Something Like a Lady Read online

  Surprise bolted through his system. “You’ve been shooting from the tower?”

  “Of course,” murmured Gran. She addressed Annabella with a raised eyebrow. “Twice now, isn’t it?”

  “Three times, your grace.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Gran, nodding. “Yesterday morning.”

  “I know what you’re about, Gran,” said Jon through a forced smile as he seated Annabella at the table. If his meddling grandmother truly believed that forcing him to keep company with his wife was going to trim Annabella’s thorny attitude, he feared she was sorely mistaken.

  Gran leveled her most innocent stare in his direction. “Why, Jonathan, anyone can see I’m having my morning meal.” She favored him with an indulgent chuckle as one might a child. “Of course you know what I’m about.”

  Jon stared back, his message silent. I’ll deal with you later.

  Gran smiled at him and then bit into a blackberry tart.

  “You may send someone from the kitchen for the cats’ fish,” he muttered, stalking from the room without looking back.

  ****

  Riding in the town coach was less rickety and much quieter, but Annabella found herself comparing the stuffy enclosed cab with the airy open trip to Blakemoor on their arrival in Coventry. Seated across from her, Seabrook occupied most of the time with his head turned toward the window. Was he lost in his thoughts? Or avoiding her company? He was going to end up with a very sore neck if he kept up that twist of his head.

  Annabella shifted in the seat so she could look out her own window. Green shrubbery, green grass, brown and gray stone fence, a flock of birds cavorting over the rolling meadow… She sighed. Why should I be mindful of his comfort when he obviously cares so little about mine? Foppish little toad, dragging me across the country without so much as a warning, and when he gets me where he wants me, what does he do but ruddy ignore me? The black-hearted fiend. I should just—

  “Beg pardon?” His smooth tones interrupted her thoughts. “I’m sorry, Annie, I didn’t catch what you said.”

  Annabella caught her breath. Had she spoken her thoughts? What had he heard? Unable to form an answer, she turned to meet his gaze. Lounging with apparent comfort against the back of the padded seat, one leg crossed over the other, his arms folded over his chest, it would be easy to think Seabrook at ease and uncaring of his surroundings. But those glittering dark eyes as he leveled a stare in her direction, one eyebrow raised in question, spoke of acute awareness. Oh, he’d heard something… If only she could figure out how much she’d actually spoken.

  “I… I…” Her throat closed off the apology she felt the need to offer.

  “Oh, come now, Annie. You? At a loss for words?” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “I believe I heard something about a fiend amid your mutterings. I must assume you’re making reference to me.”

  “And I believe my parents named me Annabella.” She returned to gazing through the window. She had no idea what she expected to find out there. Inspiration for yet another lie, or at least a denial. Barring that, perhaps she could find a hole to swallow her, an entrance to Lucifer’s lair hidden among the smelting chimneys.

  What she saw instead was a neat row of fieldstone houses, all connected to one another. The sound of the coach’s wheels had changed as well, from the muffled whisper along the dirt lane to the clack and clatter of rolling over cobblestones.

  She turned away from the window with a frown. “When did we get to Coventry?” Astounding that she hadn’t noticed the change in the rocking and pitching of the carriage.

  His lips twisted into a sardonic half-smile. “I believe it was sometime between your allusions to a ‘foppish toad’ and a ‘black-hearted fiend.’”

  Devil’s breath!

  The carriage slowed and finally came to a halt.

  Annabella glanced through the window again then spread her fan and waved it at her heated face, striving for an air of nonchalance. “Where are we now?”

  “The public clinic,” said Seabrook as the footman opened the door.

  “The clinic!” Annabella snorted. “Have you come down with some disease of the depraved, Seabrook?”

  His smile faded. “As it happens, I am conducting an errand for my grandmother, who is a benefactor of the clinic,” he stated, the words laced with ice.

  You and your sharp tongue, Annabella! The flames already engulfing her face only intensified.

  Seabrook alighted then turned and stared at her. Hard. Her heart quivered under the scrutiny.

  All of Annabella’s muscles seemed to turn to stone. For just a moment, she thought he meant to throttle her right there in the carriage on a public street. She wanted to run, but where would she go? She darted a glance around the interior of the carriage, seeking relief from his frosty stare to no avail. Too late she realized he’d been holding out his hand to help her down.

  His gaze locked with hers, hurt clouding his dark eyes, and he let his hand fall. “Is there nothing about me that you don’t find objectionable? Not even one small thing you can bring yourself to tolerate?”

  Her heart thumped in and out of her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She tried to shelter her face from his scrutiny by lifting her fan, but her fingers refused to cooperate and she fumbled, managing only to drop the thing at her feet.

  Seabrook bent and swept it up then folded it closed. “You seem to lose this with alarming frequency for something to which you apparently hold great attachment.” He grasped her right hand and slapped the fan into her palm. Even through her gloves her skin stung.

  Annabella gulped, but the words of apology she owed him stubbornly refused to form. She sat stunned and unable to move. For the first time since meeting Seabrook, she felt truly soiled, but not by anything he’d done.

  He continued to search her face for several heartbeats and she stared back, willing him to understand, to see the regret she couldn’t bring herself to voice. But he turned away with a miniscule shake of his head.

  “I shall be but a moment.” Without another word, he left her behind and stalked into the building.

  “Sea— Oh!” Annabella scrambled from the carriage, brushing off assistance from the footman. Her knees threatened to buckle as she picked her way over the cobblestone paving, struggling to catch up and take in her new surroundings at the same time. The building was ancient, its stones stained dark. Moss coated the base, and ivy clung along one side. Quite obviously it had once been a church. A brass plaque embedded in the cornerstone, blackened with age and barely readable, bore the name St. Michael’s.

  An odor, sour and fetid, reached out to her from beyond the threshold. The sulfurous scent from the smelting chimneys would have been a blessing, but all she could smell was sickness and despair. She halted her chase at the bottom of the steps and stared at the door. For the first time, she noticed a steady stream of people climbing the stone staircase and entering the clinic. Struggling not to breathe in the scents of sickness and death, she raced up the steps and yanked open the door, hurrying to catch up with Seabrook.

  Once inside, she took a moment and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, astounded to find herself in the narthex, which had been made into a waiting area. People of all ages seemed to swarm like bees to a hive. Women with fussy babies sat on the rough hewn benches lining the stone walls. A few children hopped about with the energy of lightning in a thunderstorm, but most of the little ones rested with their mothers. A group of men lounged near the door. Giving her polite nods, they stepped apart and allowed her to pass.

  She scanned the teeming mass of humanity, seeking her husband. Finally, she spotted him on the other side of the room. He was speaking with an older woman garbed in dark blue wool. It was a practical dress and not at all fashionable, and she wore a white apron, dingy and stained, over it. Obviously a nurse of some sort.

  She slowed her steps a few feet away, unsure if she should approach them or not. They seemed deep in conversation, from the
few words she could make out. Would Seabrook see it as an intrusion?

  Thumps and bangs arose behind her, accompanied by a few alarmed murmurs from the crowd, and Annabella turned. Several grimy men had made their way through the door. They bore another man on their shoulders. His face was a ghastly shade of gray, and dark liquid seeped through one of his trouser legs.

  Annabella looked away from the awful sight.

  Nearby, a girl, far too young to be a mother, clutched a screaming infant to her shoulder while the woman next to her comforted a slightly older child with blotchy red cheeks.

  When she’d been perhaps five years in age, Annabella had survived a dangerous bout of influenza. Her father had been away as usual, but her mother had held vigil at her bedside, pressing cool cloths to her face, holding her hand, singing to her, telling her stories.

  A lump formed in Annabella’s throat at the realization of just how easy a life she’d had, even with the direction things had taken after her stepfather’s death. Not even the torturous days she’d spent alone in the cottage compared. Her stomach writhed like a serpent, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, praying her breakfast would stay down, as she ran from the clinic. She stumbled off the bottom step, everything swimming in and out of focus. Finally, the carriage loomed.

  “Lady Seabrook, are you unwell?” asked the footman.

  Annabella blinked and tried to look at the man, but his face blurred before her. “I’m — I…” She clutched at the side of the carriage. “I shall wait for Lord Seabrook out here. He said he’d not be…” She swayed.

  Strong arms caught her from behind as she drooped toward the ground and she looked up to find Seabrook holding her. Then she found herself weak for all new reasons.

  Where did you come from?

  His eyes swept Annabella quickly, assessing. For a heartbeat, she could almost believe he cared about her. Then she blinked and his expression closed down.

  “Steady now?” he asked, his voice as impersonal as if he addressed a rock.

  “Quite!” she snapped, pushing away from him. “How dare you just leave me out here on the street like a common—”

  “If we’re going to have this conversation, let us at least retire to the coach,” he said quietly through gritted teeth. Smiling, he nodded to a gentleman who dodged past them.

  Annabella glanced at their surroundings.

  A gig bumped over the cobblestones. In the distance, a shout arose, and a male voice nearby called out, perhaps answering the call. Two young women clad in rather garish and risqué gowns hurried across the street and walked up the steps of the clinic. The one closest to them cast an openly assessing glance at Seabrook as though he might be her next meal.

  When her husband tipped his hat to them, Annabella’s blood steamed. “Friends of yours?” she ground out.

  He angled a cold stare in her direction. “And if they are?”

  She glared back. Not while I’m your wife they won’t be. But she held her tongue. For once.

  Making an impatient sound, Seabrook guided her to the carriage door and all but shoved her inside with one hand to her backside.

  She’d apparently committed a major blunder. And from the grim set to his features as he followed her into the coach and took the seat opposite her again, he wasn’t any too happy about it. “To Webber and Thatcher,” he ordered the driver through the sliding panel and then shut it with a solid thump.

  The carriage lurched forward.

  Seabrook settled back, pursing his lips as he sometimes did when he was considering a problem.

  I’m the problem he seeks to solve, she acknowledged sadly.

  With deliberate movements, he removed his wide-brimmed hat and placed it on the seat next to him. He sat staring at her through hooded eyes, tapping his fingers on one leg.

  But he never uttered a word.

  At last, unable to suffer his silent scrutiny any longer, Annabella cried out, “I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.”

  Seabrook sighed. “What are you sorry for, Annabella? The list of possibilities seems rather lengthy at the moment.”

  Annabella inhaled deeply and released it slowly, feeling herself deflate by inches. “Everything,” she mumbled, meeting his level gaze. “I’m sorry for everything. But just now… it — that street was appalling. The people were… impoverished. Those in the clinic… they were so ill…”

  Seabrook’s lips twitched. “Coventry is but one city in a vast world. And by far this is neither the best nor the worst in terms of poverty.”

  In other words, she hadn’t seen the worst of the world. But did he have to address her in that indulgent tone as though she were a child? She’d rather have him snappish.

  The carriage jolted and Annabella braced a hand on the seat to keep from tumbling sideways. Seabrook rather maddeningly maintained his balance without resorting to such maneuvers.

  He glanced out the window then turned back to her with a long sigh. “I wish to offer my own apology, Annie. The clinic was no place to take you. I should have spared you the…” He shook his head as though lost for words. “I suppose you could call it the ugliness of being poor and in ill health.”

  He doesn’t have to go to the clinic either. Surely Blackmoor has a solicitor to handle such business. “But you go there. Do you visit often?”

  Seabrook shrugged then directed his attention back out the window. “I offer what assistance I can.”

  Generous. The nurse in the clinic had called him generous. The coughs and cries from the people moving about had made it difficult to understand much of what she and Seabrook had said. But Annabella had caught snippets. The nurse had thanked him for a donation. His donation. Not the dowager, then. And she couldn’t quite recall, but it seemed Seabrook had mentioned seeing that the clinic had the funds to hire more staff. Oh, why hadn’t she paid more attention? She might have learned more about the man she had married.

  Because you’re a chicken brain and you ran like a coward, her conscience reminded her.

  The carriage stopped and the door soon opened. This time when Seabrook exited and turned to help her out, he offered only a confident grip and a word of caution.

  “I’ve just got some brief estate business to conduct at my solicitor’s office.” He gestured at a small park across the street. “In the meantime, perhaps you would enjoy a stroll. Coventry isn’t London, but it has its attractions. Thomas will accompany you.” He motioned to the footman.

  Taken aback, Annabella simply stared. He was politely telling her he didn’t want her to accompany him. Do you blame him after your behavior at the clinic? No wonder Mother is always telling you to act like a lady.

  “I shouldn’t be long.” He released her hand and departed without a backward glance.

  ****

  After a moment of congratulations, Alfred Webber droned on about the legalities and the necessity for legal proof — he’d need Annabella’s marriage lines for that. Hopefully she hadn’t burned them. Webber’s thin white hair stuck out at angles from his head. His white linen shirt had been stained by flecks of dark ink. Despite his unkempt appearance, the man had a brilliant mind that missed no detail.

  And he was insisting on going over those tiresome details of Grandfather’s will — the ones Jon had studied for the past several years.

  Jon turned away, his mind only half on what Webber was saying. Through the tiny window over the solicitor’s shoulder, he caught sight of Annabella standing at the canal basin and looking along the waterway. She had her back turned, so he couldn’t see her expression, but she stood straight and tall as she stared along the canal. Was she wondering where it led? If it would carry her away?

  Everything was wrong. A man’s wife shouldn’t want only to leave him. Abruptly, Jon pushed to his feet. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Webber, I have another engagement.”

  The solicitor blinked in surprise. “Certainly, Lord Seabrook.” Webber shuffled some papers and stood. “I shall prepare the papers we discussed and make all the
necessary arrangements so you may receive your inheritance. Will you be returning to my office or should I come out to Blackmoor?”

  “Please come to Blackmoor, Mr. Webber.” Jon winced at his sharp tone but made no apology as he left the solicitor’s office.

  He crossed the square with his eyes locked on his wife, his long stride quickly consuming the distance between them. But when he got within several yards of her, his determination faltered and so did his steps. He motioned Thomas back to the carriage and the man left without a word.

  Annabella stood stock still; if she knew he was there she didn't show it. A wooden narrowboat bobbed at the dock, riding high in the water. Empty then. No one else was about. A whinny filtered from the stables behind the dock. One of the towing horses anxious to get to work, perhaps?

  The wind lifted several strands of her hair that had fallen free. The urge to take off her hat and loosen the rest so it could blow in the breeze nearly overwhelmed him.

  How many times had Jon stood in that very place and imagined taking a journey along the canal to… anywhere?

  “It’s quicker to take the post to London,” he said softly. “But if you’re wondering, the canals will get you there eventually — and without the jolting and jarring.”

  “A boat just left,” she said without looking at him. “It looked like a long, long log floating in the water. The pilot climbed aboard, and then the man leading the horses just started walking. How odd to think of horses pulling a boat through the water.”

  “They can pull a much heavier load on the water than over land.” Jon rolled his eyes at his inanity. She didn’t need a lesson in shipping by canal boat. You know what she needs…

  He stepped closer so they stood side by side, staring over the water. He had so much to say to her but the words wouldn’t form.

  “There is, you know,” she said quietly.

  “Beg pardon?” Had he voiced a thought aloud without realizing it? When he turned, she was regarding him openly, without guile.

  “You asked if I might find something about you to tolerate.”