Damn the bloody bitch! Giving him two days! Just three months ago he would have been pleased to flee to Paris, to take up residence in the promised Palais Vendome. To become reacquainted with friends he had not seen in over a decade of war. To take his rightful place at the highest echelons of the world’s most brilliant society.
But now he was strangely reluctant to go. Paris most assuredly had changed since he was last there. The nobles were no more.
A vision of Anna gracefully presiding over a Parisian gaming table, dressed in lavish gowns, crowded into his mind. Ah! With Anna at his side, he would have Paris at his feet.
But how could he manage that? An idea suddenly occurred to him. He could play to her weakness.
Her weakness for the Marquess of Haverstock.
~ ~ ~
AFTER BREAKFAST Anna listened to the quiet voices coming from her husband’s dressing room. And when Manors left, she entered. It pained her that the only way she could be alone with her husband was to force her company on him.
She noted the flicker of anger that singed his face when he looked up and saw her. Did she repulse him so greatly? Was there no hope for a reconciliation?
He was fully dressed in rich grays and lifted his gloves while his eyes darted toward the door as if he were in a great hurry to be gone.
Her voice gentle, her step graceful despite the tumult within her breast, Anna walked toward Haverstock and spoke. “I thought I had best warn you yet another man shall beg the hand of yet another sister.”
His eyes traveled lazily over her. “The chap who wears black?”
She nodded.
“Correct me if I’m wrong. Is he not the one who has no money?”
“While he has no money at the present, Charlotte has a tidy little dowry coming from her sister-in-law.”
“That is very kind of you,” he said coolly. “When does the fellow seek my permission?”
“He dines here tonight.”
“You think it a good match?”
Her eyes glittered. “Very much so. They are both so very good. And I am so happy for them.” She walked toward the window. “I am sorry you were denied what Charlotte will receive.”
“Which is?”
She turned to face him, anguish on her face. “A chance to marry whom you choose. I thought I was doing the right thing at the time,” she whispered. “I never meant to harm you—or anyone.”
He swallowed hard. “I must go,” he said, turning away from her.
~ ~ ~
DRESSED IN A NEW COAT—though still a drab black—Mr. Hogart met privately with Haverstock before dinner to solicit Lady Charlotte’s hand in marriage. Since the discussion with his wife that morning, Haverstock had prepared his affirmative response.
Throughout the day he had been unable to do anything but remember every word that passed between him and Anna that morning. God, but it was difficult to hold a conversation with her when she stood before him, her voice soft and her sentiments always on the mark. It seemed impossible she could be the same woman who had schemed to marry him, to spy against the country that had provided her mother and her with refuge and prosperity.
Undeniably, Anna had many good qualities. It was a fine thing for her to dower his sisters, especially sweet Charlotte so she could marry Hogart. He was a good man. He would treat Charlotte well. From what Anna had told him, Charlotte would have happily given up everything to be Hogart’s lifelong helpmate. Haverstock smiled to himself over his little sister. She had always had a soft place in her heart for the downtrodden. To think of all the mangy dogs she had taken in and nursed to glowing good health. He was rather proud of her and her desire to devote herself to the less fortunate.
He had been proud, too, of Anna—before Pierre had been murdered.
At dinner, Charlotte’s wedding announcement was made. Kate and Mr. Reeves were there, their solemn faces looking nothing like happy newlyweds.
“My uncle weds next week,” Mr. Reeves announced gloomily.
“Never have I seen so many engagements in so short a time,” Charlotte mused happily. “First Kate, then Lydia, then Lady Jane—and now me! Isn’t it just too thrilling?”
Haverstock glanced at Cynthia, who looked quite wan. She neither touched her turtle soup nor spoke. Once again, Captain Smythe was absent. They had all been taken in by the captain. Haverstock wondered if he should speak to the man about Cynthia. Of course, Smythe had never made any promises. But an honorable man simply did not use a lady as Smythe used Cynthia.
“Soon, I’ll be all alone,” the dowager complained.
“No, Mama, I am sure I will never wed,” Cynthia declared, a distinct note of martyrdom in her voice.
“A lovely girl like you must have had countless offers,” Ainsley said.
“Not a single one this season,” Cynthia lamented. “I fear I am getting too old.”
“Nonsense!” the squire countered. “Look at Lydia. She’s thirty.”
Lydia colored.
“I don’t know what I’ll do without Lydia to run things for me,” the dowager said.
Haverstock glanced to the opposite end of the table where Anna sat, her face bathed in soft candlelight. “You’ll have Anna.”
The dowager ignored her son’s remark, babbling on as if to herself. “That is if I choose not to take up residence in the dowager house. I may very well want a place of my own.”
“And you, my love, do you enjoy presiding over your own establishment?” Haverstock asked Anna mockingly.
“It is not the place one grows attached to but the people in it, I have found,” Anna said. “I will be happy wherever I am as long as loved ones are near. And like Mother, I shall dreadfully miss Lydia.”
“Then you shall have to spend more time at Haymore,” the squire said.
Anna threw a challenging look at Haverstock. “Exactly what I have been telling my husband.”
Haverstock frowned. He would never be taking Anna to Haymore. He had no right to continue living with a spy. Nor could he turn her over to the authorities. He knew now what he would do with her.
And damned but it hurt to know he would never see her again. A silly, romantic verse came to mind. He’d never cared for such drivel, but these lines kept repeating in his brain. Better it would be to be a rock or tree and never feel the pangs of love for thee.
Such sentimental nonsense, he scolded himself. He was not in love with Anna. Love had never been part of their marriage.
~ ~ ~
SIR HENRY DID NOT trust Anna not to have him followed. Even his page could be followed. Therefore, he had to be particularly cautious and rely on the cunning that had held him in good steed for fifty years.
He rang for his secretary. “I say, Whitestone, I seem to have mistakenly received a message sent to Lord Haverstock. See to it that it gets delivered to him.”
As the drably dressed man left the room, Sir Henry casually said, “By the way, since it’s of a private nature, I’d prefer that Lord Haverstock not know his letter came across my desk, if you know what I mean.”
Within minutes, the office boy carried a letter to Haverstock’s secretary, who in turn put it on top a stack of papers on his master’s desk.
Haverstock put down his pen and crossed the room to open the window. Another beastly warm day. A coach passing below with outriders reminded him very much of Morgie’s. In fact, this was the very time of day Morgie escorted Anna, Lydia and Colette to the East End. Haverstock smiled to himself. Whatever would his father have said if he knew the Marchioness of Haverstock and his own daughter were willingly associating with the uncivilized who populated the East End? And the late marquess had thought the graceful, accomplished Anna de Mouchet beneath his family!
He turned back to his work, not really wanting to be indoors on so sunny a day. He longed to feel a horse beneath him as he galloped along a country road. He picked up the letter his secretary had placed on his desk.
It was addressed in an unfamiliar hand. A hurried masculine
hand. It had been posted from Bordeaux. As he read it, Haverstock’s heart raced.
Your brother, Lieutenant James Upton, has been gravely injured by a sniper’s musket ball just a few scant miles from his company’s point of embarkation. He needs special care in getting back to England. Could you possibly cross the channel and make arrangements to care for him? As soon as possible. And do not breathe a word to anyone because the French are not to know of the change in our position.
The letter was signed by Colonel Jacob Cole.
Haverstock looked for a date on the letter, but there was none. It was impossible for him to guess how long ago James had been injured or when the letter had been posted. All he knew was that it was urgent he get to James as soon as possible.
He had no time to change into riding clothes. It was best not to go home where he might be questioned. This way he could scribble a note to Anna informing her he would be out of touch for some time. No explanation needed.
With that missive dispatched, Haverstock went to his bank where he withdrew a goodly sum as well as letters of credit. Then he mounted his horse and took the road for Dover, the sun hitting his back, and the sooty skies of London behind him.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE SEWING LESSONS were almost over when Mrs. McCollum, one of Lydia’s most promising pupils, showed up.
“Sorry I am to be late,” she said hurriedly, removing a squashed straw hat from her silver hair. “A right good ’anging there was today. Had me a prime seat on top of me brother-in-law’s ’earse. Ye shoulda seen the fine lady danglin’ there like a spider!”
Anna’s eyes widened and her chest tightened. She raised a hand to protest Mrs. McCollum’s morbid conversation.
“Lady Haverstock has no stomach for such talk,” Lydia said kindly to her student. “Here, I’ve selected a new piece for you, Mrs. McCollum.” She gave the woman a length of royal blue velvet.
Anna felt hot and flushed. She hastened across the stone floors to gasp fresh air from outdoors. She kept thinking about the gentlewoman dangling from a hangman’s rope. It could be me. Her hand grasped the smooth column of her throat.
Morgie, who had been keeping an eye on his horses, shot a concerned look at her and rushed to her side. “Are you all right, my lady?”
She nodded. “I just need a breath of fresh air.”
“You’ll not find it here,” he said, taking hold of her arm. “Perhaps a ride to Greenwich when we finish.”
Lydia, her new lilac gown billowing behind her, came rushing after Anna. “Is she all right, Morgie?” she asked.
“I believe she got overheated.”
“We had best get her home.” Lydia headed back into the building to gather their things.
They rode home in Morgie’s coach and four, with Colette and a pale Anna facing Morgie and Lydia.
“I say, Lyddie,” Morgie said cheerfully, “becoming new dress you’re wearing.”
She glanced down at the soft muslin and colored. “It’s a new one for my trousseau.”
He folded his mouth into a grim line and did not speak again until they reached Haverstock House.
While Colette and Lydia were making a great fuss over directing Anna to her chamber to rest, the butler presented Anna a letter from her husband.
Puzzled, she took it, dismissed her well meaning companions and mounted the stairs. In her room she broke the seal and read:
My dear Anna,
I have been called away on sudden business and shall not return for a number of days.
Yours,
Haverstock
When the dinner hour approached, Anna had no desire to dine without her husband. The house seemed strangely empty without him. And grim. She took a tray in her room and spent a restless night wondering and worrying about Charles.
~ ~ ~
BEFORE THE FASHIONABLE hour for morning callers, Davis announced Sir Henry Vinson begged an audience with her ladyship. Anna threw a glance of distress at her mother-in-law and Lydia. Her first instinct was to refuse the man’s request. Charles would be outraged if he knew Sir Henry visited her. Then, too, there was the certain knowledge Sir Henry was a vile turncoat against his country. If only she could simply turn him over to the officials. It was extremely distasteful to welcome him into her husband’s home, but what else could she do in front of the dowager? “Show him in,” Anna said in an unsteady voice.
Sir Henry came strolling into the drawing room, all smiles for Anna until he saw she was not alone. Then he regained his authoritative command and swept into a deep bow before the dowager. “How very agreeable it is to see you looking so well, my lady,” he told her. He moved next to Lydia, bent into a bow and felicitated her on her upcoming nuptials. With a sparkle in his eyes and a flicker of a nod toward Anna, Sir Henry came to sit by her.
For the next several minutes, he was all that was amiable. He congratulated the dowager on her good fortune to be getting her younger son home. He queried Lydia about her plans for life at Greenley Manor. And he completely avoided turning his attention toward Anna.
As the other sisters began to fill the drawing room and welcome morning callers—including the long-absent Captain Smythe—Sir Henry took his leave. But as he reached the door, he turned to Anna. “Lady Haverstock, your husband helped select my new gray. He said you would very much like her. Would you care to see her? She’s right outside.”
Anna shot a dubious glance at her mother-in-law, then slowly rose and followed Sir Henry.
The gray was hitched to a stylish phaeton. Sir Henry ignored the horse, stooping to let down the steps. “Get in, Anna,” he sneered. “We must take a little ride, you and I.”
The sound of his voice scared her. She glanced at her footmen.
“I promise I shall have you back inside an hour,” he said, loud enough for the footman to hear.
She could not possibly go off riding with Sir Henry. Charles had never been angrier than the night she had met Sir Henry alone in Lord Wentworth’s study. She did not have to get burned twice to learn when something was hot. “My husband has expressly forbidden me to be alone with you, Sir Henry.”
His eyes held menace. “My dear Anna, though my two days are up, you are in no position to dictate to me. Not when your husband’s life is in danger.”
Anna grabbed at her breast. All through the long night, she had known something was wrong with Charles. And now, Sir Henry’s expression confirmed her fears.
With resignation, she allowed Sir Henry to assist her into the carriage.
She took her place and angrily watched him take the reigns. “What have you done to my husband?” she demanded.
“The question is what have you done to your husband?” He flicked a sinister glance at her.
“What do you mean?” She could barely control the tremor in her voice.
“As we speak, Haverstock is being detained as a suspected enemy of the crown.”
“God in heaven, no! There is no truer patriot.”
He shrugged. “Alas, but there is the fact he is wed to a French spy—though I daresay he would likely substitute his own honorable neck to spare yours.”
“That is completely out of the question.”
“Just as I thought you would see it.”
“And what do you propose?”
“Don’t worry over your lovely neck, Anna. You will keep it intact if you do as I say. You have merely to write a confession that will effectively clear Haverstock, and you will then accompany me to Paris where you’ll be the toast of the town.”
“I despise you,” Anna said. “And I cannot possibly believe a word you say.”
“But you really have very little choice, my dear.”
~ ~ ~
HER ROOM WAS DARK when she rose the next morning. She had packed the night before. She had written the confession that would exonerate Charles.
I, Lady Haverstock, am writing this to admit my own unintentional role in the death of Pierre Chassay, whom I understand was working with my husband and th
e English government to thwart the French. My husband had no knowledge whatsoever that I was having his every move scrutinized. He is guilty of nothing save a deep devotion to his country.
Sir Henry insisted he would channel her letter to the proper authorities. She had fought back the urge to write a farewell letter to Charles. There was nothing she could say that could repair the irreversible damage to their marriage.
If it was a marriage, she thought sadly. So much harm she had caused Charles. At least he would be free of her now. Though she could never be free of him. Through her misguided hatred, she had found and destroyed her heart’s desire.
She dressed herself in a comfortable traveling garb of soft green with a darker green pelisse and tied on a green and gold bonnet. She had hoped never to have come this far. As soon as she had spoken with Sir Henry the day before, she had gone directly to Morgie, having finally learned not to blindly believe the words of the contemptible Sir Henry Vinson. She told Morgie of Haverstock’s absence.
“I will make inquiries,” Morgie promised her.
Late last night Morgie had come round to Haverstock House, begging to speak privately with Anna.
Shaking his head grimly, he informed her no one in London nor anyone at the Foreign Office knew Haverstock’s direction.
Still in the morning’s darkness, she walked to the settee that was placed before the cold fireplace. She gently fingered its raised silk pattern, remembering how many nights she and Charles had sat there nestled within its warmth, sharing confidences, taking pleasure in the intoxicating feel of one another. She could almost see his powerful shoulders outlined in flickering flames, a hungry look on his handsome face as he held his arms out to her and she had taken bliss beyond measure in his comforting embrace.
So many tender moments had passed between them in this very room. She swallowed over the huge lump in her throat. Never again would she feel his arms around her or run her hands through his dark hair.
With tears clouding her vision, she turned away from the settee—their settee—and wondered if another woman would ever share this room with him.
Scandalous Brides Page 42
