Lady Blue (20 page)

Now she was virtually alone in the cold, forbidding house. She avoided Agatha whenever possible. Her sister’s resentment of her was almost overwhelming. Indeed, it seemed Agatha openly hated her. And Mrs. Rutledge was an echo and a mirror of her mistress.

Bored and lonely, Harmony had found her way to the kitchen one day, and discovered an elderly, white-haired woman who evidently cooked all their meals. Harmony had tried to strike up a conversation, but the woman was both taciturn and hard of hearing. All she had been able to learn was that her name was Sophie, she was originally from Sweden, her husband had once been the gardener, but he had passed on some years earlier.

Agatha had apparently been too parsimonious to hire another groundskeeper. Harmony would have thought her sister would take pride in her home, her surroundings. But it was obviously not one of her sister’s priorities. It became, however, a distraction for Harmony.

In the somewhat rundown stables, Harmony had found a number of gardening implements. She set to work at once on the brambly and overgrown mess that had once been a formal garden. Less than a week later, the results of her labor were dramatic.

Almost all the weeds had been pulled and the overgrowth trimmed back. The garden still had a wild appearance, but all the beds were neat and blossoms had begun to appear. Harmony had even uncovered the remnants of an old lily pond. She had cleaned it out and rearranged the decorative rocks around its perimeter. Two days of a drenching rain had taken care of the rest. Though the lilies were long gone, a small family of tadpoles now darted about in the shallow water. Wood pigeons, a greenfinch, and a pair of thrushes had found the oasis and came to bathe and drink. It was a pleasant area at the far end of the garden, out of view of the house, and it had become Harmony’s refuge.

She sat down on a stone bench near the little pool, closed her eyes, and lifted her face to the sun. Agatha would scold her if she saw her. A lady’s skin, her sister liked to preach, should never so much as be touched by the sun. The slightest coloring, even a flush to the cheeks, was unbecoming and bespoke of a lower class of person. Harmony smiled to herself.

She had once been nearly as brown as an Indian, and her deeply red hair—almost auburn, in fact—had acquired some blond streaks. She had worn a hat, of course, when she rode out on her horse through the vast pastures and into the mountains, but she was in the open all day, every day. On the yearly roundup when everyone—her mother, father, and all the hands—spread out to bring in all the cows and their calves, she had sometimes stayed out for days. She had barely used a comb, much less bathed or paid any special attention to her complexion. She had had only her bedroll, her guns, a knife, some coffee, bacon, hardtack, matches, a skillet, and a coffeepot. How different her life was now!

Harmony opened her eyes and stared in the direction of the house, glad she could not see it. Her only moments of peace and relative happiness were found here, in the garden. Her stomach churned at the mere thought of returning to Agatha’s house and encountering either her sister or Mrs. Rutledge. Back home, on the ranch, she had scarce known a moment’s sadness or unease. What had become of her?

Harmony forced back the lump that tried to rise in her throat. Thinking this way, dwelling on the past, would do her absolutely no good at all. She had to think about the future. And not the three endless years until her sister’s wardship came to an end. The immediate future. Anthony.

A quiver of pleasure ran all the way from the top of Harmony’s head to the tips of her toes. She couldn’t deny that she longed to see him again. She no longer
wanted
to deny it. Having never been in love before, she wasn’t sure if she knew what it was. But if it meant wanting him as much, if not more, when they were away from each other as when she was in his arms, then perhaps she would have to admit she returned what Anthony professed to feel for her. Maybe, just maybe, she was really and truly in love.

The funny feeling returned to Harmony’s stomach, but not this time because of dread. It was instead anticipation.

Only a few more hours and she would see him

again. Only a few more hours and—

“Harmony!”

Agatha’s shrill and piercing voice dashed away Harmony’s reverie and left her as cold as if a bucket of icy water had been thrown on her. She rose slowly, reluctantly, from her bench.

“Harmony! Where are you?”

“Here, Agatha. I’m here. I’m coming.”

Agatha stood on the back terrace, arms folded across her thin and shriveled breast. She was clearly agitated. “What have you been doing?” she demanded sharply. “Idling away your time again sitting in the sun?”

“I’ve been working on the garden,” Harmony replied quietly.

“Without a hat, I see.” Agatha harrumphed. “And today of all days.”

“Why is today special?”

“Don’t be ignorant,” Agatha snapped. “Tonight you will be a guest in Lady Margaret’s home. Do you want to look like a common peasant who’s been laboring in the field all day?”

Harmony refrained from comment. She ducked her head and moved past Agatha toward the terrace doors.

“Now where are you going?”

“I’m getting out of the sun, Agatha. Isn’t that what you want me to do?”

“I want you to stand still and listen to me. I came

out here to talk to you for a reason.”

“Which is?”

“Don’t be impertinent!”

Harmony sighed. “I’m sorry if I gave that impression, Agatha. What is it you want?”

Agatha’s arms came away from her breast and she planted her hands on her narrow hips. “I want you to get a message to Lord Farmington. At once.”

“A … a message?”

“Yes, a message. That good-for-nothing driver, Charles, packed up his belongings and left. He didn’t even have the courtesy to
tell
me he was leaving!”

Harmony refrained from comment.

“I want you to contact Lord Farmington,” Agatha went on, “and let him know I will be accompanying the two of you in his coach this evening.”

Harmony managed to keep her features expressionless while, at the same time, trying not to choke. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem, Agatha,” she replied evenly.

“Nevertheless, I want you to advise him of my situation. It is simply not to be borne!”

Harmony didn’t move.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

A peculiar uneasiness spread through Harmony’s midsection. “I … I’m not sure where to send the message,” she answered at last.

“What do you mean you’re not sure where to send it?”

“Just as I said, Agatha,” Harmony repeated, uneasiness growing. “I don’t know where to send him a message.”

“You mean you don’t know where he stays when he’s here?”

“That is exactly what I mean.”

“That’s preposterous. Surely he has a townhome in London, at least.”

“If he does, I know nothing of it. Besides, for all I know, he might reside in a hotel when he’s in London.”

“Well, what
do
you know?” Agatha flashed. “Has he even told you where his home is in the north?”

Harmony slowly shook her head.

Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “I find that very odd, Harmony,” she said in a strange tone.

“Why?” Harmony replied abruptly, her defensive hackles bristling. “Anthony and I have many things to talk about when we’re together. The precise location of his home, its official address, has simply never been one of them.”

“Perhaps it should be.”

“Why? Just to satisfy your curiosity? Why don’t you ask him yourself when you see him tonight?”

“Well!”

Harmony whirled away from her sister and stormed through the terrace doors before Agatha could say another word. She didn’t want to hear any more. In truth, Agatha had struck a chord.

Where did Anthony live, exactly? He had talked about his home in the north, his mother living in a cottage on the grounds, cattle and horses. She had imagined the rest: a handsome manor with sprawling, rolling farmlands. But it had all been created by her imagination, not by fact. Then she remembered Maggie at the inn.

Anthony’s suite of rooms was quite comfortably decorated, much more so than she imagined would be the case in an average country inn. He even had what seemed to be personal items there, like the crystal decanter and glasses …

Was that where Anthony lived? No, it couldn’t be. Anthony was obviously a well-educated gentleman; his clothes were expensive and well-tailored; his coach was the most elegant and well-appointed she had ever seen, and his team impressively matched and trained. Anyone who could afford any of those things surely would not live in temporary rooms at an inn.

Unless he was not who he appeared to be. Harmony exhaled a deep breath and felt her shoulders slump. She thought she had long ago banished any doubts about Anthony. She had believed his story of the charade as a bandit. The inn rooms could have many explanations. But how many explanations could there be for the clothes, the coach and horses? Even his friends. Surely Nora Applegate would never entertain anyone whose background she wasn’t thoroughly familiar with. Nevertheless, doubt began to eat at her again.

Arriving at her bedroom, Harmony closed the door behind her and leaned against it.

Harmony brought to mind the night Anthony had taken her to the inn and tried to recall every little detail. The proprietress appeared quite familiar with him. They were on a first name basis. She hadn’t treated him at all like a lord. She certainly hadn’t seemed surprised to see him dressed in boots and buckskins. Nor had she seemed surprised that he was taking a girl to his rooms.

And why wouldn’t he tell her where he lived? Wasn’t that something people normally shared?

Harmony pushed away from the door and paced to her window, something peculiar gnawing away at her belly.

Many mysteries surrounded Anthony. She had tried to ignore them. Did she do so at her peril? Who was Anthony Allen after all?

Elegant, charming lord?

Or handsome, carefree bandit?

Thief masquerading as an aristocrat, or aristocrat posing as thief?

Harmony pressed her fingers to her temples and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She could ignore the questions no longer, could no longer keep them at bay.

He had masqueraded as a bandit in order to meet her, get to know her. Or so Anthony said. But was he telling the truth? Having gotten to know her, did he now masquerade as a lord in order to pursue her? Had he taken on this persona to woo and win her with the approval of her sister?

Which was it, bandit or lord? Who was the real Anthony Allen? And when would she find out for sure?

Harmony pressed a hand to her heart, suddenly aware of its pounding. In only a few hours, perhaps. In a few more hours, as previously arranged, Anthony would arrive to escort her to the party. She silently cursed the driver whose departure put Agatha into the coach with them tonight and reawakened all her doubts. When would she have an opportunity to speak with him alone?

Alone. Alone with Anthony.

The pounding of Harmony’s heart escalated. There was a familiar weakness in her knees, a melting sensation in her abdomen.

Did it really matter who he was, what he was?

That was the central question, the most important question, Harmony realized.

She would have her answers soon. Only a few more hours.

Harmony hurried to bathe, arrange her hair, and dress. She had decided to wear the pink satin, a somewhat modest gown with delicately scooped neckline and fashionably puffy sleeves. It made her feel somewhat prim and virginal, although her thoughts when she was around Anthony were anything
but.
Tonight she, too, would masquerade.

A
gatha sat at her dressing table, peered into the mirror, and primped. Her hair, as usual, was pulled into a tight chignon at the back of her head. She loosened a strand at her temple and twirled it around her finger, curling it. Liking the result, she repeated the process on the opposite side. She smiled at her reflection.

It did no harm to indulge in the smallest of vanities, she told herself. A wisp of curl at her cheeks, a faint touch of pink on her lips. She was, after all, attending a festive event given in honor of her sister and her sister’s suitor. Her hostess was a pillar of the community. Other notables would be attending. She did want to look her best. If, for nothing else, Lord Farmington himself.

A girlish giggle rose in Agatha’s throat, although she swiftly suppressed it. As much as she would like to, she could not deny the man was overpoweringly good-looking. And the way he looked in those tight-cut trousers …

A flush rose to Agatha’s cheeks and she scowled at her reflection. She had to stop thinking such thoughts. Not only was it entirely unladylike and immoral, she wasn’t even certain exactly who Lord Farmington was. There had not been time enough yet to hear from the other counties she had written to, and she would undoubtedly learn much more to her satisfaction. But in the meantime, it did no harm to continue to harbor some healthy suspicion. It would be just like Harmony to have attracted some no-account ne’er-do-well looking for a wealthy bride.

Lips pursed, Agatha remembered the way her sister had openly flirted with that horrible robber who had held them at gunpoint. That was obviously the kind of man she was drawn to and the kind who would most probably be drawn to her.

No, it wouldn’t hurt to maintain her distance from Lord Farmington and nurse her most reasonable suspicions. It wouldn’t hurt at all.

Nor would it hurt to indulge just a little bit more and put on one of her finer pieces of jewelry, one of the lovely pieces her grandmother had left to her. Dear, dear Grandmama Grace. So generous, so kind. Unlike her daughter.

Agatha’s scowl returned as she thought about her mother. She had most certainly left all of her jewels to the little princess, Harmony. Well, she hoped she enjoyed them. They would be
all
Harmony was ever going to get.

Agatha flounced out of her seat and crossed to the opposite side of the room, black silk skirt swishing and rustling. She glanced over her shoulder then pulled open her armoire. Another backward glance, and she knelt.