The Cold Earl's Bride: A Historical Regency Romance Page 14

  That was yet another reason why it was beneficial that Annabelle was no longer near him, but with her sister. The anger he had felt towards his wife’s impulsive younger sister had long fizzled out. He wondered if she even knew that the viscount was dead, and what the man had done to her for her to resort to such desperate measures. If Finch had not followed the man on the same evening and watched Lady Felicity enter the same drinking hole in Whitechapel, who knows what would have happened?

  It was not difficult for Marcus to reconstruct the events of that night. More complicated had been to remove the corpse without attracting too much attention. He – or, more precisely, Lady Felicity – had benefited from the indifference of the slum inhabitants, who had learned to look the other way and to worry about their own problems. At least the young woman had been intelligent enough to not wear a bold dress, which would have identified her as the daughter of a nobleman from any distance. She was only one year younger than Annabelle, but she did not have his wife’s foresight.

  A little while later, when Marcus heard his carriage pull up, he could not any longer stay in bed. He got up and peered through the curtains. Wickham oversaw the servant stowing Annabelle’s trunk on the back of the carriage. She had not taken much, and the young boy carrying her other luggage moved swiftly. She had not had a lot of time since he had sent her from his room.

  To his immense surprise he saw Clarice, her maid, following Annabelle with hesitant steps to the vehicle waiting on the side of the road. His wife turned around, noticed Clarice, and seemed to ask her something. The maid nodded, looked questioningly over at Wickham, and then she hurried back into the house. When Annabelle stepped into the carriage without turning around one last time, Marcus backed away from the curtains.

  Silently, he swore that he would get his wife back – even if it was the last thing he did.

  Chapter 15

  “Papa, please calm down,” Annabelle implored her father. “St. John did not throw me out. I am the one who left him.”

  “And I’m ordering you to return to him at once!” Her father exhaled with a thunderous voice and hammered his fist onto the table so strenuously that the crystal glasses clinked. “If you are lucky, he will take you back before anybody notices.”

  Her mother gave Annabelle an inquiring look, before she put her hand on her husband’s fist. “I could imagine,” she said softly, and avoided, all too clearly, looking at her eldest daughter, “that Annabelle, in her delicate condition, is a little bit sensitive. Why don’t you write a letter to your son-in-law and tell him that we will take care of our daughter until she gets used to the changes she is currently experiencing?”

  Annabelle barely managed to keep her head from jerking upward when she heard her mother’s insinuation. If she was not mistaken, her mother was offering her an escape from her father’s dander. The only problem was that she and Marcus had never consummated their marriage. If her belly were still as flat as a pancake in a few months, her father would figure out the white lie. She sincerely hoped that by then Marcus had managed to locate his enemy.

  “I am to be a… grandfather?” Her father sounded aghast and elated at the same time – indeed, her mother’s little plan had achieved the desired effect.

  “Of course, you will name the boy after the men in our descending line,” he continued in a normal tone, while Annabelle scooped another spoonful of soup into her mouth, pretending not to notice the rising heat in her cheeks. “However, if the child is a girl, you may inform your husband that I would be willing to consider a baptism in accordance with the Catholic rituals, should he agree with your wishes.”

  The child was not even born yet, let alone conceived, and the Duke of Evesham had already planned everything. Wonderful. Annabelle sighed silently and pushed her plate aside. Her appetite had left her. “If you would excuse me? I need to go and rest.” Yet rest was the very last thing she wanted. But anything was better than seeing the glow in her father’s eyes, knowing that his expectations would not come true. Not for a bit anyway, maybe never!

  Her stomach cramped when she thought about Marcus. What had he been doing? Had Finch gotten rid of Greywood’s body? She wondered where he had taken the man’s remains and sincerely hoped that the sin of murder did not bring about the irreverent treatment of the dead. She no longer believed that either Marcus or his servant had murdered Viscount Greywood, but Marcus certainly knew who had done it. He had evaded her question, she surely had not failed to notice, but she had let it pass in the face of his injury. She pushed open the door to her old room and threw herself onto the bed, just as she was.

  Clarice had already hung up her dresses in the wardrobe and placed her books on the secretary. The three porcelain figurines, which she had brought into her new home, came to mind. Annabelle had left them on the mantelpiece in her bedroom. She would return to St. John’s house. Already now, after a few weeks as his wife and all that had happened, she felt a tad bit out of place in her parents’ house.

  Rose had gone to spend a couple of weeks with Lord and Lady Scuffold to get “the finishing touches,” as Mama had put it. Annabelle suspected that her mother was less concerned with social etiquette than with “sweeping away her youngest daughter’s overly romantic notions”. How Rose should come to her senses in the company of the most enamoured couple Annabelle had ever known, was a mystery to her. Not too long ago, when the duke had not been a widower yet, Annabelle would have unconditionally agreed with her mother that he indeed was a paragon of what was right by society’s rules. After the unfortunate death of his first wife, the Duke of Scuffold had turned into a bitter man who hardly smiled and withdrew himself. Her father had hoped that his eldest daughter and his good friend would one day enter in the bond of marriage, but fate had bestowed other plans. At first, Annabelle had been a little sad when the duke invited her family to his second wedding. At the time, she had had a secret soft spot for the man, who was one of the few noblemen who did not talk in platitudes – and she still cared for him, although in an innocent and girlish way. But as soon as she met his new young wife, her quiet envy had moved aside to allow a friendship with Minerva.

  Maybe she should ask her mother if she could not follow Rose. She would travel together with Felicity to Scuffold Manor, and there, in the remoteness of rural life, she could wait for Marcus to fetch her back.

  The thought did not give her comfort. She would have loved to imitate her father and hit her fist against something. She was Marcus’s wife! Yes, of course, she could understand that he was worried about her, and if she was honest, his concern filled her with a bewildering mixture of pride and downright exuberant joy. But there was also a reluctance in her that did not agree with just being sent away to wait like a good little girl. Was there nothing she could do? She was a woman, after all. Women healed wounds, looked after their husbands and children, and took care of the wellbeing of others entrusted to their care.

  The more Annabelle thought about it all, the less she liked this role. Granted, she was hardly able to fight as Marcus could. Just the idea of kicking her legs and swinging her arms, as she had watched him do, against an opponent while wearing a tightly laced bodice was utterly absurd. She did not have enough strength to defend herself against a physical attack. Marcus was trained – his body supple and equipped with hard muscles. Everything about her was soft and yielding.

  For goodness sake. She got up from her bed and began pacing restlessly up and down the room. She had to get away or she would lose her nerve. No. Leaving London now and running away would not help her situation either. Quite the opposite, the distance from Marcus and the uncertainty about their fate would be even harder to bear.

  However, there was one thing she could tackle, something that she had been putting off for far too long. It was time to confront Felicity and ask her what had happened that night between her and the viscount. Her sisterly feelings would not stop her from pushing her sister for answers. This time, she would not tolerate excuses. Nothing would get i
n the way of the truth. Enough was enough!

  As soon as she pushed open the door of her sister’s room and saw what Felicity was doing, her anger dissipated into nothing.

  Her sister lay motionless on her bed. Her face was as white as chalk, and she did not even blink. Annabelle’s heart skipped a beat. She rushed to the bed and grabbed Felicity’s hand. She still had a pulse! The relief she felt made her knees go weak. Now she also saw that her sister’s chest was rising and falling underneath the thin fabric. Annabelle sat down on the bed right next to her, without letting go of her hand.

  “Feli,” Annabelle said softly, purposefully calling her by the nickname she had used when they had been younger. “This cannot continue. You must tell me what troubles you.”

  There was no reaction.

  “Is it because of Rupert?” She carefully tested the waters. It was strange to call Viscount Greywood by his first name, however, she decided that this informal address seemed to be a good way to elicit a reaction from her sister. Intently, she searched her sister’s face for a sign of… emotion, something, be it sorrow or rage. Anything was better than this blank stare. “I can understand that you miss him,” she dug a little further and was rewarded with a squeezing of her lips. “You must miss him very much.” She did not really believe that, but somehow, she had to try and bring about a response from her. “His death was certainly a great shock to you,” she went on.

  Felicity shot to an upright position so quickly that Annabelle drew back from the bed, startled.

  “What are you saying?” Felicity whispered with wild eyes. “Rupert is dead?” She started to laugh, quietly at first, then more violently, until her thin body shook from her emotions.

  “You did not know?” Annabelle asked. The answer to the question was obvious, but she wanted to force her sister to stop with the terrible, unnatural laugh.

  “No,” Felicity replied, “and I am glad he is dead!” She clenched her fists, then released them and ran her fingers through her hair. Annabelle saw that her sister was beginning to tug at the dense reddish-brown strands, as if to rip out the beautiful curls. Gently, but emphatically, she released her sister’s clenched fingers from her hair.

  “Tell me what happened,” she asked Felicity once more and handed her a glass of water from the bedside table. She noticed that her own hands were shaking. Marcus’s evasive answer came to her mind when she had asked him how he had learned about Gray’s death.

  “I cannot do that,” Felicity replied. The paleness in her face was now replaced by an ugly, patchy redness, and she stared down at her blanket.

  “Oh yes, you can,” Annabelle said firmly. “Believe me, I have learned a great deal about Rupert Greywood over these past few days, and I cannot say that these things made him near and dear to me. You can hardly shock me, Feli, and you will feel a lot better afterwards.”

  The question was how she herself would feel after that. It was becoming more and more certain that Felicity had something to do with Greywood’s death. What would Annabelle do if her sister confessed to murdering him? Marcus had tried to spare me the truth, Annabelle thought, feeling a wild, invincible wave of affection for him.

  “Do you promise?” Her sister’s voice was as small and thin as that of a mewling kitten, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “I promise. Perhaps not straightaway, but soon.” At least that is what she hoped. They sat in silence for a while, until Felicity’s tears had subsided. Annabelle bit her lip to keep from shouting out her impatience.

  “How do you know that Rupert has passed away? Do you know how he died?”

  Annabelle managed to suppress a sound of astonishment. The surprise disappeared within seconds and made way for a wave of relief since her sister’s question could only mean one thing: she had nothing to do with Greywood’s death.

  “I overheard St. John talking to someone about it,” she improvised, as Felicity looked at her questioningly. She took the glass from her sister’s hand, just to somehow keep her hands busy and distract Felicity from her husky voice. “You know that my husband,” the term passed smoothly over her lips, “and the viscount did not like each other much. He said something to that effect, and that he had heard it from an acquaintance.” It was rather vague and evasive, but it did not strike her sister.

  “Has someone murdered him? Did your husband kill him? Is that why you are here?”

  Annabelle flinched in the face of the harsh words. “Why would you think such a thing?”

  “Rupert was a bad man,” her sister declared. And then, as if a dam had broken, the words just kept pouring out of her. “If that is the reason you came here, then I can assure you that you can return to your husband safely, Bella.” Somewhat relieved, Annabelle noted both the use of her childhood nickname as well as the fire burning in her sister’s eyes. “He did what was right. Rupert…”

  “But St. John is no murderer,” Annabelle interrupted her. She could not bear the unjustified suspicion, which she herself had once held. “He might have had a score to settle with Greywood, but he too learned about his death only afterwards.” She started to tire. All this secrecy had started to wear on her, but it was not up to her to tell Marcus’s story. She could not betray his trust, not even to her own sister. “Now, tell me what happened. Start with the night at the Countess of York’s. You know what I am talking about. When you were planning to elope with Greywood.”

  “You know about that?” Felicity’s eyes narrowed. “I really should not be surprised,” she grumbled, pushing the blanket aside. “You seem to know me better than I know myself.” She swung her legs over the edge of the bed with more strength than Annabelle had presumed she had. Her sister padded over to her wardrobe and took out a dress. “Would you help me get dressed, so I do not have to call for Mary? In the meantime, I will tell you everything you do not yet know. Which might not be too much, after all. You should consider applying for a position with the Bow Street Runners,” she said wryly as she stripped off her stockings.

  Annabelle got up and started to open the buttons at the back of the gown. She was glad that Felicity could not see her face, for the mention of the detectives had made her twitch slightly. She thought about Hawthorne and was certain that she had not seen the last of him sitting in Marcus’s parlour.

  “All right then,” Felicity said. “It is true that we had plans for that night. We wanted to run away to Gretna Green and have the local blacksmith marry us.”

  “Why did he not just ask father for your hand in marriage?” Annabelle took her time. The buttons were small, the loops were tight, and her hands were trembling. “He is the descendant of an old family, and he was wealthy… I do not understand why you chose that path.”

  “He claimed that he had asked father and father had flatly denied him,” Felicity retorted. She lifted up her hair so that Annabelle could reach the buttons higher up. “Today, I am almost certain that he lied to me, but back then, I believed him. I was so madly in love with Rupert, I would have done anything for him. Do you understand that, Bella? There was nothing he could have asked of me that I would not have done. And when he said that he could not live without me, I said ‘yes’.”

  Annabelle made a noise that could be regarded as an approval as well as an invitation to keep her sister talking.

  “You watched us walking through the gardens towards the stables. We were almost there when Rupert suddenly stopped. He said that he had heard something, and he wanted to make sure that we were not caught. So, I walked on towards the carriage, where his servant was already waiting for us.” Her voice lowered. “But he did not come back, Bella. At some point, I heard father yelling in the garden, so I ran back. I thought that he had caught Rupert and would challenge him to a duel on the spot. I was ready to throw myself between them when I realised that the turmoil was not at all about Rupert, but about you and the Earl of Grandover.”

  Annabelle had reached the top button. Felicity stepped out of the gown and let it fall to the floor. She kicked it
carelessly to one side. In a way, Annabelle thought, she is still a child who vents her frustrations on the objects around her. Sometimes, just as before, she almost envied the impulsiveness of her sister. Her behaviour seemed to make her feel better, just like this much too long postponed conversation.

  “I was so mad at you, Bella, because you had ruined my one and only opportunity to be together with Rupert.” She paused. Her voice was really quiet now. “Can you forgive me? I was so very foolish!”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” Annabelle exclaimed. She turned her sister around and pulled her into her arms. “I am glad to see you back to your old self again, my sweet sister. I have missed you a lot!” They shed a few more tears, but then Annabelle wiped her sister’s cheeks, then her own.

  “Tell me what happened next. I want to know everything.”

  “During all the kerfuffle about your upcoming wedding with Grandover, I assumed that we would find another opportunity to run away, but… Rupert was suddenly different. He started to avoid me. He did not reply to my letters.”

  “You wrote to him?” Dismay tainted Annabelle’s voice, hearing it herself.

  Felicity nodded, embarrassed. “Yes, and I regret nothing more than my words with which I offered myself to him. I begged him to make me his wife, with or without our parent’s blessings. I was convinced that once he… once we… well, you know… then he would have to marry me.” She bit her lower lip. “But then he started to ask things of me. Strange things, Bella. You cannot even imagine them in your wildest dreams.” She fell silent. “There were moments when I thought I had completely lost my mind. It was like watching myself from the outside. Do you understand what I mean?”