Susan Johnson (18 page)

A
week later, Annabelle answered a knock on the door of their rented cottage and blanched. From the parlor window, she’d watched a single man walk up the path to the door. But now, standing in the open doorway, she found not one but
six
men in her small yard, five of them sporting the red vests of Bow Street Runners.

That five large men could have so effectively concealed themselves from sight was both awe-inspiring and frightening.

And even more frightening, they looked grave.

“Miss Foster?”

While the spokesman’s voice was polite, he wasn’t asking a question. It was obvious he knew who she was. “I am Miss Foster,” she said in her best Lady Macbeth manner.

“The Duke of Westerlands has commissioned us to deliver this note to you.” He offered a sealed letter that had clearly suffered in transit, the superior paper much creased and wrinkled. “If you please, we’ll wait for your reply.”

Not wishing to give anything away, Annabelle allowed herself only the smallest sigh of relief. At least she was not to be carried off by Walingame’s men. Nor by Westerlands’. Perhaps she yet had choices, despite the six Bow Street Runners in her garden. “Allow me a moment to read this,” she directed, and with a nod, she turned and walked back inside, shutting the door behind her.

“Who is it, Belle?” her mother called out from the kitchen.

“Nothing, Mother. I’ll be right there.” Tearing the seal open, she unfolded the letter and read:

 

My dear Miss Foster,

Our son, Duff, was shot by Walingame. He is asking for you. The state of his health is serious, but not, at this moment, critical. However, if you would be kind enough to return with the runners, we would be very grateful. Also, Walingame is dead, should you be concerned for your safety. He is no longer a danger to anyone.

 

It was signed
Westerlands
, and a postscript had been added by the duchess imploring Annabelle to come to London with all possible speed.

Stunned and confounded, her thoughts in a tumult, Annabelle stood frozen in place. Not only shocked by the events disclosed in the letter, she was disquieted at the seriousness of Duff’s condition, not to mention having to make a decision concerning this information and her family. Did she tell them or not?

As if the choice had been taken from her by the hand of fate, another rap on the door echoed in the hall just as her mother appeared carrying a plate of piping-hot scones.

Her mother dipped her head toward the door. “Open the door, dear. And invite whoever it is in. Hetty just made the most delicious scones we can share with company. Is that a letter?” she inquired, indicating the sheet in Annabelle’s hand with another nod.

“A bit of a crisis has arisen, Mother.” It was impossible to dissemble at this point.

“You do look a bit harried, my dear. Is it something I can help you with?”

Her mother’s senses were completely normal once again, Duff’s initial visit having been the opening breach, as it were, toward a full recovery. Since then, her mother had steadily improved—a veritable blessing for which she owed Duff her thanks. “I just received a letter from the Duke of Westerlands—Duff’s father,” Annabelle announced. “It was brought here by men he’d hired to locate us.”

“And they’re knocking at the door? Why don’t you invite them in?”

For any number of reasons, none of which she chose to mention to her mother. Could she return to London without her family? Or would her mother insist on going with her once she heard of Duff’s condition? Would her entire life come tumbling down around her ears if her mother accompanied her to London? Did she have to go at all?

“Really, dear,” her mother admonished. “Open the door. Never mind, I shall.” And to the very large man who was standing on her stoop, she cheerfully inquired, “Would you like a scone? And do bring in your friends,” she added. “You’re Bow Street Runners, aren’t you? How very exciting.”

If her options weren’t so fearsome, Annabelle might have been tempted to laugh at her mother’s delight in meeting the men who might turn out to be her warders. But at the moment there was nothing to do but play her role calmly. While her mother served the six men tea and scones and asked them myriad questions about London, Annabelle sat quietly in a corner of the parlor, debating how to deal with the duke’s letter. Until her mother suddenly came to her feet, said, “I shall get us another pot of hot tea,” sent a piercing gaze her daughter’s way, and added, “Do help me, dear.” Then, her mother nodded toward the kitchen and winked as though she was participating in a broad farce.

There was nothing to do but try not to blush too noticeably and follow her mother into the kitchen.

“Now, tell me this instant what is going on,” Mrs. Foster insisted, pointing her finger at Annabelle as she had when her daughter had been caught in some mischief as a child. “You have a letter from the Duke of Westerlands. That, however, does not require six men to deliver it, when England has a very reliable post.”

“The duke would like me to return to London with these men.”

“Whatever for? You’re not in some trouble, are you?”

“No, no, Mama.” She exhaled and then, realizing there was no way out, said, “Duff has been shot—don’t worry…they say he is not critical. But apparently, he would like me to come and visit him.”

“My goodness gracious!” her mother exclaimed softly. “My goodness gracious,” she repeated, this time in breathless wonder.

“Now, Mama, don’t begin to imagine things. We’re just friends. He must be in need of company during his recuperation.”

“Company indeed. As if London isn’t filled with a million souls. We’re going, of course. I don’t know how you could even hesitate. The poor boy has been shot, and his family is asking you to come to his bedside as a ministering angel.”

“This is not a play, Mama,” Annabelle said firmly. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to put this summons into some fairy tale context. “We are in the real world, and as you know very well, people like us are well apart from the
beau monde
and its privileges.”

“For heaven’s sake, I’m not a dunce, my dear. But you know as well as I do that Lord Darley is a most well-mannered, amiable man. There’s no reason in the world why we can’t go up to London to visit him when his father has requested your presence so nicely.”

“The request may not be so nicely couched, Mama. If I were to refuse, I’m not so sure I might not be coerced into going.”

“Nonsense. A cultivated man like Darley surely can’t have parents that are barbarians.”

“Why don’t we find out,” Annabelle declared, rankled by her mother’s benign view of the fashionable world that was, in her experience, far from benign. “Then we needn’t argue uselessly.”

But when she asked, she was told that the men had no orders other than to relay the message to her. “Not that the duke wouldn’t be right happy if’n you were to come back with us,” their spokesman said. “An’ the duchess, too.”

Nonplused, Annabelle was left speechless.

“I do believe I said as much,” her mother murmured with a triumphant glance at her Annabelle. Then she added, with such conviction that Annabelle suppressed a gasp, “My daughter would be pleased to return to London with you.”

“I’m not sure, Mama,” Belle quickly interposed, her gaze heated.

“I will be sure for you, my dear,” her mother airily replied, giving as good a rendition of divine right as the Regent.

Annabelle’s voice took a note of impatience. “But what about you and the children? I couldn’t possibly leave you.”

“We shall be perfectly fine here with Tom and Molly.” The Regent could have taken lessons from Mrs. Foster in noblesse oblige as well.

The Bow Street Runners’ spokesman glanced from woman to woman before clearing his throat loudly. “The thing is, Miss Foster, I was authorized to invite your entire family,” he said respectfully. “The duke was quite particular in the invitation. He sent along his well-sprung and commodious traveling coach in order to accommodate your family.”

“Well, well,” Mrs. Foster proclaimed, her point of view having prospered. “It looks as though we’ll be going to London. And such a lovely time of year for travel. Molly!” she cried out. “Do come in and hear the good news!”

At which point, Annabelle realized, any further plans were out of her hands.

Even the Bow Street Runner was smiling. “The duke and duchess will be most grateful to see you, miss,” he said quietly, as her mother began gaily telling Molly of their plans. “And I was expressly directed to give you this.” Slipping a small box from his coat pocket, he handed it to Annabelle.

She recognized the red leather box and couldn’t help but smile, no matter that she was exasperated that any further resistance had been rendered useless by a great many people, she suspected. “Thank you,” she said, slipping it into her skirt pocket without opening it.

But when she did a short time later in the quiet of her room as the house was all abustle with packing, she found a small rose brooch in yellow diamonds and couldn’t help but smile.

He’d remembered.

T
he message that Duff and his family were to expect company was received fully two days before the Westerlands’ traveling coach reached London. A rider had galloped ahead with the news.

But on one point in this unscheduled journey to London, Annabelle had exerted her authority and would not compromise. She and her family were to be conveyed to her London house,
not
Westerlands House.

As the coach passengers alighted in Mayfair shortly before teatime three days later, Mrs. Wells, Annabelle’s longtime housekeeper, greeted them, her face wreathed in smiles. “We received your message and now here you are!” she exclaimed. “How nice to have you back, Miss Foster!”

Annabelle smiled. “It’s good to be back.” And despite the serious matter that had brought her to London, Annabelle found she really was pleased to return to her home. Her entire staff—some having been with her from her first days on the stage—were like family, and her elegant little town house had a cozy charm all its own.

Annabelle introduced her mother and the others to Mrs. Wells and the servants, who were all lined up in the entrance hall to greet them. The coach was unloaded next and sent away; Molly, Tom, and the babies were shown to their rooms and her mother and Mrs. Wells had gone off arm in arm, chatting like old friends. Annabelle suddenly found herself alone in the entrance hall.

She was relieved that the women were getting along. Mrs. Wells had always reigned supreme in her household, and Annabelle had worried how the two women would receive each other. But apparently, exceptionally well. Since she had myriad personal issues to deal with, she was gratified.

Of course, the dilemma of Duff’s impact on her life was first and foremost. How much or how little did she care—or, more to the point, how much would she allow herself to care? Or did her feelings even matter when the Westerlands were in command?

Then there was the matter of concealing from her mother the more indecorous incidents in her past. Although, having renounced that necessitous period of her life quite some time ago—Walingame’s recent blackmail notwithstanding—it was annoying even to have to consider it. But since gossip was what it was, she dared not be cavalier.

Lastly, a flood of invitations was bound to appear, now that she was home. Did she answer some or none? Did she turn away all visitors or only select ones? Did she enter the social whirl or ignore society completely?

Brought from her musings by a knock on the door, she glanced up. Her footman was already opening the door, and a moment later a flunky in Westerlands livery was visible on her stoop. The flunky informed her servant, who, in turn, informed her—although she could hear the exchange well enough from where she stood—that a carriage was outside waiting to convey her to Westerlands House.

Their traveling coach could have scarcely reached Portman Square yet, she thought peevishly, and she was already being summoned.

For the briefest of moments she debated playing the prima donna. She’d barely had time to catch her breath. Nor had she ever been at the beck and call of aristocratic personages. In fact, she’d had the luxury of refusing more noble invitations than any one woman in London.

As quickly as she’d taken a pet, however, she overcame it, understanding the circumstances this time were very different. She wouldn’t be turning down an invitation to some frivolous entertainment—Duff was seriously wounded. It was only natural that his parents would be interested in having her appear with all speed.

Regardless of the need for haste, however, she couldn’t present herself at Westerlands House in her disheveled state, two days on the road having left her unpresentable. “I shall be ready in forty minutes,” she informed both servants together. Even then, she knew she would be leaving her house with wet hair.

And so it transpired, after she’d bathed quickly and dressed and assured her mother countless times that she would not put a foot wrong in the presence of such exalted nobles. Exiting her house with damp curls, she descended her front steps, walked across the pavement, and stepped into the elegant carriage parked at her curb.

Fortunately, with short hair, by the time the carriage came to a stop at Westerlands House, her tousled ringlets were nearly dry. Her simple, white dimity gown was fashionably trimmed with several rows of lilac ribbon at the hem, her hair held back from her temples with lilac ribbon as well. She was as presentable as one could be on such short notice.

Except, perhaps, for the high flush on her cheeks that was definitely not viewed as
à la mode.

And whether her pinked cheeks were from having rushed headlong to arrive posthaste or because she would be seeing Duff again, she chose not to question. Such debate was pointless, in any event. Unlike her mother, who still clung to fanciful dreams, she had long ago given up such whimsies.

That a nobleman would want her company, she understood.

That he wanted more than transient pleasure, she’d learned long ago was not the case.

But for all her cool pragmatism and reasoned argument, she was shaken to the core when she first saw Duff lying in his bed. He was white as death, his eyes were closed, his breathing barely noticeable.

His parents, who had been seated by his bed, quickly rose to greet her.

“Thank you so much for coming, Miss Foster,” the duchess murmured, rushing forward to take her hand, the relief in her eyes profound. “Duff has been impatiently waiting for you. We all have.”

The duke came up and thanked Annabelle in turn for coming to London with such dispatch. “As you see,” he said, his deep voice filled with emotion, “our son is in delicate health. I expect,” he said with a pleasant smile, “your arrival will hearten him.”

“We do all hope so—most earnestly,” the duchess agreed. “Please, sit,” she offered, indicating an arrangement of chairs by the windows. “I’ll send for tea—or would you like sherry? The doctor is keeping Duff mildly sedated,” she added, fluttering her hand in the direction of the bed. “But he’s scheduled for some broth shortly and you’ll see him awake.”

“A sherry would be agreeable. I’ve been on the road for quite some time.”

“Of course. We are exceedingly grateful you came. Most grateful. Sit, please. I’ll ring for sherry and some brandy for you, dear,” she added with a smile for her husband. “Julius detests sherry, but then so many men do, don’t you think?”

The duchess kept up a running commentary on Duff’s health and nursing regimen as they waited for their drinks; then they drank their sherries and waited for Duff to be wakened. The duke added his voice to the conversation from time to time, his quiet delivery reminding Annabelle powerfully of Duff.

In the course of what was essentially the duchess’s monologue, Annabelle learned of the duel, its aftermath, and what little information they had concerning Walingame’s death. That Duff was looking for Walingame at Abigail Fleming’s, she briefly pondered, knowing the gambling hell offering other services as well. But those were not questions she could ask.

“I believe Miss Fleming’s people were the instrument of Walingame’s demise,” the duchess was explaining. “And I must say, I heartily approve of her actions. He was a complete blackguard to shoot an unarmed man.”

“I confess, it is comforting to know he is gone,” Annabelle acknowledged, feeling relief again even as she spoke. “He was quite without virtue or humanity.”

“Most in London would agree,” the duke noted. “Although, scoundrels must run in the family. Some cousin has appeared to claim the title, and rumor has it, he has even fewer qualities to recommend him.”

“Enough of such miserable rogues,” the duchess implored. “Tell us instead, Miss Foster, how your family does.”

“They are settling in nicely. As you may know,” Belle went on, since the makeup of passengers traveling to London would have been reported by the Bow Street Runners, “we are quite a little miscellany. My sister died in childbirth recently, so my mother and I have been caring for little Celia. And then we have our wet nurse, her child, and her beau with us as well.”

“I expect you’re kept exceedingly busy with your family. Babies, for one, like constant attention.”

“Indeed, I quickly came to understand that. But little Cricket, as we call her, is a sheer delight.”

“How nice for you. Once everyone has acclimatized themselves to the city, you must invite your mother to take tea with us and bring Cricket along. I adore babies.”

Having been made comfortable enough by the duke and duchess to make a personal observation, Annabelle remarked, “Duff is surprisingly adept with babies. He immediately charmed both Cricket and Molly’s baby when he came to tea.”

“Duff is vastly familiar with children, since his nieces and nephews have always been underfoot. And he takes after his father,” Elspeth said, reaching over and patting her husband’s hand. “Julius was very good with all our babies. He’d take on any task required, wouldn’t you, my dear?”

“I don’t see any point in having servants raise one’s children,” the duke declared.

“Exactly. You see how modern he is,” the duchess said with a smile. “We are quite averse to all the old-fashioned rules of child rearing.”

“Or in the case of my wife,” the duke murmured with a gleam in his eyes, “averse to any rules at all.”

“You may tease all you wish, darling, but look how wonderful all our children are. Every one is quite lovely and intelligent and kind.”

“Indeed,” the duke said with a wink for Annabelle.

Annabelle smiled, feeling as though she been taken into a charmed circle, understanding more than ever why Duff was as sweet and amiable as he was, as self-confident and assured. The duke and duchess adored their children and each other. The Westerlands household must have been a perfect environment in which children could thrive.

“All this talk of babies is making me vastly sentimental,” the duchess noted. “You must bring Cricket over soon so we may enjoy her company.”

“Did I hear the name Cricket?”

The voice coming from the bed was hoarse with sleep, but a familiar teasing note underlay the query. “Come here and let me see you.” This time there was no question of the warmth and affection in his tone.

The duchess immediately came to her feet, glanced at her husband, and said with polished grace, “We’ll let you two chat.”

Moments later, the bedroom door shut.

“What took so long?” Duff whispered. “I’ve been dying to see you.”

“Very amusing, I’m sure,” Annabelle replied drolly. But as she walked toward the bed, she had to forcibly suppress the heady rush of emotion warming her senses. “You might have found a less lethal way to coax me back to London,” she admonished.

“I thought you’d appreciate the drama.”

He was smiling as he lay, pale and white, in his bed, his dark, ruffled curls in wild disarray on his pillow. “A man like you doesn’t require added drama,” she said, smiling back. “You’re quite dynamic on your own.”

“And yet you left.” His dark gaze held a question.

“I had to because of Walingame.”

“You should have told me,” he said, his voice stronger now, a little more like his old self.

“I didn’t want an argument.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t look at me like that. You know I’m right.”

He tried to shrug and grimaced instead. “Nothing moves very well, yet,” he explained with a flicker of his brows. “And you were right—I would have tried to stop you.”

“No argument?” She smiled. “You surprise me.”

“You don’t actually think I’ve waited days for you to arrive only to have an argument,” he said with a grin. “I’m not so foolish.” His voice drifted lower, took on a softer note. “Come closer, so I can touch you.”

It shouldn’t have mattered—his wanting her, nor the beauty of his sweet smile and dark gaze. She should have been able to shrug off his breathtaking, swarthy good looks, see him simply as another suitor and nothing more. But she wasn’t so adept as she always had been in the past, and as she moved forward, she ached to touch him as well.

He moved his hand gingerly as it lay atop the coverlet, easing it toward the side of the bed, his struggle to move his hand even that small distance starkly evident on his face.

She could feel tears welling in her eyes, but she forced them back and smiled instead. “I’m pleased you had such an excellent doctor,” she said, speaking casually to hide her emotions, drawing on all her experience as an actress to project the proper sensibility. “Your parents told me of James Stewart and all he did for you.”

“At the range Walingame chose to fire at me, I wasn’t about to put myself in the hands of an English doctor. Especially since I was planning on seeing you again and continuing our delightful friendship.”

“You haven’t lost your ability to charm, I see,” she said lightly.

“I haven’t lost my ability for anything,” he said with a grin.

“Perhaps I should keep my distance.”

“You’re safe, darling. If I moved that much—not that I’m not sorely tempted—I’d bleed like a stuck pig and my mother would ring such a peal over my head it would be heard clear to Brighton.

“So I am currently in no danger.”

“
Currently
is the operative word. Now that you’ve arrived, I have considerable incentive to recover.”

His parents had said as much, although in more polite terms. Not that she took issue with wanting to help Duff regain his health. She was more than willing. Just how willing and to what extent she was willing, she wouldn’t allow herself to contemplate. In any event, it didn’t pay to make long-range plans; life was uncertain, a lesson she’d learned at thirteen when her father first became ill.

But a moment later, when she touched Duff’s hand and gently twined her fingers in his, the sense of having come home struck her viscerally. She’d never felt such trenchant emotion. It was part compassion and tenderness, and more—a potent, pure, hedonistic pleasure so shocking it sang through her senses at fortissimo pitch.

“Stay with me,” he said, his gaze as bold and presumptuous as ever.