Annoyed, Anna jumped up and snatched the book away before Mrs. Culpepper could close it.
…the child grows uncommonly fat and I daresay stupider with each passing day. Were the marquess to visit now, he would most certainly leave again with all due haste.
“You were an exceedingly clever child, Anna,” Mrs. Culpepper said loyally.
“And fat, apparently. I don’t remember that.”
Mrs. Culpepper waved the comment away with pursed lips. “You might have been going through something of an awkward stage when I first came to Anover House, but you were beautiful.”
“I was fortunate,” Anna said, tossing the journal aside. “To have had you.” Taking a deep breath, she looked about the room and suddenly felt at a loss of what to do next. “Do you suppose the marquess believed Madame’s claim that I was his?”
“It would have made little difference one way or the other, to my understanding. The late lord Engsly was not the sort to take notice of his parental duties. I remember your mother speaking of him a time or two.”
“Poorly, I assume.” Her mother spoke poorly of everyone, provided the individual in question was out of earshot.
“She referred to him once as a fickle, untrustworthy cad, or something along those lines. I took that to mean he failed to honor their contract.”
Anna nodded, remembering her mother’s earlier words. Much good it did me. That was the trouble with being dependent upon the wealth and power of nobility. They had the wealth and power to do as they pleased.
Mrs. Culpepper turned and began to shuffle through the papers she’d removed from the chest once more. “I wonder how much was left owing?”
“Why? The man’s passed, hasn’t he? One can’t expect a dead man to honor his debts.”
“By all accounts, one couldn’t have expected it from him alive. His sons, however…”
“Sons,” Anna repeated slowly. “I may have brothers. How strange.”
“You’ve brothers with considerable fortunes and reputations for honoring familial debts. The late marquess left the estate in something of a mess, made worse by the perfidy of his second marchioness. It was all the talk last year.” As was her wont when there was great gossip to be shared, Mrs. Culpepper leaned forward a hair and lowered her voice. “It is said that the late Lady Engsly, the marquess’s second wife, conspired with her husband’s man of business to bilk the Engsly estate out of a fortune. I’ve no idea if it is true, but it is known that Lady Engsly amassed a veritable mountain of debt and enemies, and she was forced to flee to the continent when her stepson gained the title and discovered her betrayal. She died not long after and your brothers have been about for the last year making amends and settling her debts. If the new marquess would do that for his stepmother, you can be certain he’d do the same for his father.
You might…Oh!” Mrs. Culpepper exclaimed suddenly. She spun about and began searching the papers once more. “Do you know, I might have seen…Yes, here they are. Letters from the marquess himself. I’d not thought anything of them at first, but…”
Anna watched her friend quickly open the first missive and begin to read. “Did you see him, ever? The late marquess?”
“Not that I recall,” Mrs. Culpepper replied without looking up. “Certainly not here.”
“What of the current marquess?”
“He is not the sort to move in Madame’s circle.”
“Well then, I am inclined to like him already.”
“He is also a dear friend to Lord Dane.”
The name, so unexpected, caused the air to catch in Anna’s lungs.
Max Dane. Good heavens, there was a man she’d not given thought to in some time. She’d made a point of it. Well, she’d made a point of trying not to dwell on him, at any rate.
She’d had no other choice. Max had not come back to call on her as promised after their encounter in the nursery. In fact, he’d ceased visiting Anover House altogether. She’d never heard from him again, and after a brief bout of heartache and self-pity, Anna had come to the conclusion that she had been a silly, shortsighted girl to have expected differently. She’d seen her mother deep in her cups often enough to know that plans made in the thick of drink were rarely seen to fruition, generally to the benefit of everyone involved.
A viscount and the illegitimate daughter of a courtesan with nothing more in common than a shared kiss. What future could there have been for them, really? None at all, and it had been the height of naïveté to believe otherwise.
Anna took pains to keep her voice and expression neutral. “Is he? Well, there is no accounting for taste, I am told.”
“There is no accounting for your stubbornness,” Mrs. Culpepper countered. “Pretend it means nothing to you, if you like, but I know he captured your fancy that night.”
“I should never have told you of it,” Anna mumbled. She’d held out for two days, all but bursting at the seams with the secret and the hope it had sparked. In the end, however she’d succumbed to excitement and given Mrs. Culpepper a lengthy, albeit slightly modified, retelling of the night. Anna had wisely chosen to edit out any mention of kissing.
Mrs. Culpepper gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Not everything is meant to be kept secret, poppet.”
“Not everything need come to light.” She contemplated that statement as it pertained to current circumstances and ran a thumb over the binding of the journal on the floor. “What am I to do with this information?”
“Make use of it,” Mrs. Culpepper said, picking up the next page in her stack of letters from the marquess.
“Approach Engsly?” She wrinkled her nose at the idea. “I don’t know that I wish to do that. I don’t care for the idea of visiting the father’s sins upon the sons.”
“Better they be visited upon his daughter?”
That seemed a mite melodramatic. “They’ve not—”
“He ought to have provided for you,” Mrs. Culpepper cut in with a quick, sharp look over her letter.
Anna shrugged. “He may very well have. Or perhaps he knew full well I was someone else’s bastard. Who’s to say Madame doesn’t lie to herself, same as everyone else?”
There was a brief pause before Mrs. Culpepper answered. “The marquess himself.”
“Beg your pardon?”
Mrs. Culpepper offered the pages of the letter. “See for yourself.”
Anna snatched the papers and scanned the contents. It didn’t take long before she found the passage that held her name. The marquess expressed all due pleasure at the news of his infant daughter’s continued good health. The tone of the letter struck Anna as one of mild irritation rather than pleasure, but that hardly registered in the grand scheme of things.
“He acknowledged me?”
Stunned, she shared a look of wonder with her friend before returning her attention to the letter.
“Why on earth would Madame keep that a secret?” she mumbled, going on to the next page, hoping to find a date, at the very least. “What could she possibly stand to gain? Why would he admit paternity and then…” She trailed off as the mention of a contract and a number on the last page caught her eye. “Good heavens.”
“What is it?”
Anna held the page up for Mrs. Culpepper to see. “He says he does not owe fifty pounds per annum for my care; the contract clearly states he must only provide forty.”
“The contract he did not fulfill,” Mrs. Culpepper added and began to rub her hands together and chortle. “The Engsly estate owes you three-and…er…eight-and…Well, let us say six-and-twenty years of allowance. Well over a thousand pounds.”
Over a thousand pounds. It was a fortune. Nowhere near enough to cover the cost of a place like Anover House, but more than ample to procure a cottage in the countryside. More than enough to procure her freedom.
“The Engsly estate is financially well off?”
“Flush these days, by all accounts.”
Then Lord Engsly would scarce note the loss of a th
ousand pounds. A hard resolve settled over her. “And the current marquess is a man of honor, you say?”
“My dear, he is renowned for it.” A smug smile spread over Mrs. Culpepper’s face. “Oh, sneaking into this room was quite the smartest thing we have ever done. Now, let us see if we might find the contract itself.”
Chapter 4
Max’s arrival at Caldwell Manor played out much as his arrivals always did. He was greeted with polite smiles and commendable efficiency from the staff, and promptly escorted into the small sitting room off the library, where Mrs. Webster, the housekeeper, offered refreshments. Ginger biscuits, his favorite. Max politely declined. The biscuits were brought, anyway.
It was a routine Max took pleasure in, despite its formality. He had been six the first time his family visited Caldwell Manor, and though much had changed over the years, there were some things on which he could always rely. He would always be welcomed, there would never be a shortage of ginger biscuits, and hell would freeze solid before Mrs. Webster took “no, thank you” for an answer.
Feeling more relaxed by the moment, Max tugged free an already loose cravat, leaned back in his third-favorite chair, and mused that this was why he would always agree to visit Caldwell, even when a summons came in the middle of the London season. He would come for the comfort of its routines and the consistency of its inhabitants.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
Max looked up to find Lucien Haverston, the Marquess of Engsly, standing in the doorway. He looked disheveled and wild-eyed, his dark hair sticking up in several places.
Max returned the greeting with a blank stare. “Well…this is new.”
“Why aren’t you in London?”
“Because I’m answering your summons.”
Black brows lowered on a handsome face that had broken the hearts of many a maiden. Or so Lucien had liked to claim in his youth. “What?”
“I was invited. You invited me. You insisted I visit, in fact. You said your wife would be in Scotland. I was spending too much time in London. You promised a bit of fishing, a little revelry with the lasses at the tavern, fine weather and clean country air—”
“Oh, hell, I did,” Lucien cut in with a groan. “Last month, was it?” He shook his head suddenly and waved his hand about as if to erase the thought. “Doesn’t matter. You have to go.”
“What? Why?”
“I have guests.”
“Yes,” Max returned pointedly. “Me.”
“You’re not a guest. You’re…you.” Lucien blinked at that statement, then began snapping his fingers repeatedly in the manner of someone slowly arriving at a solution to a particularly vexing dilemma. “You are you.” He stopped snapping to point. “You have to stay.”
Max rubbed the back of his hand under his chin. “Are you catching?”
“I’m not sick. I’m…I’m in need of a drink.”
Lucien spun about on his heel and marched across the room toward a set of crystal decanters on a fine old walnut sideboard, then stopped suddenly and whirled about with a blank expression. “I never promised revelry at the tavern.”
Max shrugged and stretched out his legs before him. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”
“Of course you can. My wife would.”
And Lucien would rather face the gallows than cause Lilly one moment’s consternation. The Marquess and Marchioness of Engsly were famously besotted with each other.
“Do you want one?” Lucien inquired, pouring from a decanter.
Max shook his head, and watched in fascination as his friend swallowed down a finger-full of spirits. Lucien had never been one for drink. He took wine at meals, the occasional brandy after dinner and ale during travel, that was all.
“Are you going to tell me what’s—?”
“My sister is coming.” Lucien blew out a hard breath after the drink. “Any minute now.”
“Winnefred? Brilliant.”
“No, not my brother’s wife.” Lucien flicked a longing glance at the brandy bottle but didn’t refill his glass. “My father’s daughter. My sister.”
Max straightened in the chair, intrigued and wary. “You don’t have a sister.”
“Apparently, I do.”
“I see.” He took a closer look at his friend’s face and for the first time noticed shadows beneath his eyes. Lucien wasn’t merely out of sorts. He was well and truly worried. “When did you learn of it?”
“A fortnight ago,” Lucien replied, setting down his glass. “She wrote to my solicitor in London. He verified her claim of proof. God, this is discomforting. Gideon and I have always known this sort of thing might happen, of course. Our father was a faithless bastard. It’s a miracle we’re not lousy with half siblings. But the reality of facing a sister…”
Was something his friend didn’t have to do alone, Max finished silently. “I’m happy to stay.”
Lucien bobbed his head and took a seat on the very edge of the settee across from Max. “Excellent. Excellent. She’s from your world. Your presence might well put her at ease.”
“We live in the same world, Lucien,” Max drawled. “I just know more interesting people. Who is this girl?”
“Miss Anna Rees. The daughter of Mrs. Rebecca Wrayburn.”
“Anna…” The name came out a little strangled. Max cleared his throat and tried again. “Anna Rees? The Miss Anna Rees?”
Oh, hell. Oh, holy hell.
The light of memory washed over Lucien’s worried face. “That’s right, didn’t you tell me that you know the girl personally?”
“No, I told you I’d met her.” Once it had become clear that Anna Rees wanted nothing to do with him, he saw no particular reason to keep secret the fact that they’d met. He’d also seen no particular reason to advertise the fact that she wanted nothing more to do with him, and had therefore limited his accounting of the evening to Lucien and Gideon.
“What is she like?” Lucien inquired.
“I don’t know. She’s…” She was Anna Rees. Beautiful, alluring, captivating. Cold and unattainable. Max shook his head and resisted the urge to shift in his seat. “I don’t know.”
He’d only imagined he’d known.
“Come on, man,” Lucien pressed. “You’re one of precious few people to have ever spoken with the girl.”
“My memory of the occasion is a bit foggy round the edges, for a contingent of reasons.”
“You were drunk?”
“It was four years ago. Naturally, I was drunk.” Max shrugged, unashamed and unrepentant. Many men went through a period of unruliness. His had come a mite later than some, that was all. He’d since tempered his drinking. The remainder of his habits continued to garner the disapproval of good society, but he no longer felt the need to drink himself into oblivion on a regular basis. “I was also grieving the unexpected acquisition of the viscounty.”
“Hell. How did that meeting proceed, exactly? You didn’t behave badly toward her, did you?”
“Do you know, I have wondered that very thing—” He grinned when Lucien’s face took on a dark cast. “Settle your feathers, Your Lordship. I was in no position to have taken advantage of the girl. I fell asleep in creation’s most uncomfortable chair. Little minx left me there.”
Just like the first time he’d mentioned the meeting to Lucien, Max wisely left out that he’d proposed to the woman in a drunken stupor. That he’d returned a week later, as she’d made him promise, only to be told by Mrs. Wrayburn that her daughter was not receiving visitors. That he’d returned again and again, and had written, twice, before finally accepting the fact that Miss Rees wanted nothing to do with him.
Lucien rose from his seat yet again and stabbed a finger at Max. “By God, if I hear a different story from her…Maybe you should leave.”
Max decided he wasn’t going anywhere. The last thing Lucien needed was more time alone with his worries. A bit of distraction, that’s what he needed. “You’re going to be unbearable as an older brother.”
/>
“I’m already an older brother.”
“Not to a sister. It’s different.” He thought of his own sister, Beatrice. Often when he pictured her in his mind, he saw not the grown woman with a child of her own, but the mischievous little girl who used to follow him about the house, begging him to play at dolls or some equally inconvenient and embarrassingly female game, and generally having her way. It was near impossible to deny Beatrice anything…or should have been. “Trust me.”
“You’re right.” Lucien speared his fingers through his hair. “I know you’re right. What the devil do I know of sisters?”
“You’ve a sister-in-law,” Max pointed out.
Lucien sent him a bland look. “Have you met Freddie?”
The fiercely independent and oft times wild Winnefred was hardly representative of what some preferred to think of as the weaker sex.
“You have a wife,” he tried instead. “I should think that comparable on some level.”
“Well, it’s not. I don’t know what to do with the woman, what to say to her. Should I apologize? Should I have gone to her instead of insisting she come here? Do I embrace her? Do I welcome her to my home or to our home?” He swore under his breath and began to pace between the settee and the fireplace. “It should have been her home before now. It should have been available to her at the very least. Hell, I will need to apologize.”
Or she would, Max thought darkly, if he discovered she was playing the Haverstons false and turning his friend inside out in the process. “For pity’s sake, man, sit down. You’re making this into more than it is. You’ll have a conversation with the woman and she’ll be on her way.” And he could get down to the business of investigating her claim on the Haverstons. “You can manage that—”
“I invited her for a visit,” Lucien cut in. “Not a conversation.”
“You don’t mean to have her stay on at Caldwell.” By the look of Lucien’s expression, he did. Oh, bloody hell. “Lucien, you don’t know this woman. I’m not sure anyone knows this woman, not even her own mother.”
Practically Wicked Page 5
