The Cold Earl's Bride: A Historical Regency Romance

by Audrey Ashwood

  “If you can get me in unseen, I will double your pay,” Marcus promised. He had no more time to waste, and he needed to act quickly while remaining unnoticed.

  Annabelle… his heart skipped a beat before he regained his composure. Marcus pushed aside the insane worries he felt, together with all his feelings, and he hid them in the back of his mind before concentrating on the street urchin again. The dirty face of the little man lit up as he grinned from one ear to the other.

  Marcus had found a new ally.

  Chapter 18

  The journey to the countess’s country manor would have been entertaining if Annabelle had not kept thinking about Hawthorne. It was not so much the question of how he knew about her and Marcus’s supposed separation, but it was the mysterious command “from above” that distracted her from the conversation with the countess and her sister. It meant that someone was still holding a protective hand over Marcus, even though he was no longer in the service of the crown. He was an outcast, someone who had exited his service with an explosion instead of leaving discreetly with the highest honours. Annabelle was under the impression that even his former superior preferred to see Marcus dead rather than alive, given all the secrets he had learned during the course of his action.

  “We are almost there, my dear,” the voice of the countess interrupted her thoughts. “Perhaps it would be best if you go straight to your room and rest when we arrive. I have sent my major-domo ahead to have everything ready for us.”

  “Please excuse my absent-mindedness,” Annabelle said, rubbing her temples. “I am not a good companion presently, I am afraid.”

  “Do not worry, my dear,” the countess replied with a smile. “I am certain you will feel much better once a few hours of rest have made good for the strains of the journey.” She opened the curtain at her side and peeked out of the small opening. “We are already in Holywood-Saint-Marys,” she exclaimed and then graciously closed the curtain again, shielding them from the unusually bright rays of the autumn sunshine. “A good half hour, and we will be home and dry.”

  “I believe it has less to do with the journey than the visit of this gentleman,” Annabelle’s sister interjected. She was still very much a child despite everything she had been through. Annabelle was not sure whether it was a blessing or a curse that Felicity had recovered so quickly to her former ingenuousness. She could not shake the vague suspicion that her suddenly cheerful mood had something to do with a certain Bow Street Runner. It was so typical of her sister to fall from one extreme to the next. For weeks and months, she had held an unhealthy affection for a vicious criminal, and now her senses swam and swooned over an investigator.

  “Was the gentleman’s visit at least one of the pleasant kind?” the Countess of York enquired, and winked at Annabelle mischievously. Even before she could answer, Felicity chattered on.

  “Mr Hawthorne is a Bow Street Runner,” she explained.

  “He believes that I shot Marcus with malicious intent,” Annabelle chipped in quickly, before Felicity said too much and revealed something she should not. Annabelle looked at her with a sharp gaze. She knew exactly what Felicity was trying to do. Since Annabelle had provided her sister with only scant information regarding Hawthorne’s visit, she now tried to satisfy her curiosity in this way. There had been no time left before departing, as she had written a letter to Marcus informing him about Hawthorne’s showing up. So, she told the carefully shortened version of the lie that she had already told the Bow Street Runner. Felicity’s eyes grew large and round, and she even put her hand in front of her mouth.

  The countess, in contrast, leaned back and winked once more at Annabelle, letting her know that she was not hoaxed so easily. “Surely this Mr Hawthorne came by to tell you that the investigation has come to a close, did he not?” she remarked lightly when Annabelle’s words seemed to have dried up. The carriage slowed, and Annabelle breathed a sigh of relief.

  They had arrived. With a bit of luck, Felicity and she would have separate rooms, and she had at least half an hour to get some peace. The manor of the Countess of York was smaller than Annabelle had expected. Strictly speaking, it was not much more than a better cottage, however, what the house lacked in size, it more than made up for with its cosy furnishings. Unfortunately, there were only two bed chambers. The countess offered Annabelle one of the rooms for herself. She suggested that she would share the larger of the two with Felicity, but Annabelle politely declined the offer. “That is very generous of you, but I cannot accept. My sister and I have shared a room for many years. It will bring back happy memories for us,” she said, attempting a smile.

  “Of course,” the countess agreed with a smile. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

  Contrary to her expectations, the evening turned out to be pleasant. Felicity had noticed Annabelle’s uneasiness and apologised as soon as they were alone unpacking their things. Clarice, who had travelled sitting on the coach box, was in a surprisingly good mood. A glance at her rosy face, and the smile she had shared with the coach driver, had been enough. Annabelle had told her to take the rest of the day off. It was nice to see that somewhere inside her maid there was a completely normal, fun-loving young woman hiding, and Annabelle thought that she deserved at least one night without chores before she slept in the small attic room that served as the servants’ sleeping quarters.

  “It is somewhat peculiar,” Felicity tried to explain as she threw herself onto the bed. “Just a few days ago, I thought I would never laugh again or look forward to anything. And now that he is dead, it almost feels as if he had never existed. Or as if it had been a different Felicity who…” She sighed and left her sentence unfinished. She did not have to anyway. Annabelle sat down next to her and pulled her sister into a tight embrace.

  “I understand,” she said, “but you will have to promise me one thing. Be more careful with the next man you give your heart t0, agreed?”

  Felicity laughed with tear-filled eyes. “I will never fall in love again, I assure you. Men do not interest me anymore. I want to do other things, Bella. Travel. Draw. Explore the world. And I am not just talking about England. I would love to travel to Italy and see their statues and museums…” Her voice faded.

  “Perhaps one day, you can come on a voyage with Marcus and me.” It was the best that Annabelle could think of, but her sister released herself from the embrace and looked at her partially piqued, partially lovingly.

  “So that I have to watch you two all day whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears? Thank you, but no, thank you. Furthermore, I want to travel alone. Without a chaperone.” She stretched out her chin and looked at Annabelle defiantly.

  A knock on the door saved her from answering. It was the cook, who was telling them that dinner was served.

  Dinner was a simple yet delicious concoction of tasty ingredients. Vegetables and cheese, a loaf of freshly baked bread, eggs and milk. At the end of their meal their hostess conjured a bottle of sherry from its hiding place in the craft basket and poured them each a thimble full. “To freedom,” she said, raising her glass.

  Annabelle, who for a long time had not felt as free as she did here in the modest house and in the company of two women, joined in – as did her sister. After dinner they played cards, which was not an easy task with just three players, until Felicity excused herself and disappeared into their shared bed chamber. She was tired from the journey and might have enjoyed a little too much of the sherry, but Annabelle had said nothing. After all, Felicity had been through a great deal and if she longed to forget for a while, then so be it.

  The countess refilled her glass with the delicious sherry and sat down in an armchair by the fire. “I am glad that you and your sister are here,” she began and absentmindedly stared into the flames. Then she shook her head. “It has been a long time since I have invited anyone into this house,” she sighed. A stern crease appeared between her eyebrows. The greyish-blue eyes of the older woman had a forlorn expression when she
turned towards Annabelle. “I came here often with John, my late husband.”

  “You must miss him very much,” Annabelle said, unable to imagine what it felt like to lose someone so dear.

  “In all honesty, not particularly,” the countess said. Annabelle’s head shot up. The older woman was still smiling, but it was more a smile full of bitter memories rather than sweet ones. “He was a good Englishman, full of upstanding pride for his home country, and he would have done anything the Prince Regent demanded of him. Everything else came in second place. In that regard, Marcus and John are very similar.” She shrugged her shoulders. What was an elegant and vigorous gesture on Marcus, looked entirely different on her – strange and somehow detached from her face and the rest of her body.

  Annabelle wiped her forehead, where tiny pearls of sweat had formed. It was hot in the room, as the fire burned strongly, and the room was not large.

  “I would never stand between my husband and his duties,” Annabelle said.

  “Is that so?” The countess leaned closer to the fire. For the first time, Annabelle saw how fragile she was. Behind the upright, almost rigid posture of hers, one did not usually realise how delicately she was built. “You are still young and in love. Once he has been away from home for weeks on end and only comes home to share the bed with you, you will also start to wonder if that is all there is to it.”

  She wanted to reply that she felt sorry, but the countess continued. “And after that, when you realise that your womb stays empty, and that he can’t even give you a child to fill the emptiness in your heart, that is when you know that you will have to change things. But by then it is too late. At least, it was too late for me, back then. For you, my dearest Annabelle, there is still hope.”

  “What are you trying to say?” Dizzy, Annabelle shook her head. Why was she unable to think clearly? She tried to get up in order to open one of the windows so she could breathe in the cool night air, but the countess guessed her movement and held Annabelle by the wrist.

  “Free yourself, my dear. Free yourself from the restraints of a marriage. Free yourself from what we consider love, which is nothing but slavery in silk bindings. Have you never had the desire to be measured as a person in your own right and not just as an ornament on a man’s arm? Certainly, you have dreams and wishes outside of marriage. Tell me, what do you dream about when you are alone, Annabelle?”

  Much like a wave, all of her secret longings swelled up in front of Annabelle’s eyes. Her ability to read other people, which she would never be able to use to its full potential. Her forsaken dreams of becoming an actress. If she was a man, like Marcus, she could make an excellent spy.

  But she was no man.

  “Let me tell you about my godchild,” the countess continued. She was still holding Annabelle, no longer by her wrist, but by her fingers, which she stroked absentmindedly in a rhythmic motion. “Matilda was…” She fell silent, pain washing over her face, distorting it into a mask of sorrow. “Matilda was the light of my life. She was the daughter I never had. When they took her from me, my world ended.”

  Annabelle’s throat was dry. She felt her own pulse all the way up to her collarbone and her dress was completely soaked at the back. What had been an initial sense of warmth, had turned into discomfort. What exactly was the Countess of York getting at? Hearing her talk about Marcus’s great love was painful for Annabelle, but it was nothing compared to the emotions that she sensed in the Countess of York.

  The older woman raised her head and looked directly at Annabelle. Goosebumps covered Annabelle’s arms. The air between them seemed charged, similar to the seconds before thunderstorm stroke.

  Whatever the countess told her next, Annabelle knew that her world would never be the same again.

  Not only had Marcus amply rewarded the boy, but he had also given him the task of delivering a message to Finch. There had not been enough time for anything in writing, which is why he had inculcated the boy exactly with what to say. “You ask for Mr Finch, and tell the man who opens the door that the Earl of Grandover has sent you. Can you remember the name?”

  The tiny crusty mouth pouted. “Of course.” After a brief pause, while Marcus was observed and gauged as thoroughly as seldom before, the urchin asked: “Ya’re really a’ earl? Or is this a trap?”

  “I really am an earl, and why would I want to lure you into a trap?”

  “Not me, but the other guy, Finch,” the boy explained, his impatience barely restrained. Marcus was satisfied. The little one had remembered Finch’s name, which was definitely a good sign. He did not go into to the speculation of a trap but instead knelt in front of the boy until they were at eye level. “Listen carefully. It is very important that you tell Finch exactly what I am telling you right now. I have the French lady,” he did not want to name too many names, in particular not any names that could sound foreign to the boy’s ears, “and I will ask her a few questions. Then, I will travel out into the country and visit my wife. Finch is to leave right off to meet me there. He should not wait for me but leave on the spot.”

  The boy repeated the message with a bored face.

  “You are doing very well,” Marcus encouraged him with praise, believing he had somewhat exaggerated. He did not know much about children and never knew how to talk to them when he met one – which almost never happened. However, this little guy had grown up on the street, in the East End no less, and he not only had the eyes, but also the mind of an adult who had to work hard for his daily bread. Only when a grin with missing teeth spread across the greyish-brown face, Marcus realised that the boy was maybe not as hard-nosed as he pretended to be.

  “Here are two more pennies,” he said, putting the coins into the small dirty hand. The boy tucked the pieces into his pocket and made to hit the road, but Marcus called him back. “As soon as you have delivered the message, tell Wickham to send you to the kitchen. There, you may eat whatever you want. And if you wait for my return, I will give you half a crown.” It was way too much for such a small task, but Marcus wanted the child to still be there when he returned. He could always use some extra hands in a house the size of his, and filling yet another belly was of no consequence.

  He watched the boy dart off, weaving his way onto the main road. Mysteriously, Marcus felt a little lighter around his heart, even though he had something coming now that would be more than irksome. He pushed down the latch of the back door, which was unlocked, and he listened. Somewhere in the back of the house he heard the typical kitchen sounds. Where was Madeline?

  Certainly she thought her hiding place was untraceable and would make no effort to conceal her presence. Marcus knew her well enough to know that Madeline was doing only two things at this time of the day: She either slept or was dallying with an admirer. His chances were good that the other women in the house were also asleep, while the kitchen was still in full swing preparing their breakfasts. He crept up the wooden stairs to the first floor and quietly opened the first door. The room was empty. So was the second and the third. Either the women who lived here were gone, or their number was far fewer than the countess had led him to believe. Regardless, it was not to his disadvantage if he and Madeline stayed undisturbed. The longer, the better.

  Behind the fourth door, someone was actually asleep, but the hair poking out from under the covers was blonde and matted. Then, behind the next door, he found her at last. She lay curled up underneath a luxurious damask blanket, which looked completely absurd in the shabbiness of the room. The sight made him furious. Before Madeline understood what was happening, he had her hands tied together and his hand on her mouth. The moment she opened her eyes and saw who held her captive was priceless. When his other hand pressed a dagger against her neck, he was less inclined than ever to be merciful.

  Marcus smelled her fear, and something that he had kept under control for months broke free. Nonetheless, his voice sounded ice cold as he spoke. “Tell me everything you know, and I might let you live.”

  Her
eyes widened even further, and she tried to wriggle her way out of his hold. Marcus put the dagger away and took off his necktie. “Not a sound or you’re dead,” he warned her as he released his hand from her mouth to tighten the knot. With satisfaction he observed that she remained quiet.

  “Good girl,” he said in a whisper. Not because he feared someone could hear her, but because he knew just how threatening a whisper was in such a situation. The more quietly one spoke, the more control one appeared to have. It did not matter that one’s heart threatened to burst, because everything one had ever believed in turned out to be wrong. It was he whose world was in ruins.

  But unlike the traitor before him, he had a reason worth living for.

  “You and the Countess of York,” he now said. “Since when have you joined forces?”

  Something flickered past her eyes like a slithering snake, unbelievably fast and poisonous. No. He had not been wrong. She and the woman to whom he owed his acquaintance with Matilda had formed a league. The why was of no interest to him. All he needed was the confirmation of his suspicions. And fast, since Annabelle was now in the care of the countess and nobody knew what the woman was up to. His fear for Annabelle felt like an ironclad fist tightening around his heart.

  Madeline uttered an obscene curse word that he had never heard a French man say, let alone a woman. He did not react but glanced at her as if he had all the time in the world. “We can drag this out for as long as you want,” he said with a cold smile. He pictured Annabelle’s pale face, the green eyes and the stubborn look on her face when she tried to protect those she loved.

  With the force of a thousand punches he came to understand that he missed Annabelle. All this was no longer just revenge for Matilda’s death. Annabelle did not replace the love he lost, but she had conquered her very own place in his heart, in his soul.