, even though you have always possessed the greatest part of my heart. Perhaps it was because of the unhappiness we endured growing up. That bound us to each other like nothing else could.
If it is possible, I will watch out for you from above.
Your loving brother,
Freddie
P.S. When all is said and done, all any of us have left are our honor and our good name. These are riches beyond what is seen by the human eye.
When Anne finished, she folded the letter, then held it to her breast. She tried desperately not to feel any anger toward the brother who’d left them so desolate and alone, but pangs of vexation plagued her.
She also tried not to think of the man who had been with Freddie when he died. The man she blamed for Freddie’s death.
The man she wished had died instead of her brother.
Chapter 3
Griff stopped to take a swallow from the flask he kept in his pocket, then continued his way down the deserted wharf.
It had been over a month since Freddie’s death, and Griff hadn’t uncovered one clue that pointed him to whoever was responsible. He’d turned over every rock he thought might reveal something, but any information he found turned out to be nothing. He was here because there was one man who might have some answers, Colonel Rupert Fitzhugh, the man who’d issued the orders for every mission Griff had been a part of. The same man who might have been able to prevent Freddie’s death and hadn’t.
Griff had chosen the docks of London to meet Colonel Fitzhugh for a reason. After dark, the docks were the closest place to hell he knew.
Transformed under a cloak of darkness, London’s waterfront turned into a vile cesspit at night, overrun with thieves, hooligans, and deadly dangers hiding around every corner. Griff walked through the maze of hazards as if he owned the night. Safety was his last concern.
Farther down the long stretch of docks, bawdy laughter and raucous music floated out from smoke-filled taverns, rising above the yelling and cursing associated with an occasional drunken brawl. Griff was well acquainted with every filthy hovel along the wharf.
But it was quiet here. The only sound that intruded on the haunting silence was the steady lapping of the water against the moored ships.
The hollow clomping of his boots echoed through the heavy fog. The danger that awaited him down every darkened alleyway and hidden recess was as familiar as if he’d been born here. Sometimes he felt as if he had. He’d lived in this environ since Freddie had been killed. He’d spent as many hours here as he had in even less respectable parts of London, searching for the sniper who had shot Freddie. This was the most likely place to hide for someone who didn’t want to be found. The easiest place from which to make an escape.
Griff walked a few feet farther down the boardwalk and stopped to lean against a wooden railing between the moored Angela Bay and Caribbean Lady. By design, he was not early. Fitzhugh was probably here, undoubtedly waiting for him in the shadows. He enjoyed knowing that the colonel’s wait hadn’t been comfortable.
“I’m glad you finally showed up,” Fitzhugh said, appearing from nowhere. He stopped when he reached Griff and leaned against the wooden railing. “This isn’t my favorite place to stroll after dark.”
Griff didn’t turn to face the man who had been his commanding officer during the war, but kept his gaze focused out into the dense fog that seemed to grow heavier by the second. “I didn’t think you would feel too out of place mixing with the rats and vermin that only come out when no one can see them.”
“Is there a point to your comment, Captain Blackmoor?”
Griff spun to face his former commanding officer. The threat he presented forced Fitzhugh to step back.
“Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me there were still loose ends from our last mission during the war?”
Fitzhugh stiffened. “We thought we’d taken care of them.”
“Damn you, Fitzhugh! You’re the head of British Intelligence! You’re the one who sees the reports first. Why the hell didn’t you warn me that we hadn’t eliminated all of them?”
“We thought we had. The last loose end, as you call it, was eliminated after Fespoint was killed.”
“Who took care of it?”
“Hawkins.”
“Then there must have been someone else.”
“There couldn’t have been.”
Griff took a step closer to Fitzhugh. “If you don’t think there is a possibility of another agent out there, then why the hell are Hawkins and Johnston and Turner still following surveillance procedures? I’ve tailed them for nearly a month. They’re hunting for someone.”
“They’re following my orders. I’m simply making sure we didn’t overlook anything.”
Griff slammed his fist on the wooden railing and glared at Fitzhugh. “Now is a hell of a time to think you may have overlooked a stray killer.”
Several long, uncomfortable seconds of silence hung between them. Fitzhugh was the first to speak. “I’m going to credit your rudeness to the fact that you lost a dear friend, Blackmoor. And your accusations to the liquor you’ve consumed. But don’t push me too far. I’m warning you. We’ve done everyth
ing possible and can’t find any evidence that anyone followed you to England.”
“Tell that to the late Marquess of Brentwood’s family. I’m sure it will be a great comfort to them.”
Fitzhugh reached into his pocket to pull out some papers. “These are Hawkins’s reports. Everything is included in them.”
Griff snatched the papers out of his former commander’s hand. It was too dark to read them here. But he didn’t want to wait to find out what they contained. “Humor me. What do they say?”
“Only what you already know. We discovered one more member of the spy ring. He was the one who killed Fespoint. We thought he was the last. We assumed that when Hawkins eliminated him, any threat to you was over.”
“Well, it wasn’t. Or the Marquess of Brentwood wouldn’t be dead.”
“You can’t be sure his death is related to what happened over there, Captain. There’s no proof.”
“What other reason can there be?”
“Maybe Brentwood had enemies and it was just your bad luck to be with him when he died.”
“You can’t be serious. Brentwood had no enemies.” Griff fisted his hands at his side. He’d lost the battle to hold his temper at bay.
Fitzhugh turned away from Griff and stared out into the fog. The message was clear. Their conversation was at an end.
Griff put the papers in his pocket and took a step back. “If you find out anything,” he said through clenched teeth, “I want to know.”
“You’re no longer under my command, Blackmoor. You resigned your commission.”
“I don’t give a good bloody damn. You’ll tell me what you know or I’ll find out on my own, Colonel. And you won’t like my methods. I can promise you.”
Griff walked away from the man who had been a friend to him since he’d been assigned to intelligence.
When he was far enough away to regain his temper, he reached into his pocket and drained the flask in one long swallow.
Then he headed for the nearest tavern.
