by Sara Bennett
He sank down in the chair in front of the fire and rested his head in his hands. A clock ticked on the kitchen dresser. The cottage was still furnished with his aunt Priscilla’s belongings, although she had been dead for many years now. When she’d lived here, and Gabriel was a boy, he’d been fascinated by her. She knew about herbs and incantations, and he was certain she was a witch. Sometimes the girls from the village came and had their fortunes told, although his grandfather didn’t encourage it.
“What about my fortune?” Gabriel asked her one day, when he was watching her crush some pungent herb with her mortar and pestle.
She’d looked at him, her pale blue eyes—so like Gabriel’s—seeing inside his skull. And then she smiled. “Your fortune? I don’t know about that, but I can see your fate. A bird, that’s your fate, my boy. A little brown sparrow will be your fate.”
Gabriel groaned into his hands and shook himself like a dog.
Was his aunt’s prediction finally coming true?
No, it was coincidence, that was all. Antoinette Dupre reminding him of a brown sparrow meant nothing, just another problem to bedevil him. Why did nothing go as planned? The holding up of the coach certainly hadn’t. Although the coachman and his boy had played their parts well, and Antoinette Dupre had been there, just as he’d been told she would be, he hadn’t been able to get the letter from her.
He knew she had it. A few crumpled pages, written in his mother’s sloping hand, the key to regaining his inheritance. All he had to do was take it—by force if necessary. And he’d been prepared to use force, right up until the moment he flung open the coach door.
She’d stared back at him, her big brown eyes filled with a steady defiance, her hair down around her shoulders, her legs visible beneath her tousled skirts. She was small and shapely, the perfect pocket Venus, exactly the type of woman he found most attractive. And his wits went wandering.
Somehow he’d played his part, but the threats he offered in such a menacing voice failed to work. Lord Appleby, he thought, must have promised her a great deal to keep the letter safe. And what better hiding place was there than snug and cozy against his mistress’s bosom?
He’d torn her clothing. He’d touched her soft, warm skin. He’d breathed in her scent and memorized her curves, all the while his wits forming images of hot desire. And still no letter.
Gabriel rubbed his hands over his eyes again and sighed.
He hadn’t wanted to stop. Antoinette Dupre, voluptuous, her skin creamy all over, her long brown hair a veil about her, her eyes heavy-lidded and her coral lips parted. She was perfect and he wanted her.
Gabriel shifted uncomfortably, his body responding to his thoughts. Pointless pain, he told himself. The woman was Appleby’s mistress—he’d seen her in the man’s arms with his own eyes. It followed that she was his possession, loyal to him. So how could it be that when he’d flung open the coach door and seen her, knowing all he knew, he’d momentarily forgotten where and what and why he was there?
Instead he’d thought about her and Appleby, and a hot wave of jealousy had washed over him, scalding him, urging him on. Take her from him, said the deceptively reasonable voice in his head. Appleby’s mistress for your inheritance; that’s fair.
Was that why he’d kissed her? Even now he remembered the feel of her lips and the sweet promise of her mouth.
His holdup plan was risky, Gabriel knew that, but he felt he had no choice. Once Appleby’s powerful friends tracked him down and found him, he’d have to leave the country. He had his escape already organized, but once he was over the channel he’d no longer be able to fight for his inheritance. Appleby would have won and he’d be reading English newspapers in a foreign land and dreaming of home.
“Curse it, no!”
He’d die before it came to that.
He must find that letter. The mistress had it and he would find it, even if he had to strip her completely bare to do so.
She deserved to be punished for what she was, grasping and manipulative, out for all she could get. Why else would a woman like her align herself to a bastard like Appleby? Gabriel would take what he wanted from her, and when he had the letter, and his fill of her lush body, he’d vanish like a shadow in the moonlight.
“Master?”
Gabriel jumped up and spun toward the door. It was Wonicot, his sparse hair windblown from the walk through the woods to the cottage, his chest heaving. Sometimes he forgot the servants weren’t as young as they used to be; they were so much a part of Wexmoor Manor. Just as he was.
“Wonicot,” he said. “What is the matter?”
The old man was carrying a basket, and whatever was in it smelled delicious.
“Sally sent me,” he said, setting the basket down on the table. “Me legs aren’t what they were, master; forgive me for taking so long.”
Gabriel watched him for a moment, but the old servant seemed to be studiously avoiding his eyes. “Have you seen her?” he said sharply.
“Her?”
“You know who I mean. Miss Dupre. Lord Appleby’s mistress.”
“Yes, sir, she’s in her chamber. Says she’s tired out, but I reckon Sally’s welcome didn’t encourage her to stay downstairs any longer.” He looked up, his eyes curious. “You didn’t hurt her, did you, master?”
“I was looking for the letter,” Gabriel said, but even to himself it sounded like an excuse. “She refused to hand it over.”
“I see, master,” Wonicot replied levelly. “That would account for it then.”
Gabriel picked up a slice of bread and dipped it into the bowl of mutton stew.
“Sally said to tell you that Lord Appleby sent down his man o’ business last week,” Wonicot went on, producing a bottle of claret from the basket, with a glass—one of his grandfather’s good ones.
“Did he now?” growled Gabriel.
“Told us he was intending to sell. Saw no reason to hang on to it, he said, a poorly place like this. Needs too much money to put it right, he said. Might be best all round if it were pulled down and leveled.”
Although Gabriel didn’t reply—he didn’t trust himself to—the older man seemed to sense his feelings. “No need to worry yourself, sir,” he soothed. “You’ll find a way to get the manor back again, and then everything will be right as rain. Your grandfather used to say that things had a way of sorting themselves out for the best.”
“You have more confidence in me than I have in myself, Wonicot. I can’t even frighten a weak and feeble woman into giving me the letter.”
“That’s ’cause you’re a gentleman, master,” Wonicot explained. “You’ve been brought up to be kind to women, so it goes against your grain to frighten them. And I wouldn’t call Miss Dupre weak and feeble. She’s got a look in her eye, that one.”
Gabriel grinned.
Pleased to see his spirits recovered, Wonicot fussed about the table, pouring the claret.
“Sally wants to know if you’ll be coming over to the manor for breakfast in the morning, Master Gabriel?”
“Tell her I will. I wouldn’t miss her cooking for anything.”
“She’ll be pleased. Although…are you sure Miss Dupre won’t recognize you, master?”
“I’m sure, Wonicot. I’m looking forward to ‘meeting’ her.” He chuckled.
Wonicot appeared doubtful but he didn’t argue. “Very good, master.”
“And remember who I am, for God’s sake. No ‘master’ in front of the minx.”
“As you say, ma—” He stopped himself.
Gabriel watched him totter to the door. Appleby was going to sell his birthright, his inheritance, his life. As long as he could remember, he’d seen himself as the master of Wexmoor Manor, carrying on the long tradition of Langleys who had resided here. The monetary worth of the place was immaterial—Gabriel wasn’t a poor man—but in other ways it was priceless. But it wasn’t just he who would be affected; there was Wonicot and his wife and all the others who depended upon Gabriel for home an
d hearth.
Just as Wonicot opened the door to leave, someone else came rushing in. They collided.
“Gabriel—” the name burst out of her before she realized it was Wonicot she’d sent reeling back. She stopped, embarrassed. Young, slim, and pretty, Mary Cooper had light hair and a sweet smile, and she’d been in love with Gabriel ever since he could remember. He had a fair idea what she was doing here and he wished she wasn’t.
Wonicot was frowning at her, blocking her way into the cottage. “What are ye doing here, Mary Cooper?” he scolded. “This is no place for a girl alone.”
“I was finished,” she retorted sulkily, “and Mrs. Wonicot herself said I could go.”
“Go to bed, I’d reckon, not out into the night.”
“I wanted to see master,” she said, with a shy glance at Gabriel.
Thank God Wonicot was here, he told himself. Times had changed. Gabriel remembered how, when he was many years younger, he’d thought no girl could be lovelier than Mary Cooper. They had kissed and cuddled and whispered sweet nothings, but fortunately his grandfather had seen what was happening and informed Gabriel in no uncertain terms that he would not countenance his grandson ruining the servants. Later, when he went to school and to London, he’d met and kissed many other women, and his childish infatuation was forgotten. But Mary had never forgotten; she still loved him.
He supposed it was flattering to be the subject of such single-minded and unswerving affection. Gabriel tried to be kind and patient, but sometimes he wished she’d find someone else to lavish her affection on.
“Mary,” he said with a smile, “I thank you for thinking of me, but Wonicot is right. You must go back and—”
“I’m to be her maid, you know,” Mary interrupted, with a little bob of a curtsy and a giggle.
“Miss Dupre’s maid?” Gabriel said, raising his eyebrows.
“Aye, her.” Her expression became earnest. “I’ll unpack her luggage, and I’ll search every inch of it for you, master. If that letter is there, then you can be sure I’ll find it.”
“Thank you, Mary, I’m grateful, but you must be—”
“I’d do anything for you, Master Gabriel.” And she gave him a look so piercing as to be unnerving in its intensity.
Seeing Gabriel’s discomfort, Wonicot clicked his tongue and, taking the girl’s arm, turned her about. “Good night, master,” he said firmly, and closed the door behind them. Gabriel could hear their footsteps receding, and Mary’s high voice as she made her protests, and then there was silence again. Not even the wind was stirring the trees in the wood tonight.
Gabriel sank down in his chair and turned his claret to reflect the candlelight. Mary might search Antoinette Dupre’s baggage, but Gabriel knew she would find nothing. What he was seeking was kept closer to her person. Warm against her skin. And he was going to find it, yes he was, even if he had to seduce her.
He smiled and raised his glass in a toast. “To seduction,” he said, “and the luscious Miss Antoinette Dupre.”
Chapter 4
His hand on her shoulder was warm, heavy with promise, as he smiled into her face. “Antoinette,” he murmured in his deep, husky voice, “I knew the moment I saw you that you were the one for me.”
“How could you know?” she whispered. “No one can know for sure.”
“Because you make my heart sing, little sparrow.”
In the dream it sounded wonderful, but as Antoinette began to wake she was thinking such words coming from the highwayman’s mouth were very unlikely and a little odd. She never expected to make any man’s heart sing.
Antoinette was the sort of woman who would run a household capably and well, keep within her budget, and organize her servants so that nothing ever went amiss. People respected her and were a little intimidated by her. Her husband, if she ever married, would appreciate her for those qualities, knowing that she would make his life comfortable and easy. But no, she could not imagine herself being the subject of any heart singing.
She blinked and opened her eyes, and gave a gasp.
Someone was peering down at her, and for a moment her dream and the face became confused. A heartbeat later she realized it wasn’t the man in the mask hanging over her but a pretty young woman in a mobcap that barely restrained her blond ringlets. The expression in her dark eyes was so intent it sent a chill through Antoinette.
When she saw Antoinette was awake, the girl’s expression changed in an instant. “Forgive me, miss,” she said, apologetic. “Mrs. Wonicot sent me up to ask if you was ready for your breakfast tray, but you was sleeping so deep I couldn’t wake you.”
“I had an eventful journey.”
With a smothered yawn Antoinette sat up. The chilly morning light was gleaming through a chink in the drapes, but today there was a welcoming fire burning in the hearth. Antoinette watched the flames dancing, the tension leaving her. Until she remembered where she was: Wexmoor Manor, Lord Appleby’s isolated property, and deep in enemy territory.
“What is your name?”
“Mary Cooper, miss,” the servant introduced herself. “I’m to help you dress and look after your clothes, and I’m a fair needlewoman. I don’t do hair, though Mrs. Wonicot says she can do your hair, if you’d like.”
“I can manage my own hair, thank you,” Antoinette said pleasantly, hiding a shudder at the thought of Mrs. Wonicot tugging at her locks. “Besides, I thought Mrs. Wonicot was the cook and housekeeper?”
“Well, she used to be some sort of lady’s maid in London,” Mary Cooper replied disingenuously. “She can name you all the great folk, and all the scandals. Then she decided to turn her back on that, marry Mr. Wonicot, and live at Wexmoor Manor.”
So all the talk about the lack of polish here at the manor was nonsense. Mrs. Wonicot was playing games, and Antoinette was more than ever determined not to trust her.
“Will you have your breakfast tray now, miss?”
“No. I think I’ll come down, thank you, Mary.”
“Oh.” The girl looked startled. She chewed her lip. “I don’t know what Mrs. Wonicot will say to that, miss. She was certain you’d want a tray.”
Antoinette gave her a conspiratorial smile. “Let’s surprise her then, shall we?”
“Very well, miss.” She went to leave, only to hesitate by the pile of luggage. “I’ll unpack these for you. Shake the creases out. Do you want me to find something for you to wear now, before I go?”
“No, Mary, thank you. I’ll manage for now.”
Mary had picked up the tan dress Antoinette had tossed over a chair back the night before, and now she stared wide-eyed at the torn bodice. “My goodness, whatever happened here, miss!”
Antoinette climbed out of bed. There was warm water waiting, thanks to Mary, and soft towels and a scented ball of soap. “I was held up on the journey here, Mary. A ruffian tried to rob me.”
“Oh, miss.” Her eyes were perfectly round.
“I don’t know if even your expertise as a needlewoman would be enough to mend that. It is only fit for a rag now.”
Mary glanced up at her, and there was something in her face, a flash of emotion that Antoinette could not place before she dropped her gaze once more. “I’ll see what I can do anyway, miss.”
Antoinette was glad when the maid was gone, carrying the torn dress in her arms, and she could consider her plans for the day. She drew the drapes back and looked out at the first day of her captivity in Devon. The untidy remains of what had once been a formal garden lay beyond the cobbled courtyard, and to one side a rather amazing overgrown hedge. Or was it a maze? Wexmoor Manor must once have been quite something.
A pity she didn’t intend to be here long enough to appreciate it.
In order to escape Antoinette knew she needed to know as much as she could about Wexmoor Manor and the people who lived here. Of course they mustn’t know her plans; she’d have to lull them into believing she was content to remain here. But Antoinette had no intention of staying. She nee
ded to get back to London and put an end to Lord Appleby’s evil plot.
The letter was safe for now, but all depended upon her putting the information to use. If she lost it…if it was stolen…Antoinette knew that must not happen.
Dressed in a dark green morning dress, with a scarlet shawl about her shoulders and her spectacles firmly in place, Antoinette made her way downstairs. The hall was even gloomier than last night—no sunlight penetrated here, and without the glow of the candles it felt depressing. She hesitated, wondering which room was set aside for breakfast, and then she heard voices drifting along the passageway from the back of the house, where no doubt the servants had their quarters.
Antoinette was used to running her own house and going wherever she pleased in it, but she was well aware Mrs. Wonicot would not appreciate her poking her nose into the areas of Wexmoor Manor where she reigned supreme. Still, she’d determined she would not be intimidated by the Wonicots. With quick, purposeful steps, she set off to seek out her enemies.
Gabriel cut up his sausage with his knife and fork, nodding a compliment at Mrs. Wonicot as he chewed. “Delicious,” he said. “You are a fine cook, Sally.”
She blushed with pleasure, disguising it by fussing about the stove, shifting pans and pots. “That madam upstairs doesn’t think so,” she said darkly. “Hardly ate a thing on the supper tray I sent up last night.”
“That’s ’cause you scared the poor girl half to death,” her husband interrupted.
“I doubt anything could scare that one,” Sally retorted. “She’s far too sure of herself. Cunning, that’s her. You can see it in her eyes. Well, she’d have to be, wouldn’t she? To catch and hold on to a slippery character like Lord Appleby.”
“She didn’t want a breakfast tray, neither,” Mary chimed in from her perch on the stool by the end of the big kitchen table. “After Mrs. Wonicot offered an’ all! Insulting, I call it. Instead she said she’d come downstairs.”
