Lady Anne's Lover (The London List)

by Maggie Robinson

  He cast her a scornful look but chose not to comment.

  “Well, there isn’t! You still have two feet that move perfectly well.”

  “Most women would be repulsed partnering a man such as myself, Annie. How would I waltz? Half the fun of it is holding a woman as close as one dares with both hands.”

  “Maybe she could hold onto you. Reverse roles. There’s no reason a woman could not lead. Push you around a bit. Why should men always be in charge?”

  “You are a wild revolutionary, Lady Anne. I’ll consider your suggestion, but I doubt I’ll have the opportunity to test it out.”

  “We should have dancing after our wedding,” Anne said. From being a hole-in-the-corner affair, it had turned into a celebration in her mind. She would be a married woman—forever free of her father if not her husband, and right now she didn’t want to be free of Gareth at all. The house was big enough to accommodate most of the local people. The rug in the enormous parlor could be rolled back and the furniture pushed to the walls. The dining room was big enough for a banquet.

  Someone else would have to do the cooking, though.

  “Ian won’t approve.”

  “Nonsense. We’re past Advent and it’s not yet Lent. It’s winter, and what else do the villagers have to do but stay indoors and examine all four walls? I’m sure people would welcome a diversion.”

  “Ah, but remember, most of them are good Methodists. No dancing. No drinking.”

  “There were plenty of men in the pub. I think you’re exaggerating.” She could easily see restrictions on drinking, but what could be wrong with dancing? She had spent many nights spinning around a dance floor, enjoying giddy freedom. Dancing was not as good as riding, but it came close.

  “You are set on making this the wedding of the year, aren’t you?”

  “It is the only wedding I’ll ever have,” Anne said soberly. It would be nothing like the fashionable affairs she’d attended in London, or the one she’d once expected to have for herself. “If people see that I’ve chosen to marry you, they might reconsider their prejudices.”

  Gareth laughed. “They’ll just think you don’t know the truth and I’ve tricked you into it. I promise you once word of our impending marriage spreads, you will have all sorts of helpful old tabbies warning you off. See what happens the next time you go into Llanwyr. Your ears will fall off from their blistering advice.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m not going anywhere, isn’t it?” There was, in fact, nowhere else she’d rather be but in this bed, preferably with Gareth out of the chair and in it with her. She patted the counterpane, but he chose to ignore her blatant invitation.

  Gareth sighed. “If you’re not seen in the next few days, they’ll probably think I’ve killed you off already and buried you in a snowbank. And if I speak of your accident, they’ll believe I pushed you.”

  “Don’t be silly. I wasn’t pushed. I just—fell.”

  “The steps are unsafe. It’s a wonder I didn’t go down myself when I got the champagne on New Year’s Eve. You must promise me not to venture into the cellar again.”

  “I promise. But I really did hear something.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you did. Mice. Rats, even. The house creaks and groans. When I was a boy, I thought it was haunted.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts!” Though she could see why a child might, living on this isolated sweep of land. The village wasn’t that far, but seemed a million miles away from austere Ripton Hall, surrounded by brooding hills and barren fields.

  “No. You are far too sensible for someone your age. Any ghosts you come across would be quite outmatched and find someone else to spook.”

  Anne bristled. “I’m not so young. Many girls my age are mothers several times over.”

  “Did we ever establish how old you are?”

  “Old enough.” She was nineteen and sometimes felt like ninety.

  “I stand chastised. I seem to remember you telling me a lady never discusses her age. Fool that I am, I thought that applied only to older women trying to appear younger.”

  “You aren’t meant to understand what we mean unless we want you to. For a rake, you have much to learn about women,” she said archly.

  “And you are just the woman to teach me. But later. I’m sure you want breakfast to give you strength for your lecture.”

  Anne swung her legs over the side if the bed but Gareth quickly covered both knees with his hand. “Don’t you dare. I was going to bring in a tray, but if you wish to go into the kitchen, I’ll carry you.”

  “That won’t be necessary!” Anne objected, but she was overruled, finding herself scooped up in his arm, crushed against his chest. He smelled of smoke and soap and ale.

  “You’ve been drinking,” she accused.

  “Just a mug of ale with Martin over breakfast, like any good Welshman. I visited him over the stable to discuss Penny, and I couldn’t refuse his hospitality. The horse needs gentle exercise every day. I thought to keep him warm and dry indoors, but that’s part of his problem. Martin will take him out for me while I take care of you.”

  “I don’t need taking care of,” Anne said as he deposited her in an upholstered chair. It was one he had dragged from the parlor, its velvet fabric held together by tiny ornamental leaves and flowers stitched on the worn arms. Someone had been clever in their mending. There was a matching footstool with a pillow atop it, where Gareth balanced her bandaged foot. Moving the chair in for her was a thoughtful gesture, and Anne appreciated him even more.

  “I beg to differ. Your throne, my queen. What is your pleasure this morning? Lumber pye? Alas, I have no venison.”

  “You’ve been reading Mrs. Smith’s book.”

  “Aye. I was up before the cock ever thought to crow. Many of the things that woman writes about sound very unpleasant, I must say. But speaking of the cock, his harem has been busy. I shall scramble some eggs for you.”

  “That sounds lovely, but truly, Gareth, you needn’t go to any trouble. Coffee or tea and toast would be fine.”

  “ ’Tis no trouble at all. And you’re to stay put. I won’t have you hobbling around until you’re ready to waltz.”

  Anne settled back and watched him work. He was amazingly proficient cracking the eggs into a bowl using his one hand. She was quite sure she couldn’t do the same without dropping half the shell in. He whisked the eggs, crumbled in some sharp cheese and herbs and poured everything into a hot spider, stirring the contents over the heat. It was comforting to watch him work, his movements efficient and economical even hampered as he was.

  “What did Martin feed you for breakfast?”

  “Ale and beefsteak. With mushrooms, if you can believe it. The man eats better than I do.”

  Anne was shocked. “Do you pay him that well?”

  Gareth shook his head. “He went for months without pay before I came back home, he and Cecily both. He’s a resourceful old codger. Found the mushrooms himself, he says. Perhaps I should ask him for food and financial tips. The money from the sale of my commission is nearly gone. My father sold pretty much everything worth selling.”

  Anne still had most of the nest egg she’d carried in her muff along with her pearl-handled pistol. After her unwilling return from France, she’d decided to save as much money as she could for her next escape, but the money would be used up on their wedding and the trip to London. She remembered the trunks in the attic. “There are your mother’s clothes, quite a lot of them. You could sell them to a secondhand shop. Hereford is a cathedral city. There must be call for some finery there.”

  Gareth plated the eggs and put them on a footed tray for her lap so she would not have to get up to the table. “Would they fetch much? I confess I don’t know much about ladies’ clothing.”

  “Well, you’d never get what your mother paid for them. They’re decades out of fashion, but the workmanship is exquisite and the fabrics are in very good condition. They must have come from a modiste of the first stare. If
I could sew, I’d keep some for myself.” She took a bite of her breakfast. “Oh! Delicious! You could write a cookbook to rival Mrs. Smith’s.”

  “Thank you for your belief in me. But I don’t know a posset from a porcupine.”

  “People don’t eat porcupines, do they?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. Think of the quills. Bad enough to pluck the feathers from a chicken. Which I have done. In Portugal. I was so damn hungry I would have eaten the feathers, too.”

  Anne wanted to hear more of Gareth’s stories, so she spent the next half hour in the warm kitchen listening to abridged versions of his adventures as she cleaned her plate and drank vastly superior coffee to her own. Just as he had New Year’s Eve, she was sure he was leaving out some of the ugliest truths, but what remained was a fascinating geography lesson. As a fresh recruit, he’d served in Halifax, going from frost to the fiery heat of the West Indies, then on to the Peninsula, Waterloo, and India. For a man who’d grown up in this quiet corner of the kingdom, he’d expanded his horizons to traverse more than half the world. He’d given his youth to his country at war. What a shame that he could not find peace in Wales.

  Much as she was reluctant to spoil their morning, it was time to muster their forces concerning Bronwen’s death. It would be lovely to be able to clear up that little impediment. Make it easier for people to attend their wedding reception, too, although Anne thought the lure of free food and drink and sheer nosiness on a dull winter’s day would go a long way to filling Ripton Hall. She took a final sip of coffee and cleared her throat.

  “Have I talked too much, Lady Anne? I had no idea I was so full of blarney. You must be bored to tears.”

  “Not at all. You’re very amusing, as you well know. I can see you now at the Silver Pony, entertaining the neighbors.”

  Gareth’s face sobered. “You’ve forbidden me from drinking there, and I don’t think they’re interested in hearing anything I have to say unless I confess to Bronwen’s murder.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about now.”

  He pushed back from the table and took the cup from her fingers. “What is there to say? I did not do it and don’t know who did.”

  “I’d like to hear what you do know. And to talk to anyone you might think would be helpful.”

  The cup dropped to the table with a clunk. “No! That is to say, I’ll tell you what I know—which isn’t much. But if you go around gossiping, stirring this all up again, someone could harm you. I—I couldn’t bear that.”

  Could he truly care for her as she was beginning to care for him? She put the hope out of her heart and got down to business. “Do you think the murderer is still in the area?”

  Gareth ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know. There is every possibility. When they couldn’t pin it on me, some people decided it was the work of a madman passing through Llanwyr. But no one remembers seeing any strangers in the area. You’ve been to the village. There’s no way to escape being noticed—one main road and a few lanes, houses all hard by. Very little activity even on a good day. The land around the village is sloping and mostly unobstructed by trees. All the farmers working their fields that day would have had a clear view of comings and goings, and no one reported a mysterious stranger lurking about the dower house.”

  “You were not seen.”

  “No. Because I wasn’t there. But that hasn’t stopped people from imagining I’m as stealthy as a spy. I had all those years nimbly evading the French and wild Indians. Subcontinental Indians, too. I’m like smoke.” He took a deep breath. “Thank God Bronwen’s girls were staying with their grandmother for the night, else they might have met their mother’s fate.”

  It was the first Anne had heard about children. Bronwen’s children. And Gareth had planned on being a stepfather to them. How he must have wanted a normal life, a home, children of his own, perhaps. If he got himself straightened out, he’d be a good father. She wrenched her mind away from seeing him surrounded by dark-haired, blue-eyed moppets. “Where were all her servants?”

  “There weren’t many. Lewys Abbey’s dower house is not very big. Bronwen complained about it loud and long to anyone who’d listen. It was quite a comedown from living in the abbey. It’s just on the other side of the village, only a stone’s throw from the last house in Llanwyr proper. Lewys Abbey is set back a bit, but the dower house was not part of the original estate. It was purchased by Bronwen’s husband so he’d have control of his nearest neighbors. He’d let it to his cousin for a few years—the man who inherited his title, Parry Lewys. The old baron had finally given up on the hope of a son, I think, and was training Parry to succeed him.”

  “And the staff?” Anne reminded him.

  “Bronwen had dismissed the lot of them for the evening. It wasn’t unusual for her—everyone suspected that she had a lover and wanted privacy. She was a widow, wasn’t she? Rules are different for widows, and they turned a blind eye. She was killed some time before eleven o’clock, when her housekeeper returned from visiting her sister.”

  “Ian was with her?” Anne wanted Ian to be found guilty, but not, she supposed, until after he officiated their wedding.

  Gareth chuckled. “Nay, not Ian. He spent the night on his knees with a sick parishioner across the Wye Valley. He’s got witnesses, not that I asked them for confirmation. It would have done his holier-than-thou reputation no good to think he was a suspect in a brutal death. No one seems to know about him and Bronwen, which is rather a miracle, really. I guess he truly is blessed by God.”

  “So Bronwen had more than one lover.” Anne could not say she was surprised. She had taken an instinctive dislike to the woman, dead or not. But Gareth had wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

  “Oh, aye. A regular juggler, she was. Had a stable of studs, me included when I was home long enough. She’d led Ian a merry dance for years, but as her ‘spiritual advisor, ’ he had leave to come and go and no one was the wiser. Parry Lewys was family, so he was in and out, too.” His lip curled at the double entendre. “But he’d left to sail to the Caribbean the day before she died, so he isn’t our man. Rumor is she’d got her hooks in him to marry her when he got back, but I gather she didn’t fancy spending six months alone. So there was someone else. I just don’t know who.”

  “Her servants all have alibis?”

  “They do. I interviewed every one of them once I sobered up. I could tell they thought I had some cheek.”

  “What about her family?”

  “Her father, God rot his ambitious soul, is dead. Her mother was with the girls, Mared and Gwyn, and said she had no idea who Bronwen’s visitor might have been. Denied she ever had a lover, too. Not her precious, perfect Bron. Bronwen’s brother Rob lives in Hay, and presumably was at home. I don’t think he raped his own sister and then strangled her.”

  Anne shut her eyes, feeling sick to her stomach. “How old are the children?” she murmured. Finding out that Bronwen the Temptress had little girls changed her outlook on the whole affair.

  “Mared is about four. Gwyn must be thirteen or fourteen.”

  “Poor lambs. This must be awful for them.”

  “Aye. Hard on Bron’s mother, too. Bronwen was the light of her life—she spoiled her and wanted her to have an easy life, marrying her off to a rich baron old enough to be her father. She’s given up the family farm and moved in with Rob to help with the girls. Lord Lewys is expected to do something for them when he gets back, but nothing is settled.”

  “So we are left with either the madman or the mystery lover as suspects.”

  “Or me.”

  She snorted. “Do stop. I am not engaged to be married to a murderer.”

  His eyes locked on hers. “How do you know, Annie? How can you be sure I am not guilty?”

  There was no answer to give him. She didn’t know, of course. Everything had happened months before she arrived in Llanwyr. Gareth has been edged right off life’s cliff, suffering a series of blows that would
have unhinged most men. He’d poisoned himself with drink, and given up.

  But she was sure. The ex-soldier who talked of plucked chickens and war paint, of wolves and butterflies the size of one’s palm, of the relentless Spanish sun and rampaging elephants had once loved life. Killing a man in battle was one thing. Killing a woman—a mother—even if she had broken his heart, was quite another.

  “I believe you,” she said simply. “I believe in you.” And she reached for his hand.

  CHAPTER 18

  “I suppose we must show up in chapel,” Gareth grumbled as Anne folded his tie into a lumpy knot at his throat. He could probably do as good a job himself but he didn’t want to turn away her inexpert help or deny himself the closeness of her body.

  “Yes, we must. I don’t like it any better than you do, but if we are to give you a fresh start, we might have to do a great many things we find unpleasant.” It was early Sunday morning, five days after Anne’s spill down the stairs. She was still limping, but Gareth had let her out of bed, much to his regret.

  The past week had been exquisite agony. He had made love to her with everything but his cock and was absurdly hopeful that he was succeeding in his announced seduction. Much like a man with a bad tooth who could not stop himself from poking at it with his tongue, he could not stop tormenting himself with the idea of fucking her. It was all he thought about, all day long. When he mucked out stalls. When he toasted cheese. When he plunged into the ice-cold stream behind the house to quell his rampant ardor. When he stole just a small nip from the brandy bottle to help him sleep alone. Once it was empty, he would not buy more.

  Gareth didn’t believe he was breaking his oath to her. He was not drinking. A pot of ale at breakfast was not drinking. A glass of wine—he’d brought all the bottles up so he would not be the next one to break his crown on the cellar stairs—with the simple dinners he fixed for them was not drinking. He’d smashed the gin bottles in the cobblestone drive, thinking afterward he should have tried to sell them back to Mrs. Chapman. He was not so flush in the pocket that he could afford to waste perfectly good liquor, but Annie had been insistent. In her citified opinion, gin was the devil’s piss. She’d gone on and on about seeing its effects firsthand when she lived in London—maimed soldiers lying drunk in the streets, street-corner whores who would do anything for a bottle, even small children who preferred gin to dinner. She was less hostile to brandy and wine—trust Annie’s tastes to be expensive.