Finally, the doctor left, leaving instructions for the tincture of arnica and the other remedies he had left behind. She heard the door close, and she returned to the chair beside her mother, who was asleep, this time from the medicine the doctor had given her. A soft footstep behind her made her look up—it was Mr. Wentworth, his face concerned and kind. Annabella almost burst into tears seeing his obvious compassion—she did not deserve such kindness.
“I am sorry your mother is injured, but it is not as bad as it looks. Doctor Robinson has said so, and I trust his judgment, for I have known him all my life, and he has done well for my family. I have had a room prepared for you; I think it best that you rest.”
Annabella let out a half-sobbing breath. “I—no. No, I must watch over my mother. What if she should become worse?”
He took her hand and held it in both of his own, looking earnestly into her eyes. “It will do her no good if you should exhaust yourself. I will have maids watch over her during the night, and if anything should change, they will alert you, I promise you.”
“No, I—I—”
“Please, Miss Smith.”
She looked up at him and saw the worried crease on his brow, and his eyes, warm and kind, as he gazed at her.
“If it would make you feel better, I shall watch her myself, with a maid in attendance as well,” he offered,
Annabella’s heart warmed. How kind he was, when he was clearly tired himself! No, she could not inconvenience him so ... and perhaps he was right. Perhaps her mother’s injury was not so bad as she feared, and she would be well with only maids attending her, as Mr. Wentworth said. She smiled at him and rose.
“I am sorry. I have been foolish, have I not? No, you need not attend her, and I am sure a maid will suffice. I will sleep, as you suggest.” She bit her lip and glanced once more at her mother. “But you will instruct the maids to tell me if she wakens?”
He smiled, and Annabella remembered the impression of spring and sweet air that had come to her the last time she had seen him smile, at the Bowerlands’ gallery. His presence was so solid and real. A brief image of his arms around her, her head laid upon his chest in a comfortable way flitted through her mind. She blushed slightly and dismissed the thought—she was tired and had been frightened. Mr. Wentworth would make sure all would be well. Her heart lifted and made her smile a little in return.
“Of course, Miss Smith. I promise you I will. Now, if you will come with me, I will escort you to your room. There should be a maid there by now to help you ready yourself for sleep.” He put her hand on his arm and led her from the room.
They said nothing as he took her down the hall, but she felt no awkwardness, even though he was silent, and she was used to gentlemen making conversation whatever the situation. Surely, Doctor Robinson was right in saying she could depend on Mr. Wentworth. Mr. Wentworth’s solid presence beside her was comforting, and his arm beneath her hand felt strong and capable of carrying any burden. Annabella let out a sigh and felt her shoulders loosen and drop away their tension.
They came to her room, only a few doors away from her mother’s, and Mr. Wentworth put up his hand to open the door.
“Wait—”
He stopped and looked at her, his brows raised in question.
“Please ... I wish to thank you. You have been so kind—”
A slightly alarmed look came into his eyes. “I—no, no, it was nothing. Anyone might have—”
She took his hand and pressed it. “You were wakened from your sleep to tend to my mother and myself—an inconvenience. The Cavalier—a gentleman dressed as a Cavalier—was very brave; it was he who brought my mother here. But he left—” She gave a small, incredulous laugh. “Like a ghost, or a dream. Then you came and were so comforting and kind.” She lifted his hand to her cheek in a brief, impulsive gesture. “Thank you. And good night.” She opened the door to her room and with a last, grateful smile, went in and shut the door behind her.
Parsifal stared at the door and half raised his hand, as if he could still see Annabella’s image before him. His hand dropped, and with a long, slow sigh, he turned and walked down the hall to his own room.
* * * *
Sir Quentin walked along the moonlit road to where he had tied his horse earlier that evening. He kicked a stone and muttered a curse under his breath. It had been a stupid idea to try to find Miss Smith at the masquerade. It was nearly impossible to discern which lady she might be in such a crush. At least it was none of his idea, but his employer’s idea. He could not be blamed for failing at such an impossible task. He cursed again and kicked more stones, watching how they scattered into the dark, then shrugged. At least Lord Grafton had a good cellar; he had drunk his fill of the wine and punch that had flowed freely there.
“Sir Quentin Barnaby.”
He jerked up his head. It was not his horse before him, but a tall, dark shape ... and he knew the voice. He swallowed and wet his lips, suddenly dry.
“What is it you want?” he croaked.
“You failed again.” The voice was devoid of emotion and chilled Sir Quentin more than the icy tone he’d heard before.
“It was not my idea to search her out at this masquerade—it was yours, if you remember! No one could find her in such a crush of people!”
“But I did, Barnaby. I danced with her twice. You could have done the same, and more.”
“Well, why don’t you deal with her, then?”
“It was you I hired to seduce Miss Smith. You did not do the job. I see I was mistaken in hiring someone so inept.” The dark man took a step toward him. Sir Quentin stepped backward, stumbled, and fell.
“I do not suffer fools gladly, Barnaby,” said the man, his voice softer now. He came closer, with a lilting step, and Sir Quentin saw the gleam of moonlight on a silver-headed walking stick. He crawled backward, trying to get away, but the metallic hiss of a withdrawn sword struck his ears and twisted his gut with fear. He swallowed and felt the prick of the sword-stick at his throat. “I do not like failure,” said the voice, even softer now, light and caressing. “So ... untidy, do you not agree?” The point pressed against Sir Quentin’s throat.
“Please—”
* * * *
The man stared at what was left of Sir Quentin Barnaby and regretted what he had done. He did not like to kill in this way—he did not like the blood to come out, because there was a chance it would touch him, and surely the blood of someone like Sir Quentin was tainted and difficult to wash off. Indeed, he did not like to kill at all, but surely to rid the world of someone as stupid and impure as Sir Quentin was not a terrible thing.
The man walked carefully to his waiting coach, just out of sight of the body of Sir Quentin. Beginning tomorrow he would watch Miss Annabella Smith, himself. And then he would begin to test her.
“Home, Peters,” he said to the groom as he stepped into the coach. “Oh, and there is the body of... a miscreant back there—please be sure to retrieve it tonight, so that I may turn it over to the authorities.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” replied the servant. The groom’s voice shook, but the Duke of Stratton ignored it. Peters always did as he was told, for he was paid well and knew life would go ill for him if he did not follow orders.
The duke sighed. He had done wrong in hiring such a man as Sir Quentin to test Miss Smith. He admitted that to himself. But he would not make that mistake again. It would be best if he attend to her himself. It was the only way. She had to be pure; it was what he required in a wife, and more than that, for his cure.
The back of his hand itched, and he rubbed the spot on his glove that was above the sore. He had thought that he had been cured of the French disease after taking that girl— purported to be a virgin—at the bordello. But the whore must not have been, for here was the sore again, this time upon his hand. He had punished her for her deception, and had been careful not to shed any of her blood.
He knew, then, that he had gone about it in the wrong way. One coul
d not be sure of the women in the procuring houses. But a lady was a different matter—it was far more likely that a young lady of quality would be pure. But, of course, one could not be absolutely sure about the matter, for women were deceitful creatures, after all.
He had tested her a little, held her hand longer than necessary, and tried to take a kiss from her earlier in the evening. She had turned her head, and his kiss had landed on her cheek, but she had allowed him to hold her hand longer than usual. Her demeanor was cool toward him, the demeanor of an untouched girl. On the other hand, it was difficult for him to tell whether this was modesty or coyness.
He smiled to himself in the darkness. No, he would watch Miss Annabella Smith, then test her further and see if she was truly loose in her morals. For only the purest of women could be his wife and the cure for his affliction.
Chapter 7
Annabella woke to a feeling of oppression, as if something were pressing upon her chest. She made herself take a deep breath and let it out again, then opened her eyes. She was not in her room, but one with walls of cream, with apple green drapes. Memories came rushing to her of the night before. Of course. She was at Wentworth Abbey, the home of the Earl of Grafton and the Wentworth family. And her mother had been attacked and grievously hurt.
She rose and pulled the bell rope to summon a servant. A quick glance at the clock upon the mantelpiece showed her it was noon. To be sure she had not got to sleep until near dawn, but she wished she had awakened earlier. She must dress quickly and see if her mother was well. No one had awakened her in the night, so she supposed her mother was not worse ... but was she any better?
A dressing gown had been draped at the foot of the bed—borrowed from whom, Annabella did not know. But she put it on and waited impatiently for a maid.
A knock on the door preceded the maid, who carried in a petticoat and a round dress of pink muslin. “If it please you, miss, Master Parsifal had this brought to you from Miss Caroline’s wardrobe, seein’ as how you was of a size.”
“Mr. Wentworth? Then Lord Grafton is not in residence?” Annabella asked.
“I can’t say, miss,” said the girl, shaking out the dress and laying it carefully upon the bed. “We don’t ever know when Lord Grafton might come home, or when he leaves, or how long he will stay. But Master Parsifal never leaves, or hardly ever, so we go to him for our orders, unless we know Lord Grafton is here. ‘Tis easier, you see.”
“But how is the estate run, if Lord Grafton is hardly in residence?” Annabella lifted her arms so that the maid could pull the petticoat around her waist.
“Oh, Master Parsifal takes care of it, miss. His lordship doesn’t care for country life, you see.”
Annabella frowned, reflecting that it was hardly fair of Lord Grafton to put the burdens of estate management wholly on his younger brother’s shoulders. But she could not think of that now; the maid was tying a wide white ribbon just below her bosom, and she was almost done dressing. She smoothed down the muslin skirt, and hoped she could have her own clothes brought to her soon. The dress was of the latest style, and quite dashing for a morning dress, but it was made for a lady slighter in the bosom than she. She bit her lip and looked about for a fichu, but the maid had not brought one. Well, it was of no importance, she was sure. What was more important was attending to her mother.
Quickly, Annabella went down the hall to her mother’s room and opened the door. A maid was sitting by the bed, as Mr. Wentworth had promised, and was darning a sock. Lady Smith was awake and, upon seeing Annabella, held out her hand to her daughter.
“Oh, Mama!” whispered Annabella, rushed to the bedside, and clasped her mother’s hand. One look at her mother’s pale and tired face shot guilt through her heart, hard and hot. “I am so sorry!”
“For what, my dear?” Lady Smith asked, patting Annabella’s cheek gently. She looked at the maid, dismissing her with a wave of her hand.
“My fault... I should never have asked to have come to the masquerade! If I had not, you would not be hurt now, I know it!”
“Nonsense, Bella! How could you know this would happen?”
“I did not, of course, Mama. But you must admit that had we not come, you would not have been attacked. I teased and begged you, thinking only of my selfish wishes.”
“Well, if we had not come, it might not have happened.” Lady Smith’s hand tensed under Annabella’s, and she looked at her daughter, her eyes troubled and fearful. “But if not now, then perhaps later. I am afraid there is someone who wishes you ill, Annabella. I could almost wish you were married already, for you would be protected. It seems the man who attacked me last night mistook me for you. He wished to take you away, so that you would be forced to marry him.” She shuddered. “He did not say it in so many words, but I know it from his actions and what he did say. Oh, heavens! We—your father and I—did not think such vileness would ever come near us because of our wealth, though we should have. I am only glad the man made a mistake and did not take you, love.”
“Oh, no!” Annabella let out a sob. “No, I could never want you hurt for my sake! I am so sorry!” She pressed her hand against her mouth to stop its trembling.
“Heavens, Bella! There is no need to go into alt over it!” Her mother smiled and shook her head, then closed her eyes briefly, a crease forming between her brows. Annabella felt worse than ever. The action obviously brought her mother pain, but Annabella drew in her breath and calmed herself. Certainly, she did not need any histrionics.
“Besides,” Lady Smith continued. “Your father will be home in two weeks, and then we may see what he will do about this incident. Meanwhile, we are obliged to stay here—you too, Bella, for you cannot be home alone.” She sighed. “I cannot like it, but I must trust Mr. Wentworth to see that you are safe. At least Lord Grafton is not here.”
Annabella smiled slightly. “I am sure you may trust Mr. Wentworth, Mama. He seems quite dependable, and Doctor Robinson confirmed it. Why, it is not even Lord Grafton who maintains the estate at all, but Mr. Wentworth, for that is what the maid who attended me said. He is very kind, too, for he offered to watch you himself—accompanied by a maid, of course—when I was so worried for you last night.”
Lady Smith looked a little skeptical. “That is all very well, Bella, but what’s bred in the bone will come out in the flesh. The Wentworth family is very wild, and has always been, and I cannot think that however Mr. Wentworth may seem a gentleman, he might not be entirely trusted to stay within the bounds of propriety. I have even heard he is something of an eccentric.” She sighed. “It is very awkward, to be sure. But I suppose he cannot do anything untoward while his mother and sister are under the same roof.”
Annabella let out a laugh at the thought of Mr. Wentworth giving in to his passions, and her mother looked at her quizzically.
“Oh, it is only that I cannot imagine Mr. Wentworth in the throes of emotion, Mama. Really, I think you are painting him with the wrong brush. He was so very kind to me, very concerned for you, and a perfect gentleman at the Bowerlands’ card party. There have been many opportunities for him to importune me, for we were alone briefly a few times, but he did nothing of the sort. Truly, you have nothing to fear from him. Why, I might be as safe with him as if he were my brother, I am sure!”
Lady Smith looked worried nevertheless. “You are not developing a tendre for him, are you, Bella? There are men who can affect a quiet charm that is very deceptive.”
Annabella stared at her mother for a moment, then burst into laughter. “Oh, heavens, Mama, no! He is so very staid and quite shy, I am certain, with little address or social grace, and not at all dashing. Why, he blushes every time I speak with him, so much that it shows through his dark complexion! Surely, no seducer is so practiced that he can affect a blush!”
The older woman relaxed against her pillows and smiled. “Well, I suppose that is true.”
A knock at the door interrupted them, and a maid came in and curtsied. “If it please you, my la
dy, miss, Mr. Wentworth wishes to speak with you.” Lady Smith inclined her head slightly, then winced, putting her hand to her head. Annabella smiled at the maid and nodded.
Mr. Wentworth’s initial step into the room was hesitant, his manner diffident. Annabella smiled at him. How silly of Mama to think she would be swept off her feet by him! It was more likely that someone like the Cavalier should do so—but she put away that thought. It was not the time to indulge in fancies.
“Lady Smith, Miss Smith.” He bowed, a little awkwardly. “I came to see how you were, ma’am,” he said to Lady Smith. “I hope you slept well? Is there anything you require?”
Lady Smith shook her head. “No, not for myself... and I wish to thank you for your hospitality and care for me in summoning the doctor.”
Mr. Wentworth looked uncomfortable. “It is nothing, I assure you. You were most grievously assaulted on our grounds; it is the least my family can do to make amends.”
“You have been kind, nevertheless, or so my daughter has told me.”
Mr. Wentworth looked more uncomfortable than before, and his cheeks gained some color. Annabella threw her mother a triumphant look, and Lady Smith’s lips twitched as if suppressing a smile. “But there is something I need of you, I am afraid. The man who assaulted me did so believing me to be my daughter. My husband is not here to take care of us; a letter to him would take more than a few days to bring him here, chiefly because he is attending to matters of state. Meanwhile, I fear for Annabella’s safety, especially since I cannot keep watch over her.”
Mr. Wentworth gazed at her steadily, and his lips pressed together for a moment. “You need not fear that, ma’am. I have already determined the assailant’s identity, for I found his watch on the path where both of you had stood. It is Sir Quentin Barnaby—”
Annabella gasped. “He—Mama, it was he who tried, at the Laughtons’ party, to—
“And now we know why,” replied her mother, “I have heard he is in great debt. He no doubt wished to force you into marrying him.”
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