Amanda Scott (35 page)

Michael’s arm was around her now, and she felt the warmth of it upon her shoulders. Involuntarily, she snuggled into the curve of his body and leaned her head into the hollow where his shoulder met his broad chest. She could feel his heart beat.

For a wonder, he had not demanded that she continue, and she realized now that his silence was uncharacteristic. Tilting her head a little, she looked up into his face, searching it for some sign of his mood. The gleam in his eyes made it clear to her that he had been waiting for her to do that very thing. She felt warmth in her cheeks, and licked dry lips, trying to recall precisely what she had said to him thus far.

He said, “Are you trying to tell me that Sylvia was afraid to speak? I can imagine you would hesitate to say so, thinking I’d declare you quite mad, but although I can’t for the life of me think what might have frightened her so, I have learned my lesson, sweetheart. Your understanding of my brother’s children is greater than mine, so if you are convinced she held her tongue out of fear, I hope you mean to explain your reasons to me.”

Anne’s thoughts were racing. She had learned that it would not be easy to deceive him. Not only was deception generally foreign to her nature, but she had long since discovered that she was more likely to speak her thoughts and opinions plainly to him than to wrap them in tact or diplomacy. She would have to tell him more of the truth than she wanted yet to disclose, which meant she would have to be careful if she were not to reveal the existence of the duchess’s last letter.

Accordingly, she moved a little away from him, turning as if she meant only to look at him directly, and said quietly, “The reason is rather dreadful, I’m afraid. You see, she was in the room when the duchess killed herself. I do not know if you are aware of how she accomplished the dreadful deed …”

“She took poison, I believe.” When Anne did not immediately continue, his own thoughts caught up with him, and he exclaimed, “Good God, are you telling me that little Sylvia actually saw her take it, that it was mixed into some potion that Agnes drank, and that is why she spoke when she saw you about to drink something?”

“Exactly so,” Anne said quietly.

“I don’t know just what she took,” he said, frowning. “As I recall the matter, Edmund wrote only that she had taken poison and caused the devil of a scandal up here.”

“I should think it would have caused a scandal the length and breadth of England,” Anne said thoughtfully, “on account of her rank, if for no other cause. I cannot think why I never heard a word about it.”

“Edmund moved heaven and earth to hush it up, as you might suppose,” he said grimly. “Parson Dailey helped by agreeing to accept her death as an accident, so she might be buried properly, and our servants here are an unusually closed-mouth set. Still, Edmund told some folks hereabouts—Jake Thornton, for one—and the little that did get about did not redound to his credit, for though I doubt that anyone blamed him directly, it was natural for them all to wonder why she was so unhappy in her life with him that she put a period to her existence.”

“Yes,” Anne said, but she knew the moment she said it that she had allowed her opinion to color even that simple word, and was not surprised when he shifted his attention sharply from his own thoughts back to her. She held her tongue.

Michael said quietly, “I know you have heard much about Edmund’s character since you came to the Priory, and I have not tried to conceal my own opinion of him, so you have been given little cause to think him anything but a philanderer, but surely you cannot think that his … his open ways with other women drove Agnes to kill herself. Why, if that were the case, half the women in England—if not more—would follow her example.”

“No one can ever know precisely what thoughts exist in another person’s head,” Anne replied carefully, “and what I have heard of the late duchess leads me to believe that her character was by no means a strong one. Lady Hermione said she was entirely dominated by her husband, and I have certainly learned nothing since then to make me doubt that assessment.”

“It’s probably true enough,” he said, “though in point of fact, I knew as little about them as I did about their children. When Edmund married Agnes, I was still at Eton, and even when I came home for my holidays, I generally enjoyed a schoolboy’s lack of awareness of the adult relationships around me. When Andrew was born, I was a month short of my thirteenth birthday. My father was still alive then, of course, and he doted on the new heir just as much as Agnes and Edmund did, so it is no wonder, I suppose, that I thought everyone here was perfectly happy.”

“Children rarely pay heed to the adults in their families,” Anne said thoughtfully. “They are much too taken up with their own concerns to do so—other than to keep out of their papa’s way if they have been naughty, of course.”

“I did that, certainly, and kept out of Edmund’s way, too, at such times, for being ten years my senior, he was as apt as my father was to rake me down.” He chuckled. “I can see by your expression that you would like to point out that, having had to put up with Edmund, I ought to have more sympathy for Andrew’s attitude toward me. Don’t spare me, sweetheart.”

“I am never surprised when people fail to learn from their own experience,” Anne said with a sigh. “I think it is human nature to resist doing so. You were not still at Eton when Sylvia was born, I collect.”

“No, I was at Oxford by then, and in the army when my father was killed in a fall from a horse six years ago. I was posted to London at the time, so I came home for his funeral, but I left immediately afterward, seeing no good cause to linger. Since then, I’d spent no more than a few days or a week at a time here until Edmund’s death. He did not write to inform me that Agnes had died until after she was buried, so I did not come home then, and I certainly never expected to have the entire business of the estates thrust into my lap less than two weeks later. And what a mess that has become.”

“I still do not think it right that you should carry the entire burden yourself when there are others who would be glad to help you. Lord Ashby knows about the mines and, I daresay, a host of other things, and I—”

“In time, perhaps,” he said, drawing her gently back into the curve of his arm. “I’ve felt obliged to keep most matters to myself so far, and although Jake’s man was not as helpful as I’d hoped he would be, I got a message today from Alsop, the manager at the Snake Mine near Castleton, telling me he has learned something that might supply answers to a number of our questions. He did not trust the information itself to the post, of course, so I mean to go there tomorrow to talk to him personally. But we have spoken enough about me and my family for one night, sweetheart. Have you quite recovered from your headache?”

When she admitted that she had, he soon turned her attention to other activities, and although she was able to congratulate herself upon having successfully diverted his thoughts from the ticklish matter of the duchess’s suicide, she had done nothing whatsoever to answer the questions in her own mind.

Both her instinct and her increasing desire for Michael told her that he was a good man, not a wicked one, but she could not ignore the reference to Lord M in the duchess’s letter, and until she was able to put her fears to rest, she did not feel justified in revealing more to him than she already had. To make the letter public would give rise to dreadful scandal, and yet to keep it private while revealing its contents to the wrong person might well serve to thrust herself and even Sylvia into danger.

Unable to sleep, she got up at last, taking care not to waken Michael, and tiptoed into her own bedchamber to check on Sylvia. The child was sleeping soundly, curled up in the exact center of the bed with the kitten beside her. Anne straightened the coverlet, then lighted a candle from a glowing ember on the hearth and took out her journal. Though she began, as usual, by addressing the entry to her dearest James, she found herself almost from the outset writing as if to her husband instead.

… and so I come to the difficulty at hand, which is to say, how one knows when to trust another with one’s innermost secrets. Though our relationship is founded upon certain basic needs of yours and your convenience, my heart tells me you are deserving of trust and that I am the wicked one for keeping secrets from you. One moment I want to run to you and speak every thought in my head, the next I know I must not—not yet.

I love you. There, I have put the words down on paper, so I know they are real. I know, too, that the sentiment is real, although indeed, I do not yet know if it will prove to be a blessing or a curse. I wish you could know how much I love you and how very much I fear discovery of the truth about you. One moment I think it will be for the best, and the next I believe that, if I were sensible, I would fear for my life.

To catalog details here where others might read them would be dangerous, I think, but to write in this fashion to you helps me clear my head and order my thoughts, though I know you will not respond. Indeed, I see now that my trust in you is of the greatest import. You do not speak of loving me, of course, and in my opinion, you have not always acted wisely, but you have never given me cause to believe you would act without integrity. With that in my mind, I see now that I have little reason not to go to you at once and put my whole confidence in you to set everything right.

Lying in his bed, alone for the moment, he turned his thoughts to the news that had reached him from Castleton that day. No doubt there had been a misstep, but he would not know where he stood until he had learned the whole. In any case, he was safe where the
Folly
was concerned, for there was no longer much danger of the trail leading to him. As to the wager, he had not yet decided what to do. No one had known the truth but Jake, Edmund, and one other; and, since Jake’s widow seemed bent upon refusing any Upminster money, that one would most likely never hear the wager had not been paid. Providence had been with him thus far, certainly. With any luck, all would yet be well.

She was coming back now. He could hear her. A pretty little thing, and proving to be more sensible than most, really. A pity she was beginning to bore him.

After thinking first that perhaps she ought just to get into her own bed and sleep with Sylvia, Anne gave in to her yearning and went quietly back to Michael’s bed. He did not stir when she crawled in beside him, but when she curled up next to him, he turned a little, and she felt his arm slip around her. Thinking he might have wakened, she wondered if she ought to tell him the whole tale immediately, but when his deep, regular breathing informed her that he still slept, she decided not to waken him.

She would tell him everything first thing in the morning. Moreover, she would show him the duchess’s letter. And thus, with her mind relieved at last of this care, she slept so soundly that she slept past her usual time. When she wakened at last, and found herself alone in the great bed, she rang at once for Maisie, only to learn that his lordship had left the house very early that morning, bound for the mines at Castleton.

D
ISCOVERING THAT SYLVIA WAS
up and had been for some time, Anne dressed quickly and went downstairs to the breakfast parlor, intending to waste no more of the day than she had already. Entering the room through one door just as Mrs. Burdekin entered through the other, the pair of them startled the two other persons already there.

Elbert instantly let go of Jane’s arm and stepped away from her. Blushing furiously and shifting her gaze to avoid Anne’s, Jane bobbed a curtsy and murmured an apology.

Vexed, Anne said, “Elbert, how many times must you be warned to leave the maids alone? If you have an acceptable explanation for this behavior, I should very much like to hear it.”

Mrs. Burdekin, clicking her tongue, glared in displeasure at the two miscreants. “By your leave, your ladyship, I’ll deal with this, and quickly, too.” To Anne’s surprise, she said nothing to Elbert or Jane but strode back to the door through which she had come and said in minatory tones, “Mr. Bagshaw—here I say, Mr. Bagshaw—be so good as to step in here this minute and explain to me just what one of your lads thinks he is about, to be manhandling one of my housemaids!”

Bagshaw, stately as ever, entered the room, bowed to Anne, and said, “Good morning, your ladyship. Is something amiss?”

Anne glanced at the two servants. Elbert stood as straight as a stick, his chin high, not looking at anyone else in the room. Jane, white-faced now, her hands pressed into her white cambric apron, stared at the floor. Anne said, “Mrs. Burdekin will explain, Bagshaw, but first, if you please, Mrs. Burdekin, I would like some tea and toast, and perhaps a boiled egg.”

“Certainly, madam, at once,” the housekeeper said. “As to you, Jane Hinkle, you’ve no call to be in this room at this hour, so you just step along upstairs to the small salon and see to the dusting there. That room looks as if it ain’t seen a duster in a week of Sundays.”

“Yes, Mrs. Burdekin,” Jane said, bobbing another curtsy but casting a gloomy sidelong glance at Anne as she did.

Seeing at the same time that Bagshaw was eyeing the housemaid askance, Anne said firmly as Jane left the room, “I ought perhaps to mention at the outset that I do not want anyone to lose his or her position over this incident.”

“Certainly, madam,” the butler said, “it shall be as you wish. I might point out, with respect,” he added dulcetly, “that I did offer a warning some time ago as to what would be the outcome of keeping immoral persons on the staff.”

Mrs. Burdekin said sharply, “In that instance, sir, it is your menservants who ought to look to their behavior. The idea, always blaming my maids—” She broke off at a sharp glance from the butler, and Anne judged it time to intervene again.

“I see that the pair of you will know just how to deal with this problem so as to cause the least disturbance,” she said quietly. “Now, if you please, I should like my breakfast.”

Her meal was produced within minutes, and although Elbert waited on her, he did so silently. She made no attempt to discuss his latest breach of behavior further, preferring to leave that task to the butler; however, when she dismissed Elbert as soon as she had finished eating, she said, “I will ring if I require your services later. In the meantime, I suggest you give some serious thought to improving your deportment if you want to continue as my personal footman.”