The Worldly Widow (24 page)

"I beg your pardon,
"
she said, and laughed again. Of course, after that, she was forced to share the joke.

Unsmiling, Temple observed, "You
'
re still resolved to publish these diaries?
"
He picked up the pages Annabelle had been studying and looked through them idly.

"Adamantly,
"
she assured him.

"Mark my words, before the ink is dry, Bailey
'
s Press will be up to its neck in lawsuits. I must have been insane to give you escort to Paris.
"

"Why did you?
"

He took a moment or two to reply to her question, but whether it was because something on the page he was reading had caught his interest or because he was choosing his words with care was not clear to Annabelle.

Finally, he looked up and said, "Because, my dear, you would simply have found someone else to escort you, or worse, relied on your grooms for protection. I know you to be a resourceful lady. I had hopes, of course, that given time, you would see how utterly impossible it is to even think of publishing this material. Annabelle, destroy these diaries before you get hurt. These men are powerful figures both in Court and in government circles. They won
'
t let you get away with this.
"

"In a court of law…
"

"It will never come to that. I
'
ll wager anything you like that right this minute someone is hot on your trail. How many people know about the diaries? How long do you think it will be before they
'
re tracked down to Bailey
'
s Press?
"

Visibly shaken, she said, "This is England. There are laws to protect the innocent. I
'
ve done nothing wrong.
"
He shook his head, but before he could remonstrate, she cut him off. "Gerry, was there some point to this visit? If not, there are any number of things which need my attention.
"

If her abruptness annoyed him, he covered it well. He took a few halting steps around the room before turning on his heel to face her.

"We
'
ve been friends for a long time,
"
he said simply.

Her expression softened. "Yes.
"

"I
'
ve always looked out for your interests.
"

"Without fail,
"
she agreed.

His voice lowered, became husky. "Give up Dalmar, Annabelle. The man is dangerous. He isn
'
t for
you.
"

"You
'
ve said that before. What does it mean?
"

"He
'
s a suspected murderer.
"

Her response was quick and automatic, but for all that, she meant every word. "I don
'
t believe it! It
'
s not in the man to be a murderer. Besides, I always understood that murderers went to the gallows.
"

"He
'
s clever, I
'
ll give you that. He was cleared at the inquest, but only because his mother and younger brother testified on his behalf. It was widely known that there was never any love lost between Dalmar and his father.
"

"Is that whom he is supposed to have killed—his father?
"

"Oh, there
'
s no question that his was the hand that struck the blow. He claimed it was an accident, but no one who knew his family believed him. His father hated him. His mother was indifferent.
"

"But…"

"Yes?
"

"From what he said, he must have been only a boy when his father died.
"

"Just short of seventeen. Old enough to run away to the army. Well, where else was he to go with such a stigma attached to his name? If he
'
d stayed in England, he would have been completely ostracized. And even supposing he
'
s fallen heir to his uncle
'
s title and fortune, I make no doubt that there will still be some doors that are barred against him.
"

Speechless, she stared at him, shock clearly registering in her expression. Almost to herself she murmured, "Dear God! What a waste!
"
She was thinking that a boy should have the chance to do a few foolish things, get into a few wild scrapes, before he was asked to take on the responsibilities of a man. Hard on that thought came a rush of anger for the parents who had failed him, and a society which had carelessly thrust him beyond the pale. In some obscure way, she recognized that her feelings were inextricably bound up with the fierce, protective emotions she experienced for her son. No child should ever be alone and unloved and left to fend for himself.

Aloud, she said, "He deserves
…
"
Her voice trailed off. She could not think of a single thing that would recompense him for so much lost time—in truth, the best years of his life. She remembered her taunt in the garden and was ashamed.

A voice from the open doorway quietly drawled, "Yes, Annabelle, what do I deserve? Pray continue.
"

She spun to face him, and a slow, guilty flush stole under her skin from throat to hairline. "Dalmar,
"
she said, and fell silent.

She swallowed with difficulty. Across the short space that divided them, his eyes locked with hers. She was aware that Temple had made some noncommittal remark, but he might as
well not have been there for all the attention Dalmar paid him. Dalmar
'
s eyes held hers, and he repeated the question.

Her lips felt dry. She wet them with the tip of her tongue. Into the s
ilence she said, "You deserve…
you deserve some happiness for what you lost when you were a boy. I hope you find it.
"

"Thank you.
"
The tension across his shoulders visibly relaxed.

Though she covered it well, Annabelle was self-conscious to a degree and was excessively glad that, on this occasion at least, Dalmar and Temple conducted themselves with commendable civility. When Lord Temple finally took his leave, there was nothing to show that there was any awkwardness between the two men. On the contrary, they gave every appearance of having enjoyed the encounter.

The minutes passed. Dalmar said nothing, but Annabelle could detect a waiting quality in him.

When it became evident that he would not be the one to break the silence between them, she said, "How much did you hear?
"

"More than enough,
"
he replied, his look unfathomable.

"I wasn
'
t prying.
"

"I don
'
t care if you were. But if you want to know anything, come to me.
"

She became conscious that they were both standing. Seating herself, she invited him to do the same. His eyes traveled the cluttered room, touching on the untidy stacks of books piled every which way on the floor, tables strewn with broadsheets and chapbooks, her desk littered with layer upon layer of manuscripts and papers. Finally his eyes came to rest on her.

He pulled his chair closer. "How can you ever find anything in this chaos?
"
'

"Organized chaos,
"
she said, smiling. "As each task is completed, I tidy things away.
"

He quirked one brow. "You must be working on a hundred different things at once.
"
Abruptly, his tone changed. "It was self-defense, you know.
"

"What?
"

"My father. I killed him in a duel. Temple was right. It wasn
'
t an accident. But it wasn
'
t murder either. It was self-defense.
"
As he continued to speak, an edge of bitterness crept into his voice. "Not unnaturally, my mother wanted to protect the family name. To admit that her husband tragically lost his life in a mock duel while demonstrating the finer points of the sport to his son was more acceptable than to have our private scandals become common knowledge.
"

When it was evident that he was not about to elaborate, she said simply, "I
'
m sorry,
"
and wished that she could find the words to adequately express everything she was feeling. It was the boy she pitied, she told herself. The man he had grown into invited any number of emotions, none of them remotely resembling pity. Still
…

"I assure you, my scars have healed nicely.
"

"Ah,
"
she replied, equally casual. "You
'
ve read my thoughts. I shall have to watch that tendency in future.
"

He laughed. "You believe me, don
'
t you?
"

"That your scars have healed nicely?
"

"No. Don
'
t play with me, Annabelle!
"

She saw that he had turned very grave, and she quickly replied, "Yes, I believe you.
"

"Why?
"

The question jarred her. She gazed at him for a long interval. Behind her blind stare, pictures, impressions, and fragments of conversations jostled each other in her mind. Taken together, to her way of thinking, they made a solid foundation for trusting the man, at least on one level. Dalmar would do whatever he thought was right, by his lights. Somehow, the thought was not comforting.

"Well?
"

"Because,
"
she said, flashing him a look of pure coquetry. "I believe that you are, appearances to the contrary, a man of honor, courage, and kindness itself, and quite without rancor.
"

"Appearances to the contrary!
"
he exclaimed, looking at her askance. "What does that mean, may I ask?
"

"It means, Dalmar, that on first glance you might easily be
mistaken for a rogue.
"
A thought occurred to her, and she grinned.

"What?
"
he asked, a matching grin softening the rugged lines of his face.

"When I first saw you I thought you were a pirate, or at the very least, a bandit. I prayed our paths would never cross.
"

"And now?
"

Still smiling, she said, "Don
'
t press your luck. You
'
re here for a reason, I presume. May I know what it is?
"

For a moment he looked as if he might argue the point. Suddenly capitulating, he offered with a crooked smile, "Vulgar curiosity. I called in at Greek Street, you see, and Richard told me that I could find you here. I got the impression that he had let the cat out of the bag. Was I wrong?
"

"I shall have to talk to that boy,
"
she said, her eyes and fingers suddenly busying themselves with the manuscript which lay conveniently at hand.

"So that
'
s it! I thought as much. You
'
re ashamed of what you do! Are you afraid that the taint of 'shop
'
will have you thrown out of London
'
s most prestigious drawing rooms? Is that why it
'
s not generally known that you are the driving force behind Bailey
'
s? Somehow I thought you wouldn
'
t give a brass button for the opinions of others.
"

During this cajolery, Annabelle
'
s head came up. Her eyes flashed. Majestically she rose to her feet. She looked down the length of her unquestionably patrician nose.

Dalmar
'
s lazy grin grew even wider. "Stubble it!
"
he told her. "I didn
'
t come here to argue. Don
'
t worry, your secret is safe with me. Now show me your little empire.
"

She was tempted to show him the door, but before the words could form on her lips, he was on the move, pacing about her office, touching
everything, shooting questions at her in rapid succession. She could scarcely keep up with him. Without a by-your-leave, he took off on a tour of the building, Annabelle trotting hard at his heels. He had done his homework, she noted, for there wasn
'
t one department from front desk to dispatch where he didn
'
t make a few intelligent observations or flatter her "gaffers
"
with gratifying interest. By the time they
returned to her office, Annabelle was out of breath.

Dalmar was as much fascinated by the change in Annabelle as he had been by the tour of Bailey
'
s. For a solid hour they
'
d talked nothing but business. By degrees her pose of aloofness had dissipated, leaving in its wake something more resembling a childlike eagerness to share a secret with a cherished friend. He
'
d seen her flush with pleasure every time he had uttered some mild words of praise. She could deny it to her dying breath, but he knew now that his appeal for the lady was based on more than mere physical attraction. Until then, he had wondered. Something inside him seemed to dissolve. Everything was going to be fine. Soon all that spirit and intelligence, all that warmth and softness which lay just beneath the surface were going to be his. He needed them as much as he needed her passion, if not more. In return he would cherish and protect her, even if it meant protecting her from herself. Especially if it meant protecting her from herself.

Annabelle shut the door softly and leaned back against it, watching him through narrowed eyes. He was at her desk, leafing through the loose pages of Monique Dupres
'
s memoirs, just as Temple had earlier done.

"It
'
s Minerva Press, isn
'
t it?
"
she said, slanting him a sly look.

He glanced over his shoulder. "Mi
n
erva
Press?
"
he repeated slowly, trying to look intelligent.

She pushed away from the door. "Oh, don
'
t look so stupid! You know what I
'
m talking about. The house that you
'
re trying to buy into—it has to be William Lane
'
s company. I
'
ve racked and racked my brains, and it
'
s the only one I can come up with.
"

"It
'
s not Minerva Press.
"

"Is it Thomas Kelly then? Is he up to something?
"

"Who?
"

"Oh, don
'
t give me that innocent look! You know who I mean. Kelly of Paternoster Row, the one who
'
s making money hand over fist by selling the Bible off in installments.
"