Something Like a Lady Read online

  “It’s the whispers…” Embarrassment flooded her face with heat. “I suppose that sounds mad. I sometimes think the sighs of the wind sound like people talking and I imagine the warriors who did battle up here.”

  Gran’s mouth fell open. Staring as though she were seeing Annabella for the first time, she advanced a step. Wonderful, now she’ll know you’ve gone insane.

  “You hear them, too?” asked the dowager after a lengthy silence. “I thought I was the only one.”

  Gran knew what she was talking about! Mute with shock, Annabella could only nod.

  “Jonathan thinks I’m quite mad, you know, so I don’t talk about them.”

  “Yes… yes, he’s quite practical, really, isn’t he?” mused Annabella, leaning against the wall. “Not particularly imaginative.” Well, except in ways she wasn’t going to discuss with his grandmother.

  Gran shot her hand out and cupped Annabella’s chin, searching her face with deep intensity. Then she let go and stepped back with a satisfied smile. “So… you and my grandson managed to work matters through.”

  With a gasp, Annabella turned away, presenting her face to the cooling breeze before her head erupted in flames.

  “I always had confidence you would.” Gran chuckled softly. “But why are you up here with an old woman when you and your husband should be planning your delayed honeymoon?”

  Oh, please, just shoot me with an arrow! Whatever had happened to the contentious dowager who missed her shots with discussion of delicate matters? Annabella buried her face in her hands and shook her head. When she looked up, Gran’s warm smile greeted her.

  “Welcome to the family, Lady Seabrook. Now, where has Lord Seabrook taken himself off to?”

  “H-he’s in his study. He said he had some papers from his solicitor to go over.”

  Something flickered in Gran’s eyes and her smile dimmed a bit. “Pish. Paperwork can wait. Go find him and have him walk with you in the gardens. The fragrant lilies are blooming particularly well this season.”

  Annabella wasn’t certain about the walk, but finding Jon suddenly seemed a wonderful notion. Gran gave her a little nudge. It was all the encouragement Annabella needed. Giddy, she raced down the spiraling stone steps, moving so quickly she was dizzy when she reached the bottom. Through the salon she ran, uncaring of the startled cry from the maid dusting the tables there.

  Past the ornate staircase… into the hall of weapons and portraits…

  The door at the end of the hallway was closed. Ignoring propriety, Annabella lifted the latch and pushed it open without knocking. “Jon?”

  The room was vacant. Annabella halted in the center and twirled slowly in case for some unknown reason he might be climbing the bookcases. Her headlong race to be with her husband caught up with her and she stood gasping for breath and pondering the puzzle of his whereabouts.

  She poured herself a splash of wine from the decanter on the sideboard, sniffed, and took a sip. Madeira. She might have known. As her breathing began to return to normal, she wandered to the desk. So much had happened since her first foray into the study… She’d been a child then… and a part of her would always be childlike, she supposed. But she was a woman now, grown and… married.

  A soft knock on the study door pulled Annabella from her thoughts. Curious, she walked to the door and opened.

  A footman stood on the other side.

  “Yes?” she asked, wishing she knew the man’s name. She should know the servants’ names, shouldn’t she? In order to properly run a household?

  “A gentleman has called, asking to see you, my lady,” announced the footman. “He’s been shown to the main parlor.”

  Someone was paying her a call? Annabella blinked, surprised. “Thank you. I’ll be there directly.”

  As the footman vanished down the hall, she wound her hair onto her head and rearranged the pins. She probably looked a fright, but at least she could appear a bit like a lady ought to.

  Drawing in a fortifying breath, she straightened her spine and walked to the parlor. Her gaze found the waiting caller, and a chill spread through her body. Weasel Face.

  “Mr. Dawes.” A ball of apprehension pooled in her stomach, making her nauseous. Annabella prayed it was because of how uneasy she always felt in the presence of Sheridan Dawes and not because something was amiss.

  He stood, wringing the brim of his hat with both hands. “Lady Annabella, I’m delighted to find you in good health.”

  “Please, sit.” Annabella gestured for him to take his seat again then sat in the chair farthest from him, seeking as much distance as possible. “Forgive my frankness, but I am a bit surprised to see you here.” Had her mother sent him? Had Grey contacted her mother to inform her of Annabella’s ruse? Had Weasel Face come to collect her?

  And Juliet…

  Dare she ask him?

  “My apologies. Haste seemed the proper course of action… Haste and discretion. When her grace returned from Bath to find you missing, she was beside herself. Especially when her stepson, the duke, arrived and unleashed his fury, claiming her grace had set out to cause a scandal by sending a maid to London…”

  The room started spinning. Her heart pounded so hard and fast in her chest that she couldn’t concentrate on what Dawes was saying. This could not be happening. Jon had promised…

  You and your selfishness. How could you have been so stupid? Jon told you Markwythe knew Juliet was an imposter and still you didn’t bother to protect her.

  “My dear Lady Annabella, are you unwell? You’ve gone quite pale. Should I—”

  “What of my maid?” Her voice trembled. She placed her hand against her chest to stop it from jumping out.

  “I’m sorry, m’lady. Juliet is to be sent away posthaste. Has already been relieved of her duties at Wyndham Green.” His face was expressionless, his dark, soulless eyes unreadable.

  Had she not been sitting, she would have collapsed to the floor. Juliet, oh my poor Juliet. Forgive me.

  “I gave her grace my word that I’d see you home safely.”

  Home. If Wyndham Green had ever been her home, it surely wouldn’t be now. Nor would it be her mother’s. She couldn’t go back there. Ever.

  And I can’t let Mother stay there.

  And I can’t let Markwythe blame Juliet — punish her and my mother — for my deceit.

  Jon. I have to find Jon.

  She shot up off the chair, anxious to be rid of Sheridan Dawes. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Dawes. I’m afraid there’s been a terrible misunderstanding. I must speak with my husband, Lord Seabrook, immediately. If you will excuse me, I’ll have a footman show you out.”

  He got to his feet slowly, his jaw tight. “I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t do as I promised and fetch you for her grace.” His voice came out in clipped syllables, as if laced with anger.

  “I’m certain my mother will understand. Thank you for your concern, but I have no intention of leaving with you. Now, if you will excuse me.” Without waiting for his reply, she hurried from the room. The same footman stood in the entryway. “Please show Mr. Dawes out.”

  He bowed. “Right away, my lady.”

  Jon, I need you. Please hurry home from wherever you’ve taken yourself off to.

  Resolute in her decision to help Juliet, she returned to the study. Tears wet her face but she dashed them away with the backs of her hands as she strode to the desk and sat. How could she have been so selfish, so remiss in not sending for her dear friend? What a mess she’d made of things. Her mother would never forgive her… and neither would Juliet. Annabella couldn’t stand herself at the moment. If only she’d gone to London as she’d been supposed to. If only she hadn’t let her hurt and anger at Markwythe cloud her judgment.

  She opened the top drawer and removed a fresh sheet of writing paper. This time her note would hold an apology. Not to Juliet — she would carry that one in person — if she could locate her dear friend. With a trembling hand, Annabella dipped the quill
in the griffin’s claw ink well.

  10 June 1813

  Graeme Markwythe, Duke of Wyndham

  She paused and lifted the pen. She’d no idea how to address her stepbrother. She’d held him in contempt for so long, thought of him as Markwythe because she didn’t want the familial intimacy of calling him by his Christian name and refused to give him the respect of his social rank.

  Dear stepbrother,

  I have it on good authority that you are aware I sent my maid to your home in my stead. I beg you, do not take out your ire on her. Juliet was merely doing my bidding. The responsibility for everything is mine.

  Again she paused. Her words were terribly inadequate. She really needed to speak with Markwythe — Grey — in person as well. But first, she needed to ensure Juliet’s safety.

  “I’m so sorry, Juliet,” she whispered, setting the pen in the griffin’s claw. “I’ve not been a good friend.”

  As she drew her hand back, she brushed against the inkwell and it toppled. Dark gobs of ink sprayed through the air and landed on a stack of papers off to the side.

  “Oh, dear!” Annabella jumped up and snatched the papers before the spreading puddle of black could damage them any further.

  As she set them up onto the writing dais, her printed name caught her eye.

  “My marriage lines!” She frowned. “How did they get here?”

  Spilled ink quite forgotten, she sat again and picked up one of the other papers. As she read, anger crept in and stained the edges of her vision, hindering her ability to see the words, but selected phrases leapt at her from the paper. …secure a marriage… suitable bride… well-bred.

  Seething, she rifled through the remainder of the papers. She stared at the substantial sum of money listed as her husband’s inheritance, to be delivered to him upon his proof of suitable marriage. Marrying her had made her husband a very rich man. She pulled out her marriage lines again and stared in horror.

  He used me…

  A tear rolled down her cheek and landed on her maiden name, dissolving the letters into oblivion.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jon whistled a sea tune as he tromped along the lane back to Blackmoor Hall. Home — at least for the moment — and Annabella awaited him. Fresh off the victory of saving not only the ewe but also her twin lambs, Jon considered the likelihood of persuading Annabella to dine alone with him in their suite. He sniffed at his shirt and grimaced at the pungent scent. After he bathed away the grime of the lambing, that was.

  He stepped from the canopy of the woods and onto the drive up to Blackmoor and felt the grin tugging his mouth upward. Mayhap something could be made of the bath as well.

  At the sound of a horse nickering, Jon brought his head up in surprise. A shiny curricle stood near the end of the drive, its top folded back, a pair of dark horses stomping in the dust as they swished their tails lazily over one another. Irritation flashed, his steps faltered, and his lighthearted grin became a scowl. The gentleman from the other day paying a return call, perhaps? Why had he parked the carriage so far from Blackmoor Hall?

  Resigned to the fact that bathing would be delayed, Jon continued up the drive. This time, his uninvited guest would find himself received without the benefit of Jon making himself decent.

  Whoosh… Something blew past his right ear. Thud.

  “What the devil?” Jon swung around and looked behind him. The arrow rose from the ground where it had embedded itself, dark and deadly. The black fletching Gran preferred fluttered in the gentle breeze.

  Blast the pair of them! They must be shooting from the battlement again.

  He held up his hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare and squinted at the north tower. There it was! A faint movement, a flash of pink and white.

  Jon waved his arms frantically over his head and called out. “Hallo! Annabella! Gran! Hold up a bit.” He stepped up his pace, muttering, “I’m not the ruddy French.”

  Whoosh. The arrow passed him on the left that time and landed flat in the dust. As he shied away from it, his hat tumbled to the ground. “Have a care!” bellowed Jon, and then he cursed under his breath as another arrow sailed over his head.

  “Suitable bride?” Annabella screeched from the tower. The shrill sound rode over him, swallowed up by the woods behind.

  Suitable bride? Oh, heavens, she’d somehow managed to find the paperwork regarding Grandfather’s will. “Annabella…” He shaded his eyes again, struggling to see her. “Obviously we need to—”

  “Well-bred!” she exploded. Another arrow flew over his head. “Am I a broodmare?”

  “It’s not like tha— Egad!” He leaped backward as another arrow sank into the ground in front of him. “Stop shooting!”

  “I found your grandfather’s blasted will!” she shrieked.

  “Yes, so I gathered.” With his hat somewhere in the dirt behind him, Jon narrowed his eyes and weaved his head back and forth trying to see her. Where would the next shot come from? Any second, he expected his head to explode from a direct hit.

  “Do you get even more if I manage to produce a suitable heir?”

  Thump. Another arrow bit into the ground at his feet.

  “Or will you somehow have to return some of your precious inheritance should I give birth to a daughter?”

  The image of his wife round with their child teased, providing a lovely distraction — until an arrow grazed his shoulder, thankfully taking nothing but a bit of wool from his favorite coat.

  Time to end this foolishness!

  Jon bolted for the castle, dodging arrows until he was no longer within the line of fire. He yanked open the front door, surprising a footman in the hallway. Jon waved him off and made a left turn along the corridor that led to the tower. He took the steps on the dim spiral staircase two at a time and burst onto the battlement, blinking, dazed by the slant of late afternoon sunlight.

  Gran stood facing him, arms crossed over her chest. Shaking her head, she subjected him to an intense glare.

  She was alone.

  “Where’s Annabella? Why did you let her shoot at me? She might have killed me.”

  Gran waved a hand dismissively. “Oh that’s rot. The girl can’t hit a thing from up here. Never has been able to.”

  Jon curled his hands into fists, realizing he was getting a good sense of exactly what had made his grandfather so frustrated for most of his married life. “Where. Is. My. Wife?”

  His grandmother snorted. “Wife? Are you certain of that?”

  Jon’s blood flashed molten and rushed to his face. “She’s my wife,” he ground out. “And I’m looking for her. We’ve had a — misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding? My dear boy, in order to understand or misunderstand something, one must first be told something.” She leaned forward, one eye narrowed. “Didn’t I warn you to stop lying?”

  “I wasn’t lying,” he ground out. A sigh escaped and he raked a hand through his hair. “I was going to talk with her today, but Houghton had problems with an ewe and— I am not discussing this with you.” He turned and stalked back to the door before he throttled his meddling old grandmother.

  Annabella couldn’t have been far ahead of him. She’d obviously known he’d be coming after her and likely had taken the servants’ corridor to avoid him. Jon slapped the stone wall as he retraced his steps along the spiral staircase. He should have foreseen that. His maddening wife had a habit of running away like a flushed rabbit.

  His boots clumped on the hardwood as he raced along the narrow, dingy hallway. When he burst into the kitchen, he knew he’d been right. Cook regarded him with wariness but not even a smitch of surprise. Most of the staff kept their heads down, focused on their tasks.

  He pushed open the door on the opposite end of the long kitchen and set his course for the stairs. Cool air whispered over his face as he passed the back door and he drew up short. The door stood ajar by a mere inch or two.

  As though someone had been in too big a hurry to
close it properly.

  Abruptly, he changed direction. The bright sun once more dazzled his eyes, but he kept walking, reasonably certain she was heading for the archery range. With his next step, his foot brushed against something sticklike.

  Her bow? Well, she’d not get much shooting in without that… He smirked. Nor would she be able to keep firing on him. He scooped the bow up and kept walking, but he slowed again at the sight of an arrow lying in the grass. Puzzled, he picked that up as well.

  Annabella’s voice came to him from a distance, raised and angry.

  Nice to know he’d been correct in his deduction.

  He heard her voice again, a bit more distant, then her shriek of rage. Something was amiss. The sound hadn’t come from the range. Rather, it seemed she had gone toward the front of the castle.

  “Looking to finish me off, Lady Seabrook?” he muttered, changing direction yet again.

  As he rounded the side of the castle, heading toward the front, he nearly stumbled over her quiver. Several arrows had spilled out the top.

  But it was the bit of blue — slashed across the lawn like a scar — that slowed his steps. Annabella’s fan. She’d taken care with it ever since he’d angrily handed it back to her in Coventry. He couldn’t imagine her being so enraged as to throw it down… especially not when he knew what it meant to her.

  “Let me go!” came her shrill bellow.

  The carriage. The visitor who had left without being seen earlier that week. His vanishing wife. Her angry screams.

  Jon’s mind whirled as his heart first rose to his throat for several beats and then sank into his stomach. “Someone’s got her.”

  Still clutching Annabella’s bow, he snatched up her quiver and a couple of the arrows then took off in the direction of her cries at a flat-out run. Whoever dared lay a hand on his wife would live to regret it.

  As he passed a row of gorse bushes, he spotted the curricle in the distance. Why hadn’t he paid more attention? A legitimate visitor wouldn’t have left his carriage so far from the door.