A Wild Justice

by Gail Ranstrom

  Annica’s interest was piqued. “Indeed? In the Royal Navy or the Diplomatic Corps?”

  “It was quite some time ago, and we were on the same assignment. Our paths crossed briefly.”

  She was mulling over the fact that he had not answered her question when he leaned closer and whispered, “I would not quiz him on the matter if I were you.”

  “Milady! Over here!” Hodgeson called as they approached the curb. He had one hand on the open door of a coach and the other was pointing in a westerly direction. “He went that way, milady!”

  “M-my cousin Gilbert,” she improvised with a surge of anxiety. “’Twould never do to have him suspect what I am giving him for his birthday.”

  “Never,” Morgan agreed.

  She looked up at him and felt a twinge of unease. There was more to Mr. Morgan than met the eye.

  Try as she might, Annica could not put Wilkes’s accusation of Auberville’s plot against her out of her mind. Had Auberville, indeed, set out to snare her? Had she been as unwary as the victims the Wednesday League avenged? Oh, he would have to pay for such a treachery!

  Grace admitted she had heard a rumor that Wilkes’s charge was true, and that Tristan believed Annica’s most desirable quality was that she was “capable.” She added that she had been told Tristan’s treatise on wildflowers was a ruse to become acquainted with Annica and to quell any suspicions she might have of being courted. If those rumors were true, Tristan deserved a dose of his own medicine.

  At tea that afternoon in her aunt’s private parlor, Annica smiled, put her teacup down and folded her hands in her lap. “Aunt Lucy, since I am considering marriage, I thought I should consult you regarding proper behavior for a wife.”

  “Oh! I am so pleased you have asked, my dear,” Aunt Lucy twittered. “What, exactly, would you like to learn?”

  She did her best to look genuinely interested. “I need advice on personal matters.”

  “Oh, well, my dear, as to that, there is not much to tell. ’Tis a wife’s duty and she must submit. Your husband will know what to do, and will do all the…um, work. I have found that it helps considerably if you have a good-size glass of brandy beforehand and try to think of something else during.”

  Annica could feel a blush steal up her cheeks. Tristan’s kiss had intoxicated her far more than the strongest brandy could ever have done. The sudden memory of his whispered words, Now you are mine, caused her heart to lurch, and the clear recollection of the ecstasy he had introduced her to made her hands tremble in her lap. She clasped them more tightly together.

  Aunt Lucy’s plump hand reached out to pat hers. “Now, now, dear. ’Tis not as bad as all that. Indeed, after a few years you will learn to, well, not mind so much, and once you have produced a few children, Auberville may not trouble you about it at all. Some men are quite considerate that way.”

  “Gads,” she murmured in an undertone, praying fervently that Tristan would never stop troubling her about it. That is, if they could reach an agreement on their future.

  “Anything else, dear?”

  She cleared her head of the unwanted memories and nodded, returning to her original purpose. “What I really want to know, Aunt Lucy, is how to manage a husband.”

  Aunt Lucy laughed. “We’d all like to know that, my dear. Still, we have our little ways.”

  “Those little ways, Auntie—they are what I want to know about. I never had much time or patience for such things, since I never intended to marry, and I fear I wasn’t paying attention when it was discussed. Could you give me a few hints?”

  “Certainly. First off, my dear, you must give him credit for everything, whether he deserves it or not.”

  “But—”

  “Then tell him how intelligent he is. How wise. In all things you must defer to him. Ask his advice on even the smallest matters, then tell him how clever he is.”

  “Will he believe I am so simple-minded that I cannot—”

  Aunt Lucy interrupted with a stern shake of her head. “Do not allow yourself to think that way! If you would have him be considerate of your delicate sensibilities, you must not allow him to know how capable you are. He will never put a worm on your hook if he sees you gutting the fish, Annica.”

  “Why, Aunt Lucy! How very logical of you. I never suspected that you might be so…” She let her voice trail off.

  “Practical? Intelligent?” The older woman sat back in her chair and smiled. “Men find that so unattractive, dear. ’Tis much better to let them think they are in charge. That is one of our ‘little ways.’”

  “But why would I want to deceive him about that?”

  “Do you want my advice or not?” Lucy sniffed.

  Chastised, Annica bit her lower lip. She knew this was her best way of testing Tristan. If he wanted a capable, intelligent wife, what would he do when he thought his carefully laid trap had snared a far different quarry? Would he lose his temper at last? Strike her? Retract his offer? She nodded for her aunt to continue, intending to put Aunt Lucy’s advice into practice this very evening.

  “Well,” Aunt Lucy began, warming to her subject. “Husbands are especially susceptible to fawning and flattery. They adore to be your hero and champion, and you must be quite awed by their strength. They’re endlessly amused—in a superior way—over your little trials. Thus, I’d recommend…”

  Tristan swept Annica into a waltz and gave her a puzzled frown. “You amaze me, Annica. I had no idea you cared in the least what my favorite color might be.”

  She smiled sweetly, making him even more suspicious. “Certainly I care, m’lord. Why, I shall have all my new gowns made in varying shades.”

  “Of red? That ought to raise a few eyebrows.”

  “Red? Your favorite color is red?”

  In truth, he was partial to evergreen—the same shade as her eyes—but he was annoyed that she would employ such a silly affectation, and he did not intend to cooperate.

  She frowned and narrowed those wide orbs at him. “What is your next favorite color, m’lord?”

  Which colors flattered Annica most? Vivid tones set her beauty off like a precious jewel. Softly muted ones gave her the look of an angel. But she wanted to dress in varying shades of a single color. “Blue,” he said, thinking there was less potential for disaster there—at least until he could discover what her game was.

  She nodded and gave him a flirtatious smile. “I do so want to please you, m’lord.”

  Now he knew she was up to something. He let his gaze sweep the alluring curves of her figure and took note of the temptingly low cut of her coral-pink gown. As always, she was stunning. Perhaps he should have said pink was his favorite color.

  He leaned close to her ear as he led her into an unexpected turn. “I like you best in nothing at all, sprite.”

  Faltering at his little gibe, she stepped on his shoe. “I cannot go out like that, m’lord.”

  “Tristan,” he corrected.

  “I cannot go out like that, Tristan.”

  “Then do not go out. Should you accept my proposal, I intend to keep you very close to our bed for quite some time.”

  Annica’s cheeks stained a becoming color that matched her gown to perfection. “I know my duty, Tristan, and I shall do it. You needn’t worry over that.”

  “I was not worried in the least,” he replied, amused by her interpretation of their lovemaking. In that aspect, at least, he was confident that Annica was his eager student. “And I am pleased you do not intend to shirk your ‘duty.’ We shall have to see what we can do about making it more pleasant for you. I’d far rather you look forward to it than regard it as a duty.”

  “Aunt Lucy said only women of loose morals and mistresses actually enjoy such things.”

  He smiled and lowered his lips to her ear again. “Do you believe her, Annica?”

  She stumbled once more. “I must believe her. How else would I know such things?”

  “By using yourself as a yardstick. Did you enjoy what w
e did? Would you have preferred to feel nothing? Are you a woman of loose morals, Annica?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “No, sprite. You have a passionate nature, but you have not abused it. ’Tis one of the reasons I think we are so well suited.”

  “You have not abused a passionate nature, m’lord? How remarkable. I thought all men were so disposed.”

  “’Tis true that I wanted to ravish you from the moment I first saw you.”

  Annica’s eyes widened. “I cannot imagine why, m’lord. I am really quite ordinary. I am aware that I’ve been somewhat unconventional, so should I accept your kind offer of marriage, I would want to be a proper wife. One who would not give you cause for embarrassment or regret.”

  He watched her face uneasily. There was something wrong here. His Annica would never surrender so completely—nor would he want her to. “Hmm,” he mused, deciding to test her. “Since you are in such an accommodating mood, my dear, perhaps I could persuade you to give up your political marches and take up needlepoint instead.”

  “Certainly, m’lord.”

  Tristan felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. What little rebellion was she fomenting? Needlepoint, indeed! Not on a cold day in hell.

  “And whilst we are on the subject of suitable activities, m’lord, I am wondering when we might be visiting the next specimen.”

  “Specimen?”

  “For your treatise. Why, now that I am to be more in your company, we should have no trouble at all meeting your publisher’s deadline.”

  A twinge of conscience pricked at him. “No trouble at all.”

  “Excellent,” Annica bubbled. “Oh, we shall have an enviable partnership, Auberville. I intend to do as much credit to your name as you deserve.”

  Again he murmured a vague reply, noting the double edge to her words.

  “And you waltz so divinely, Tristan,” she exclaimed, rambling on. “Are you meeting us at the Lundys’ rout later? I am simply dying to introduce you to the rest of my friends. I shall be the envy of every woman in London.”

  Tristan clenched his teeth so hard that a muscle jumped along his jaw. “Will you?”

  “Why, yes! Your position, your title, your wealth all combine to make you the catch of the season. Together, we shall have great consequence in society.”

  “I was unaware that you cared about such things, Annica.”

  “Of course I do, silly. I would hazard that you do not know me nearly as well as you thought. All women care about their position in society. Very much the same as men care about their wife’s suitability and settlements. You know the polite world will be talking. After all, we have both been the subject of wagers on the betting books. Why, just the other day, Mr. Morgan was saying how everyone expected your choice would be more, um, conventional, I believe the word was.”

  “Morgan? Where did you see him?” Annica was being uncharacteristically annoying this evening, but this little tidbit was interesting.

  “I ran into him while I was shopping for a gift for Gilbert. Is something amiss, m’lord?”

  “No, not necessarily. Though, as a rule, I wish you’d be more careful in your associations.”

  “Certainly. You must make me a list. I simply cannot trust my own judgment. Aunt Lucy has said how fortunate I am to have got such an excellent advisor as you.”

  Tristan looked down into the flawless face. Who is this woman? She had Annica’s features, Annica’s coloring, Annica’s luxuriant dark hair, but he could swear she was a stranger. She glanced up, and for a moment he thought he saw a flash of something defiant in the masked eyes.

  Chapter Eleven

  Glancing over her shoulder to be certain no one had seen her, Annica slipped through the terrace doors into the shadowy garden. Her heart beat a wild rhythm when she thought of the chance she was taking—following Wilkes into the gardens alone—but she had not been able to resist when she saw him steal covertly out the doors by himself.

  She heard to her left the sound of footsteps crunching on pebbles, and hurried down the path in that direction, keeping close to the concealing hedge that lined the walk. Even while she prayed she would not be caught, she began fabricating excuses for being in the garden alone.

  The rise and fall of lowered voices warned her to caution. She made her way forward with all the stealth she could manage.

  “…at Watier’s just before closing, eh?” Roger Wilkes was saying.

  “I’ll meet you outside,” a lowered, vaguely familiar voice answered. “Who is the game tonight?”

  “Lady Jane Perrin. When we danced, she said she was going on to several routs. We shall intercept her at the Sheffields’. She has a convenient habit of wandering into gardens alone. I shall be waiting and throw a sack over her head, just as I did to Sarah Hunter at Vauxhall.”

  Annica covered her mouth to stifle her gasp. It was true! Wilkes was the villain they had been seeking! And worse, he was planning to repeat the crime this very night—with more friends of a like mind! Wondering if she dared risk a peek to identify the naggingly familiar voice of his companion, she inched forward.

  “I thought you singled out Lady Annica Sayles as the next to amuse our little group,” the second voice said. “I was looking forward to that.”

  “Damned if she didn’t get herself tied up with Auberville. He may be the one man in London we dare not cross.”

  “Auberville? Yes, I see your point.”

  “He still has all his old connections. He could destroy us utterly inside a week, and he’s ruthless enough to do it.”

  “That very fact would make Lady Annica a sweeter challenge, Wilkes.”

  A low chortle met these words, and Annica retreated again, hugging herself against a sudden chill of fear.

  “Oh, I have not given up entirely, you may count on that,” Wilkes replied. “Lady Annica’s haughtiness is going to cost her dearly, but the victory will be sweeter after she is Lady Auberville. His lordship will not be able to denounce her, and will be stuck with a wife who has been used by a good many of his peers. If we catch her soon enough, perhaps she will present him with a son whose parentage presents a question in his mind. That would amuse me for years to come. But we’ll have to be careful to cover our tracks—unlike the others.”

  Annica shivered as an icy finger traveled up her spine. Just knowing she had been singled out for violation gave rise to near panic. She clenched her jaw tighter.

  “We know who is behind their ruin now, Wilkes, and we shall have the edge this time,” the familiar voice said.

  “Nevertheless, I took care that Lady Sarah never see my face, so I have nothing to fear,” Wilkes chortled with confidence. “They may suspect, but they will never know for certain. Whoever is investigating for them is damned clever. Could be a rival group. We shall have to make certain they pay for their treachery.”

  Annica bit her lower lip so hard it nearly bled. She’d heard tell of the secret clubs formed by bored young blades of the ton who roamed London streets in search of danger and mischief—clubs that brought excitement to their jaded lives. No deed was too outrageous, too decadent, too evil. Yes, she had heard rumors of the notorious Hellfire Clubs— “Mohocks” and “Bold Bucks”—but she had never wanted to believe they were true.

  The voices grew louder, coming in her direction.

  “Tonight, then. Half past twelve. We shall take Lady Jane to the house off Russell Street. Meantime, consider this, Wilkes—if she does not return, she will never tell the tale.”

  Murder! Dear Lord! They were considering murder now! Annica whirled and fled down the path toward the house. She did not spare a glance over her shoulder until she was safely inside and across the room. Appropriating an abandoned cup of punch from a nearby console, she assumed an apathetic air as she studied a mediocre portrait of their hostess.

  As she waited, she struggled to put a face with the voice talking to Wilkes in the garden. Geoffrey Morgan? No. He had been dancing with Constance when Annica slipped aw
ay. Nor was it Tristan, Julius, Uncle Thomas or Gilbert—the only male voices she was familiar enough with to be certain.

  When Roger Wilkes reentered the ballroom alone and disappeared in the direction of the game room, she put the punch cup back on the console and set off to find Lady Jane Perrin, praying she had not indulged in her “convenient habit” of wandering into the garden alone.

  Smiling over Geoffrey Morgan’s shoulder as he swept her into a sedate waltz, Annica watched Lady Jane don her frilled spencer and take her brother’s arm as they went toward the foyer. Lady Jane turned, met Annica’s gaze and gave a tiny nod, coupled with a grateful smile, before she disappeared outside.

  As a further sign that things were going in her favor at last, Tristan glanced her way, then headed in the direction of the game room. She could not help but smile to herself. With Aunt Lucy’s advice, she had managed to put the arrogant lord to the test. Rather than stalking her now, he was doing his best to avoid her.

  Relieved, she turned her attention back to her partner’s conversation. “Excuse me, Mr. Morgan, I did not catch that.”

  “I was saying, Lady Annica, that I’ve enjoyed making the acquaintance of a number of your friends. Miss Wardlow and Miss Bennington are especially delightful.”

  Annica’s heart gave a quick skip. Was he telling her that he knew he was being followed? she wondered. She forced an innocent smile. “They are very nice, are they not? Miss Wardlow is so intelligent and loyal to her friends. I believe you have known Miss Bennington for quite some time.”

  “Not long, Lady Annica. Our families were acquainted. She is a remarkable woman.”

  “All my friends are remarkable, Mr. Morgan.”

  “I am inclined to agree, though I cannot think of a uniting thread between you. You are all so very different from one another.”

  “Our common thread, Mr. Morgan, is our great love of…literature. We are members of the same literary society.”

  “Now that you mention it, I believe I’ve heard that you are a bluestocking. That is quite admirable, Lady Annica.”