The King of Threadneedle Street (37 page)

Papa reached out and stroked her hair, his touch familiar and comforting. “Right. You’re a smart girl. I sometimes forget just how observant you can be.” He stepped to the wall and settled himself next to her. “I love your mother very much, and in her way, she loves me. But years ago, I made a dreadful mistake.”

Annabella twisted so she could watch Papa’s face. “What kind of mistake?”

Sadness clouded his eyes and his mouth turned down. “That doesn’t matter just now. But it was a terrible mistake and it had appalling consequences.” He shook his head. “And then in attempting to rectify the wrong I’d committed, I compounded that error by leaving your mother alone when she needed me most.”

Annabella frowned. Why did adults speak in such riddles all the time? “I don’t understand, Papa.”

“Yes, I know you don’t, and I pray you never will, darling girl.” He laid his arm across her shoulders. “You’re correct that your mother doesn’t feel the same affection for me that I feel for her. But I’d thought she was at peace with the decisions we’d made. I know she loves you, and I know she doesn’t regret your birth in the slightest. And I want you to know that nothing in this world or the next can steal you from my heart. Nothing.”

Tears welled, brought on by confusion and sorrow because Papa was obviously distressed about something. “But you go away so often.”

“Yes…” He nodded. “I do. I’ve been gone too much, especially of late, and I’ve missed time I would have chosen to spend with you. I suppose it has been my manner of hiding from the error of my ways. And…” He sighed heavily. “I’ve been attempting to right a grave wrong. Annabella, my girl, love is the greatest gift in the world, but it must be freely given and received. If you love someone, you will go anywhere with them, do anything for them. One must know when to fight for love when it goes off course, and sometimes—” He drew her closer against him. “Sometimes it’s best to let go. Your mother had no choice but to marry me, you see. I didn’t give her one, her father didn’t give her one. And… I suppose you could say fate stole her choice as well.” He stroked Annabella’s hair again. “I love your mother enough to let her go. But as she has no place she can go to… I’m the one who’s been doing the leaving.”

Annabella blinked slowly, mulling over Papa’s words. Part of her had recognized some time ago that her mother kept out of his way whenever her father came home. And it had seemed to her that he’d slowly started traveling more frequently, staying away longer with each trip. The past few times he’d left had been unexpected. Her parents had argued wickedly before his last trip, and in the morning, he’d said goodbye and departed with no explanation of where he was going.

“Papa, when will you have to leave again?”

“I won’t be leaving any more, Annabella.” He set her away from him and gazed into her eyes. “You see, loving someone also means you must know when to stay. I love you, and I miss you so much when I’m gone. And I think — that is, I get the idea you miss me just a bit.”

She flung her arms around his neck and squeezed. “Thank you, Papa!”

He folded her against his chest. “One day, Lady Annabella, you will find you have choices of the heart. When that day comes, I pray you will choose love over what others might perceive to be the right course.”

Her sadness already evaporating, Annabella giggled. “Mama says I must behave as a proper lady would so a proper nobleman will appreciate me.”

“Annabella, my heart… if it’s a nobleman you want, I have no doubt a nobleman you shall marry.” He kissed the top of her head. “But whomever you marry, please marry a man you love, someone to whom you would willingly give your whole heart.” He laughed softly. “You may not understand that now. But one day… One day you will.”

He stood. “Come now. We must go and see what Cook is planning for dinner.”

Annabella hopped to the ground and tucked her hand into his. “I hope it’s creamed turnips.”

Papa shuddered. “I have no idea how you can eat those things with such relish.”

Chapter One

Wyndham Green, Haselmere, England

April 10, 1813

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Six full seconds and not a word from the butler. Had he stopped reading? Jon shifted in his seat and stole a glance. But no, the sticklike man still concentrated on the missive, a little pucker between his eyebrows, focused eyes inching along a line. Probably the first line. If the printed words contained an unexploded bomb, would they ever learn of its existence? Or would it simply cease to be, if the blasted man’s crawling attention never deciphered the message? If a tree only existed in a park whilst someone was present to perceive it, did a letter’s communication exist only upon the reading? What on earth
was
the man reading? The letter of introduction Grey had sent along had been less than a half page.

Jon went back to counting beats.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

For some reason, every fourth beat fell flat. Jon drummed his fingers against his thigh. Mayhap that would speed up the clock. And the butler.

Finally, the gaunt man with the unsmiling face shook out the letter and then refolded the ivory paper, taking meticulous care to follow the original creases. “The Duke of Wyndham has instructed us to give you the use of Rose Cottage.” He cleared his throat. “It’s been some years since his grace has been here at Wyndham Green.”

Impatience flared again. That much, Jon had been aware of.

“Unfortunately, the guest cottage has been unoccupied for some time. I shall have it cleaned and aired immediately.” He bowed his head. “Please forgive the delay, my lord. May I offer you some refreshment whilst you wait?”

“Thank you.”

The butler hastened from the room. How did they all manage that same stealthy glide? Were they trained in it from birth?

Restless, Jon stood and wandered the drawing room. Lace curtains fluttered at the windows, a refreshing breeze chasing the musty air around. The wooden side table was spotless, but it attested long use by the fine scratches marring the surface. He ran an idle hand over the top, stopping at a set of deeper scratches along the edge nearest the window. Bending close, he noted someone had carved letters into the fine wood.

AP.
A smile tugged the corners of his mouth.
Annabella Price.
How old would Grey’s stepsister have been when she felt the need to make her mark on a duke’s fine furniture?

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” murmured a soft voice from behind him.

Jon whirled about and found himself staring into a pair of tawny brown eyes that reminded him of a cat. Or, maybe more importantly, reminded him of a certain young miss in London who was currently going by the name Annabella Price. Obviously a misnomer, that.

Clad in gray and white, the maid’s white cap covered her conservatively styled, graying hair that still showed a fair amount of gold. So, unless the Duchess of Wyndham had taken to wearing a servant’s dress, the chit in London appeared to be the daughter of an upstairs maid.

The maid leveled her gaze on him, waiting. In her hands she carried a silver tray. Several scones lathered with blackberry jam and cream surrounded a bone tea service. This, she sat on the side table, her movements covering the carved initials. “You’ve traveled some distance, so I asked Cook to fix you something to eat.”

“Thank you.” Jon’s mouth watered as he settled himself into the faded and threadbare red chair near the window.

The maid tipped the teapot, and a stream of steaming brown liquid tinkled into the cup. “I’ve sent a girl to the cottage to see it’s opened and aired. I’ll send a kitchen maid with your meals… unless you plan to take your supper here at the main house?”

Jon frowned. Eat at the main house? The idea of being waited on, watched while he ate, held little appeal. “Er, no. I shall take my meals at the cottage.”

“Sugar or cream?”

Her hand hovered over the sugar bowl. A working hand. Not rough, but already developing thickened joints and fine wrinkles. Gran’s hands had looked like that years ago when he was a boy. Now—

“My lord?”

“Sorry.” Jon blinked, almost surprised to find himself surrounded by the stark, threadbare furniture of Wyndham Green rather than the luxuriant accoutrements of Blackmoor Hall. “Both please.”

“Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“Thank you, no.”

With a curtsey, she turned and left.

Polite to a fault. Not as much fire in her eyes as in her daughter’s. He spared a thought for Grey and the imposter. Sparks had certainly flown between
them
. Maybe Grey would… Shaking his head, Jon expelled a long sigh. Since their school days, he and Grey had been like brothers, but Jon would never understand Grey’s tendency to take on the weight of the world. Maybe he’d avail himself of some innocent fun with the faux lady in his residence before their difference in status became too apparent.

Now, if only he could settle the riddle of where exactly his friend’s stepsister had hidden herself away…

****

“Drop that this instant, you scoundrel!” Annabella raised the iron cooking pot over her head with both hands and flung it in the direction of the gray rodent scampering across the floor of the dusty deserted kitchen. The pot landed with a dull
thud
about a foot from the mouse and then rolled onto its side against one of the empty barrels in the pantry. With a hideous squeak, the mouse disappeared behind a worktable standing along the wall, dragging the crust of bread with it.

Annabella shrieked with rage and picked up an iron meat skewer, pitching it like a spear in the direction the filthy rodent had gone. “Devil’s fire! That was my last bit of bread, you vile creature!”

Silence fell like a blanket. The dust she’d raised in her battle with the little beggar floated in the air, and Annabella sneezed.

This is much better than going to London and spending the Season. Starving. Lonely. Having to sneak after dark to get water from the brook to wash. No way to get a message to Juliet. I certainly am teaching my mother and that son-of-the-devil Markwythe a lesson.

“Oh!” Annabella stomped her foot in disgust and glared at the cook pot. She should have chosen something lighter, easier to throw.

And then what? Wrestle the field mouse for the crust? Have you really sunk that low?
Her stomach rumbled. She sipped from her glass of sugary water, but the warm liquid didn’t satisfy.

A single, horrid lemon sat in the middle of the worktable, its rough yellow peel mocking her. Of course the filthy mice couldn’t possibly have made off with that. No, they had to go for the bits of food she found palatable. She snatched up the oblong fruit and rolled it between her palms.

Why had she not rationed her food better so it would last longer? The little bit of food Juliet had packed for her had only lasted a couple of days, making a midnight trip to the kitchen in the main house necessary. She’d barely been able to wait until returning to Rose Cottage to feast on the blackberry tart, half a plate of cold shepherd’s pie, and loaf of bread she’d made off with. And she certainly hadn’t rationed it any better.

She picked up a long knife — the only one she had found in the derelict cottage. The dull blade fought with the thick peel and the lemon rolled out of her hand once, but finally she managed to slice off the end and squirt a bit into her water. The acidulous scent rose to torment her nostrils, and her hand shook as she raised the glass to her mouth.

Sour juice washed over her palate. She hadn’t added enough sugar. Of its own accord, her face pinched inward, and a shudder wracked her body. The liquid hit the back of her throat, and her stomach gave a mighty heave. Try as she might, she simply couldn’t bring herself to swallow. The bitterness intensified the longer she let it set on her tongue and she finally had to spit it out.

To say she’d made a muck of it was putting it mildly.

Annabella let loose with an unladylike curse then marched to the parlor. Pushing aside the lace curtain, she stole a peek through the window. Spring rains had produced verdant growth, but the sad state of the garden would have distressed her stepfather. She frowned at the thought of Alexander Markwythe. The old duke had been kind to her mother — and to her when she’d let him.

But he hadn’t been Papa.

Blinking away the tears stinging her eyes, she tamped back the troublesome thoughts. A splash of pink along the stone wall that fenced off the cottage from the lane drew her eye. The easy winter and quick spring must have brought the wild roses out early. Closing her eyes, she tried to recall their sweet scent. But when she drew in a long breath, the dust brought on another sneeze.

Surely she risked the insides of her head spilling forth with all the sneezing she was doing. She simply
had
to get out of the cottage — just for a while.

About to drop the curtain, she froze. What was that slight movement at the gate? Heart racing, Annabella pushed even closer to the window, uncaring of the sticky white webs that clung to her forehead. Had someone noticed her?

A lone figure wandered into the yard. He kept his head lowered and his shoulders hunched, but the battered tweed hat belonged to none other than that weasel, Sheridan Dawes! What was the estate manager doing at Rose Cottage?

She
had
been discovered!
Hide!

But she stood frozen, unable to look away. Dawes cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. Then he straightened and settled his gaze on the cottage — on the window where she stood. Annabella ducked back into the shadows. Had he seen her? A chill clawed at her spine, sending icy fingers crawling along her skin.

Should she run out the servants’ entrance? Fighting just to breathe, she chanced another peek outside. The yard was empty! Had he moved round to the back? Was he about to—