The Cold Earl's Bride: A Historical Regency Romance Read online

  But why did it feel as if he was watching a theatrical performance especially arranged for him? And who was the person inside the carriage, who had pulled the woman inside?

  “How is Finch? I have not heard from him for quite a while,” the countess interrupted his ongoing silence.

  “Excuse me, my mind was elsewhere,” Marcus said. Finch had served as the Earl of York’s valet for a long time before he entered in Marcus’s service – if one could claim that Finch was serving anybody. “He is fine. Regardless, it is time for me to depart.” He leaned towards the Countess and kissed her outstretched hand. “Thank you for looking after Annabelle,” he said. “As you know, if anything seems strange, if someone follows you, or asks too many weird questions…”

  “… I will immediately raise the alarm,” the countess promised. “You do not need to worry, Marcus. I will make sure that nothing happens to your wife.” Her words sounded hollow, which was not surprising after the drinks during the dinner and the three glasses of whiskey afterwards. He hesitated. Could he entrust her with his wife, if she was so fond of liquor?

  He would have to take the chance.

  Chapter 17

  It had been surprisingly easy to convince her parents to give their consent to her sister for a visit to the Countess of York’s. Initially, Annabelle found it disconcerting that she was able to decide for herself whether she wanted to accept the invitation or not. There were still so many things to get used to, and her relative freedom from parental restraints was only one of them. Regardless, it did rattle her that her father, for the sake of form, asked Marcus if he was fine with Annabelle’s travelling to the countryside. Of course, Marcus had agreed at a word, but this was not the grounds for her irritation. She wondered if one day women would be more than just the property of men. Annabelle was aware of the fact that she and her sisters were very lucky. Her father had agreed to give them lessons, and not just in the usual topics of dance, needlework, music, and languages. Nobody had ever prohibited her from reading a book from the library. She had grown up as freely as was possible for a young woman of her standing, and she was grateful for it – and yet... she wanted more.

  “Madam,” Clarice interrupted her thoughts, “a Runner is waiting for you in the parlour. It is the same man who came to see you and the earl before. Your sister is already with him.”

  Annabelle jumped to her feet, thanked Clarice, who had been remarkably pleasant over the last few days, and rushed down the stairs. Her heart was hammering as she imagined all that could happen. In her mind, she saw Hawthorne pushing her sister into the prisoner’s vehicle to have her transported to Newgate. As a poisoner, albeit involuntary, her sister had no mercy to expect from the law. Speedily and without knocking, she entered the parlour. She was prepared for the worst. A crying Felicity, who made a confession on her knees, was yet the least troubling image in her mind. However, when she entered the room – more precisely, as she stormed in – she was greeted by a deceptively peaceful picture. Hawthorne had taken seat (with a rather uncomfortable looking straightened posture) in one of the armchairs by the window. Her sister sat restfully on the recamier and was bouncing her feet back and forth.

  “Good Day, Mr Hawthorne. May I enquire directly, what has brought you to me?” She put special emphasis on the ‘me’ in her question and barely prevented herself from giving her sister a warning glare.

  “I hear you and your sister are going to the countryside?”

  “We are,” she replied, gauging his body language unobtrusively. His hands lay loosely crossed in his lap, and his gaze kept wandering over to her sister, attentive but not overly suspicious. “But surely you did not come all this way to discuss my travel plans?” Felicity must have told him. How else would he know that they intended to leave the city?

  “That is correct,” he replied. “Still, I find it interesting. But perhaps…” he rose and indicated a bow in the direction of her sister, whose cheeks, surprisingly, turned a light shade of pink, “we could discuss the matter that brought me to you, in private. Of course, it is at your discretion to ask your father or your husband to join us.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Annabelle replied. She looked over at her sister. “Please go upstairs and see if Clarice has packed my blue dress. I would not want to make the Countess of York wait.” She hated the blue dress, and they had not agreed on a set time when they would embark on their travels to the country estate. Felicity pursed her lips, but she obeyed and bid the Bow Street Runner goodbye with a small curtsey.

  Annabelle chose a chair that stood slightly sideways to his. This way, he would have to turn if he wanted to see her face. The more uncomfortable his seating arrangement, the faster he would leave. The palms of her hands felt sweaty and sticky. She forced herself to rest her fingers in her lap in just as loose a manner as he did. The silence between them stretched, but unlike most people, it did not seem to affect him. He did not become restless, nor did he avoid her gaze.

  Underestimating this man would be a mistake.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” She injected a precisely measured amount of impatience into her voice and wondered whether it made sense to play her role as a clueless newlywed again, but Annabelle had the suspicion that he would not fall for it a second time. It was questionable if he had even believed her acting the first time around. If that was the case, Hawthorne had now revised his opinion of her, otherwise he would not have come here.

  “I would like to tell you a story, Lady Grandover,” he began.

  Despite her rather transparent hint concerning her social responsibilities, it seemed as if the Runner was preparing himself for a longer conversation. Annabelle said nothing but did the only thing she could do – she waited and listened.

  “A young, but not entirely inexperienced detective is called to a case that turns out to be a domestic mishap. The wife admits to having injured her husband, but by no means maliciously. The gunshot that disturbed the neighbours was solved in a satisfactory manner. The detective could do nothing more and went on his way, even though he was certain that the woman was hiding something from him.” He made a pause in which Annabelle’s pulse quickened significantly. “When the detective notified his superior, not leaving out the doubts he had, he received the clear order to put the matter to rest.”

  Hawthorne had not yet reached the end of his story. Annabelle looked him straight in the eye and discovered an impotent rage lurking behind the accommodating expression. But why had he been instructed to leave Marcus and her alone? It had to be related to the fact that Marcus had once been in the service of the crown, even though he had fallen from grace.

  “Shortly after, something bizarre happens,” Hawthorne continued. His otherwise calm voice now sounded cold and business-like, which scared Annabelle even more than the rage in his eyes. “A man was found dead. Coincidentally, between the dead man and the husband, whom the wife shot, is a connection of resentment, as confirmed by numerous witnesses.” Annabelle lifted her chin and tilted her head as if listening to his words. In truth, her thoughts were rotating like a mechanical clockwork, with one gear reaching into the other, triggering a continuous series of motions. She had to warn Marcus that Hawthorne was on his trail. She had to get Felicity out of this city, the faster the better. And last but not least, she had to try to escape this unfortunate affair unscathed. “The detective became suspicious, but since the dead man had died from poisoning and not from a gunshot, he was unable to convince his superior to open a new case and transfer the investigation of both cases to him.”

  Annabelle frowned. “Did you not just say that the investigation of the first case was closed?”

  Hawthorne shook his head and smiled as if she had said exactly what he expected her to say. “Unfortunately not, Lady Grandover. I said that the detective was instructed to investigate the matter no further. I did not say anything about a closed case.” He tilted his head sideways. Strange. Annabelle knew from experience that people usually only imita
ted the gestures of those opposite them when they wanted to come to an arrangement about something. His next words confirmed her guess.

  “I implore you, Lady Grandover, tell me what actually happened. As long as no one was hurt, I can bow to directives given from the highest point, but not when it comes to murder.” He waited for her to say something and when she did not, he sighed.

  “If you are afraid of your husband, I can help you. There is a house on the outskirts of London, where I can shelter you while I am investigating your husband.”

  Annabelle struggled for the right words. It would have been nice to tell him about everything – Greywood’s murder, Marcus’s past, his search for the unknown man – all of it. Hawthorne was a man of integrity, his words had proven as such, and even more did his concern regarding her wellbeing, but it was simply impossible. As a Bow Street Runner, he was obliged to make his investigations public.

  Now it was her turn to sigh. Hawthorne’s eyes lit up for a moment, but a second later he seemed to realise that Annabelle would not give him the answers he was looking for.

  He rose from his chair and held a piece of paper out to her. “Take it,” he said harshly. “You know where to find the Bow Street Runners?” Annabelle nodded. “This is my home address,” he said, extending his hand with the paper a little further. “Do not hesitate to write or seek me out if you change your mind. If I am not there personally, you will find my legman, Johnson, and Mrs Croft, my housekeeper. One of them always knows where to reach me.” Hawthorne bowed stiffly. The disappointment was written all over his face as he turned and walked out.

  Did these unfortunate developments ever come to an end?

  He and Finch had searched every darn drinking hole they could think of in the East End.

  Madeline remained vanished from the face of the earth. At some point in the early morning, Marcus had sent Finch home under the pretence that he was awaiting an urgent message from Annabelle. The shadows under his friend’s eyes had grown increasingly darker, and Finch had become more and more impatient, which had gotten on Marcus’s nerves. Eventually, after the fourth untouched pint – Marcus would not even have touched the disgusting brew if he were dying of thirst – Finch’s discontent had become too much for him.

  He forgot all too often that his friend was several years older than him and no longer possessed the same resilience as a young man. Notwithstanding the friendship that had grown between them since Finch had left the Yorks to come and work for him, their search for the string puller was not something that concerned Finch on a personal level. Unlike Marcus, he had not lost someone precious to him. What an ungrateful thought, Marcus chided himself, as he left the final tavern. Finch had proven his loyalty on more than one occasion. He had saved Marcus’s life, and he had stood by his side when Marcus had sworn to revenge Matilda’s gruesome death. This slow change in Finch… when had it started?

  Annabelle. The answer to his question came so quickly and instantaneously that Marcus hardly doubted its accuracy. Even at a closer look, the answer remained the same. Since Annabelle had stepped into his life, and especially since he and she had grown closer, his friend behaved differently. At first, he and Finch had been united in their resentment towards her. However, as soon as Marcus realised that Annabelle was not working for Greywood, Finch’s cautious reminders to remain distant from her had taken on a condescending, sharp tone. Did his old friend fear that she would distract Marcus or demand too much of his time?

  Marcus shook his head and dodged a drunk, who staggered up into his path and then wobbled to the sidewalk. Back to my most pressing problems, he ordered himself and suppressed the urge to bury his nose in a handkerchief. The stench in the East End was harrowing and said more about the overall state of Great Britain than any report that landed on the minister’ desk. Instead of uselessly squandering money and human lives in the war, one should rather start tackling the poverty in one’s own country. Madeline had once remarked that, in a way, she could even understand the basic idea behind the French Revolution. Freedom, equality, and fraternity were worthy aims, but they would neither come to fruition in a reign of terror, nor under a self-imposed title such as the French emperor had given himself. Humanity was probably not yet ready for a society where everyone was treated equally, and everyone had enough to eat. “If the people have no bread, let them eat cake” French Queen Marie Antoinette had reportedly said when her subjects had dared to demand bread. Marcus still heard the unbridled indignation in the Countess of York’s voice when she had told him this anecdote about the last queen of the Ancien Régime. “Those with a full belly can easily talk above those who are hungry,” had been her words, “but this unparalleled arrogance is not only foolish, it is disgusting.” Back then, her words had carried a provoking undertone of treason, but of course, that was impossible. Honoria, the Countess of York, was no sympathiser of the revolutionary front but a kind-hearted woman who did good deeds. She even maintained a house in Whitechapel, where low women who could no longer survive on the streets found shelter and were trained to become suitable servants.

  On several occasions, she had even asked Marcus to visit the house and its inhabitants, but he had never found the time. Even so, Marcus had not only donated money for the cause, but employed one of the women who had found refuge there. In hindsight, Marcus felt guilty, as he had offered Clarice the position as his wife’s maid to ensure the maid’s gratitude towards him. She would willingly tell him anything, he had thought, what his wife was up to behind his back. But now he not only felt tender sentiments towards Annabelle, he also felt embarrassed to have been so ruthless. Marcus had not even chosen Clarice for this role but had left the choice to Finch amongst the many needy women.

  Something about this chain of thought unsettled Marcus. He had been walking for a while, not paying attention to his surroundings, and he realised that he had found himself in the very area he had just thought about: Whitechapel. He was able to smell the river from here – its mugginess mixed with the stench of poverty clung to Marcus’s clothes.

  He glanced around. Not only were the streets and buildings bathed in a uniform colour somewhere between grey and brown, but even the people who were roving about were hardly distinguishable from one another. Most of them kept their heads down, avoiding every look, every possible contact, except for the few doxies who, even at this early morning hour, had not yet given up hope of earning a few pennies. He thought of the horrendous sleeping arrangements. On benches and crammed into each other, tied with ropes, so that they did not fall off during their sleep – it was for many the only way to overnight in the safety of a house. Always assuming they had the money to pay for the accommodation and had made it through the day without succumbing to the temptation of alcohol. The tendency to cheap drink was not surprising either, since the children of the unfortunate women, all too often as babies, were many times kept quiet with a teaspoon of gin.

  With that in mind, the outrage of the countess was understandable, and her charitable works commendable; and, in a way, this was even true of Madeline, who, despite her noble heritage and the fact that both her parents had literally lost their heads, dreamt of a better, fairer world. Fundamentally, the two women were not so very different – apart from their provenance and temperament. The Countess of York was British through and through. She was reserved, that is, unless the discussion was about subjects that were dear to her heart, such as the fight against poverty and the status of women in society. Madeline… Marcus stopped.

  A thought ran through his mind, so absurd that it took his breath away. He remembered Annabelle’s words when she had tried to explain to him what an ideal marriage was. She wanted to be valued as a person, not just as an ornament on the arm of a man, or the equivalent of an upscale servant who ran the household. At least, that was how he had parsed her words at the time.

  He had made a capital mistake in his thinking, he now saw, and not just once but twice. He forced himself to keep walking while putting his new, brea
th-taking theory through its paces. Was it possible that he had finally discovered the truth?

  The figure hiding in the shadows was the Countess of York. She was the owner of this house. She knew Madeline, she had known Greywood. Through her late husband she had gained the knowledge about his, St. John’s, activities as a spy. And, last but not least, she had the most powerful motive to wish him dead: he was responsible for Matilda’s death. Of course, he had not lain hands upon her himself, but she would still be alive if he had not courted her and won her heart.

  However, fate had cruelly tricked the countess. She had used Greywood thereafter to make St. John’s life hell, and thereby using the exact person who had killed her goddaughter.

  The thousand different pictures fell into one and what Marcus saw finally made sense. He had been so blind! To make sure that he was not mistaken, he had to find Madeline. She was the weakest link in the chain of events – and now, he knew exactly where to find her.

  A boy, hardly older than eight or nine years old, stumbled against him. The movement was too slick to be an accident, and when Marcus’s fingers closed around the tiny wrist, the little man squeaked pitifully. Marcus took his money pouch back from him and was just about to send him home with a few harsh words, when he decided otherwise.

  “Do you know where I can find Buck’s Row?” A timid nod was the answer. “Do know the house where the unfortunate women live their new lives?”

  “Wha’? Wha’ do ya mean? There ain’t no nunnery in Buck’s Row, Sir. I can bring ya to one – if ya want.”

  Marcus shook his head. The eyes of the boy were firmly focussed on the coin in his hand.

  “I mean the house where women of the street learn a new trade.”

  “Oh, tha’.” The voice of the boy was filled with unexpectedly world-weary disdain for one so young. Marcus did not have to ask what the boy thought of honest work. “A’ right, a’ right. That’s where ya wanna go? I can lead ya there.” He quickly grabbed for the coin, and this time Marcus allowed the bony fingers to achieve their target.