by Sara Bennett
Mrs. Wonicot sniffed. “If she thinks she’s going to sit in state in the breakfast room, all by herself, then she can wait until I’m ready.”
Mary, enjoying herself, held up the torn dress with a little smirk at Gabriel. “She says this is only fit for the ragbag now, master. I reckon I could have it for myself. The cloth is very fine, don’t you think? Although brown is such a dreary color.”
Gabriel swallowed his sausage. “Brown can be rather becoming,” he replied at last, thoughtfully, remembering Antoinette Dupre’s dishabille, her brown hair tangled about her, her brown eyes wide. She’d been like a trapped animal, something half wild and desperate hiding behind the veneer of a lady. He’d wanted to kiss her, to taste her. To tame her.
He still did.
“She don’t seem like the sort to be Lord Appleby’s mistress,” Mary’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Nor anyone’s mistress, come to that. She looks like a governess.”
“But that’s a front, don’t you see?” Sally Wonicot said with relish. “Underneath all that she’s a clever little minx who knows just what to do to make a man her slave.”
Gabriel’s imagination took flight. He’d enjoy finding out just what clever little tricks Antoinette Dupre did know. He wanted to delve behind her bland exterior and find the wildness hiding inside. Anyone who wore such finely made and exquisite undergarments was not the epitome of a conventional woman, that was for certain.
The door opened.
The woman he’d just been fantasizing about stepped into the kitchen as if she had every right to be there.
Surprise sent Gabriel hunching forward in his chair, and he put a hand up to his face for good measure. Wonicot stumbled to his feet, moving to block his master from the newcomer’s gaze, while Sally put her hands on her hips and glared.
“The breakfast room is through the door opposite the stairs,” she said frostily.
“Oh? I thought I’d save you the bother and come and join you,” Antoinette said with a meaningless smile. She came farther into the room, her wide green skirts sweeping the floor. The sunlight shone through the windows high on the back wall, while the door was open into the kitchen garden, and bright light and herbal smells filled the large, friendly kitchen. Antoinette looked about her and gave a little nod, as if the room met with her approval.
Gabriel watched her sauntering about from the corner of his eye—the gentle sway of her hips, the way the light gleamed on her neatly pinned hair, the elegant curve of her throat, and the swell of her breasts beneath the tight-fitting green bodice and scarlet shawl. He gritted his teeth, remembering perfectly what she looked like without her clothes.
Wonicot shuffled his feet anxiously and cast Gabriel a quick glance over his shoulder. Gabriel thought he was worrying unnecessarily. He was dressed as a groom, the cap on his head hiding his hair and with a few swatches of coarse black horse hair attached to it for good measure, and the hunch of his shoulders disguising his normally straight posture. Antoinette would look at him and see a groom. But just in case, he’d found himself an extremely smelly jacket—Mrs. Wonicot had insisted he leave it outside—that would drive away even the most tenacious ladies.
He took another sideways glance at her and noticed something he hadn’t before.
She wore spectacles. Small, round, with metal frames, they made her brown eyes seem larger than ever. The fact that she hadn’t been wearing them when he came upon her inside the coach made Gabriel even more confident he would remain unrecognized.
“I did not realize you once held a position in London,” Antoinette said, meeting Mrs. Wonicot’s displeasure head-on, “although I can tell an expert hand has been at work about Wexmoor Manor.”
There was a silence. Gabriel watched Sally curiously, seeing the struggle going on inside her not to start liking someone she was determined to dislike. “I do my best,” she said at last, grudgingly accepting the compliment.
“Then I hope Lord Appleby appreciates you.”
Wrong thing to say, Gabriel thought, hiding his grin behind his hand.
Sally puffed herself up. “I’d prefer not to discuss Lord Appleby with you, miss. Mr. Wonicot?”
Her husband didn’t like being pushed to the forefront, but he took a breath and did his duty. “Oh aye, Lord Appleby is a very busy man,” he muttered. “Very busy.”
Sally gave him a narrow look; clearly this wasn’t what she’d wanted from him.
“I’m sure he is,” Antoinette said, “but then so are you. I don’t need to stay here if you feel the work is too much for you.”
“You are a guest in his house,” Mrs. Wonicot retorted, “and you will stay here as long as he wishes it.”
“I thought I might travel to the nearest large town,” Antoinette countered airily. “I need some bits and pieces.”
Sally smiled as she declined the request. “Oh, I don’t think so, miss. We haven’t time to take you, and I’m sure His Lordship wouldn’t want his ‘guest’ gallivanting all about the countryside.”
Antoinette didn’t reply, but she must have understood by now, if she hadn’t already, that these were no friends of hers. She was Lord Appleby’s mistress, sent out of the way when a scandal threatened to upset His Lordship’s business dealings and incur the disapproval of the queen. She had the letter, and they were unlikely to let her out of their sight until they parted her from it.
“At home I am quite used to riding about on my own.” Her voice was cool and confident, but the impression was spoiled by her spectacles slipping down her straight little nose. Gabriel had never expected to find those round glasses so appealing.
“But you’re not home now, are you, Miss Dupre?”
“What of the garden? I will walk about that.”
Mrs. Wonicot was ready for her. “You can if you wish, but I’d stay away from the maze.”
“The maze?”
“Aye,” Wonicot piped up, “’tis the oldest maze in the county.”
Mrs. Wonicot gave him a look. “What Wonicot means to say is that the maze is not safe. If you were to go inside it, then it’s quite possible no one would ever find you again.”
They all waited, hoping she’d argue some more so that they could continue to squash flat her pretensions. Instead she shrugged and looked away, her straight and unflinching gaze settling on Gabriel. Still hunched over his plate, he picked up a whole sausage with his fingers and crammed it into his mouth. Her own mouth, lush and soft and the color of peach flesh, hardened in distaste.
“This is Coombe,” Sally explained. “He’s a groom and a gardener, and anything else needs doing outside. We usually feed him in here, out of the way. He doesn’t like people much. Do you, Coombe?”
Gabriel grunted, and crammed more sausage into his mouth, wiping his greasy hands on his shirt.
Antoinette’s face was a picture of revulsion. He almost laughed. “Perhaps it would be better if I went to the breakfast room after all, Mrs. Wonicot,” she said, heading for the door. “I can see I am in the way here.”
It closed behind her.
Just in time.
Sally burst into snorts of laughter, joined by her husband and Mary. “Did you see her face?” Mary gasped. “I thought she were going to faint! That’s the last time she’ll come in here.”
Gabriel swallowed his mouthful and washed it down with a swig of ale from the mug in front of him. Unlike Mary, he wasn’t so sure Antoinette Dupre would be put off so easily. As Sally Wonicot had already discovered, she was a clever little minx.
She would need careful watching.
Gabriel smiled, silently volunteering for the task.
Chapter 5
It was nighttime, and the house that had seemed so still was now suddenly alive with unseen dangers. The darkness around her could easily hide the watching eyes of strangers, and every creak was a footstep. Antoinette closed her eyes and forced herself to be calm. She was alone, everyone else was in bed, there was nothing to be afraid of. That was why she had waited to lea
ve her chamber until after the long case clock on the landing struck midnight—to be certain she would not be seen.
“We keep country hours,” Mrs. Wonicot had announced in that bullying voice when she finished serving supper in the dining room downstairs, as if daring Antoinette to disagree with her. Which meant, Antoinette assumed, that the servants were about to retire and she should, too.
Antoinette, used to friendly chatter and smiling faces and a house full of warmth, was already feeling isolated by life at Wexmoor Manor. Now she faced the prospect of a long evening sitting silently in her room. She hadn’t even packed a book to read, and she was certain any letters she might write would be pocketed by the servants or sent on to Lord Appleby.
“Is there a library?” she asked, reluctantly rising to her feet.
A tight-lipped Mrs. Wonicot showed her the library, but stood waiting while Antoinette chose a book. She took her time perusing the titles, expecting Mrs. Wonicot to go away. The collection was a jumble of classics and educational tomes. One volume, bound in tooled leather with gold leaf, purported to be the History of the Langleys of Devon. There were books about British birds and plants, about traveling to exotic locations, and on the higher shelves—placed out of reach of young hands—a number of somewhat dubious titles. Antoinette was just stretching for a book called Nights in the Sultan’s Harem when Mrs. Wonicot’s voice made her start. The cook was still there.
“Sir John was very fond of his books.”
Surprised, Antoinette looked up, and saw a tear in Mrs. Wonicot’s eye. “Sir John?”
“He spent hours in his library. Forgot to eat some days, bless him.”
“Who was Sir John? Did he live here?”
Mrs. Wonicot seemed to catch herself, metaphorically closing the door on her innermost thoughts, her expression once more forbidding. “Have you finished now, Miss Dupre? I have to be up early in the morning and I need my sleep.”
“Yes, thank you, I’m finished.”
But what Mrs. Wonicot didn’t know was that Antoinette had filed the library away for later reference.
Now here she was, back again, alone in the darkness. Even the oil lamp up on the landing did little more than dribble a faint line of light over the first few treads of the staircase. The silence was eerie. But, she reminded herself, she had no choice. The safety of the letter was paramount.
She was certain that Mary Cooper, the maid who unpacked her luggage, had used the opportunity to go through her personal belongings. Of course, unpacking required a certain amount of handling of one’s private items, Antoinette knew that, but there were things there was no need to rummage through—such as her writing case—and Antoinette was sure its contents had been searched. The ribbons that held the case together were tied differently and the papers were not quite as neat as usual.
It was possible Mary was simply nosy, but Antoinette believed the explanation was more sinister than that.
The sooner she hid the letter, the safer she would feel. As her insurance for the future, it was her most important possession.
The leathery smell of the library was strangely comforting, and she wondered again who Sir John might have been. One of Mrs. Wonicot’s previous employers? Maybe she had a soft spot for him? Had he broken her heart when he refused a second helping of her jam roly-poly pudding, forcing her to flee to Devon and marry Wonicot?
Antoinette giggled at her own silliness and then put a hand to her lips, startled at how loud the sound was in the silent house. Sober now, she ran her hands along the shelves and found the position she’d memorized earlier, then drew out her chosen book. It took a moment to slip the letter between the pages and return the book to its spot. Antoinette straightened the spines, covering any sign that they had been disturbed. Now the only thing to do was to pull a book at random that she could use as an excuse, in case she was seen.
With a satisfied little smile, Antoinette closed the library door softly behind her. There! It was done! It was as she turned that she sensed a change in the atmosphere. As if…she was no longer alone.
Her eyes scanned the shadows, trying to pierce their secrets. Was…was there someone near the parlor door? Her heart beat harder. She would have waited until daylight to come down here, but all day long she had been followed about, first by Wonicot and then by the groom with the revolting table manners. Whenever she went outside the house, either one or the other of them would be nearby, pretending to be busy with some job but in reality keeping watch on her. And when she went back inside the house, there were Mary and Mrs. Wonicot, popping up unexpectedly, peering over her shoulder. Antoinette was constantly, frustratingly aware of being observed. Spied on.
She’d actually been relieved, when she crept out of her bedchamber after midnight, that no one was sleeping across the threshold. Apparently Lord Appleby’s spies needed their rest as much as she—or maybe they didn’t expect her to be brave enough to venture out onto the gloomy landing and down into the darkness of the hall.
The shadowy figure by the door hadn’t moved. Antoinette seemed to recall noticing some sort of bureau there when she passed by during the day. That must be it. She was simply imagining things. Boldly she took a step toward the staircase, reaching out for the newel post.
A strong arm came around her waist, another closed over her mouth, stifling her scream. She dropped the book. The next thing she knew she was lifted bodily and carried backward. A door opened and closed, and any light from the lamp went with it.
Darkness so thick it seemed to press against her eyes, enveloping her face, making it hard to breathe—or was that his hand? His chest was a hard wall against her back and his arms like iron bands restraining her. The backs of her thighs, in her thin nightdress, were resting against the front of his, and she felt the muscles in them shift and tighten as he stepped backward against the wall.
For a moment, all she could think was that he was so big, so strong, and she felt so small. She would never escape him.
But she wasn’t a child. She was a woman with a great deal to live for, and a heartbeat later she was fighting her captor, twisting and turning in his arms, and clawing at his gloved hand as she struggled to scream.
His whisper brushed her ear. “Be still and I will let you go, little sparrow.”
Her highwayman!
Her shocked stillness was more to do with the realization of who he was than obedience to his order. But he didn’t know that. He took his hand away, slowly, ending with a fingertip caress. As he loosened his hold on her waist, she slid down his body until her bare feet rested upon the toes of his boots, but he didn’t release her completely.
“What are you doing here?” She turned her head up toward him, her voice sharp as she struggled to regain her calm.
“I’ve always wanted to see a rich man’s house,” he said.
“You’re trespassing on another man’s property.”
She felt him shake in laughter.
Suddenly he stepped away from her, leaving her cold and alone. She swayed, disoriented, and reached to steady herself against the wall. She saw now that it wasn’t completely dark; there was a faint light coming through the drapes, enough to show her the shape of the furnishings. She recognized her surroundings now; they were in the parlor.
“I wanted to see you again.”
His voice was to her left and she turned toward it, every sense focusing on him. She could make out his moving form, large and tall. There was a clink of crystal as a stopper was removed from a decanter, and then the gurgle of liquid being poured into a glass. He was helping himself to Lord Appleby’s brandy. Well, what did she expect? Loyalty to his employer? He was an arrogant thief.
“Why did you want to see me again?” she said, more as a distraction than because she wanted to know. Now she’d had time to reconstruct the layout of the room in her mind’s eye, and she realized the door was close by. With luck she could escape and give the alarm.
But it was too late. He moved back beside her, standing so clos
e that the warmth of his body made her skin prickle. He reached out, and she felt him touch her hair where it lay loose about her shoulders. He caught up a handful of the soft strands and tugged her closer, not cruelly but hard enough so that she didn’t fight him.
“Let me go,” she said icily.
“Why? Aren’t you curious? I’m much younger than Lord Appleby. You might enjoy having a younger man in your bed for a change.”
Antoinette’s first impulse was to deny it. The world might believe her to be Lord Appleby’s mistress, but she knew the truth. But this was Appleby’s man, and she needed to use caution in her dealings with him. She contented herself with “If I wanted another man I wouldn’t choose a penniless thief who molests women.”
He ignored her; his voice dropped seductively. “A woman like you deserves the best.”
“And you are the best?” she mocked.
“Oh yes. I am.”
His arrogance knew no bounds. Her heart was beating very hard now, but luckily he couldn’t know that, or see her face. “I suggest you go back to wherever you came from, and I will pretend this never happened.”
“Come with me. I have my Black Bess outside. Ride with me and the wind.”
“So now you are Dick Turpin?”
“Don’t you find Dick romantic, little sparrow? I thought all the ladies swooned at the thought of that dashing rogue.”
“I am not like all the ladies,” she retorted.
“So if Dick Turpin doesn’t please you, what does? What do you long for when you are lying awake in the night and there is no one there to see those longings in your face? Who does your body ache for?” He was closer now, his voice soft and insidious, as if he wanted to get inside her head. She turned and took a sideways step toward the door, meaning to escape him, but he came up behind her and his arm slid over her shoulder, diagonally across her chest, and he held her captive again.
Once more the heat of his body was pressed against hers. She could feel him, every inch of him, from his heavy arm squashing her breasts to his long legs nudging hers through the thin stuff of her nightgown.
