The Worldly Widow (48 page)

He had always feared that he carried the seeds of his father in his own body—that bad blood coursed in his veins. A sensible man would have forsworn idle dreams of domestic bliss. Then what ailed him? Annabelle, of course. She had slipped under his guard and, like a fool, he was off and crying for the impossible. And with what disastrous results! He did not think he would ever forget that look of mingled hatred and contempt which had blazed at him from her shocked eyes.

He wondered what she was thinking, and then decided it was better not to know. He had no wish to face her, but he refused to take the coward
'
s way out. Though his brother or Ransome could just as easily effect her release, he thought he owed her the chance to thoroughly abuse his character for his sins. And this time, he was resolved to take his punishment without a murmur. Like a condemned felon mounting the scaffold, he set his face toward Bow Street and his fate.

When he reached his destination, he saw by his watch that three hours had passed. He could not seem to stop the
trembling which wracked his limbs. On the steps of the Bow Street office, he inhaled deeply, then pushed through the doors.

"Annabelle?
"
For a moment he was not sure that the girl sitting so forlornly on the solitary chair was she. He saw her shoulders lift, and recognized the gesture.

She made no answer, but her eyes followed him as he took a few paces around the small cell. "I beg your pardon,
"
he said. "They told me you would be given a small room. I had not known to expect this!
"
He was appalled at the conditions of the place.

When she answered, her voice, low, steady, and quite without passion, was the death knell of all his hopes. "It
'
s of no moment. Was this all a hoax, Dalmar?
"
She gestured vaguely with her hand.

"Not entirely. I wanted to put the fear of death in you. I happen to know one of the magistrates. He owed me a favor. The rest you can surmise.
"

"And there is no magistrate waiting to question me?
"

"No. Only if the diaries were not found.
"

A small, fleeting smile touched her lips. "And you found them?
"

"Yes.
"

"The French girl, Monique Dupres, was she truly murdered?
"

"Yes.
"

"And was she a spy?
"

"Not to my knowledge.
"

"
I see.
"

He came to within a pace of her and for the first time noted the filthy blanket that covered her shoulders. Without thinking, he snatched it from her. "My God, Annabelle. This rag isn
'
t fit for a beggar!
"

He could not be certain, but he thought she flinched from his touch
before she rose to her feet. "I
was cold,
"
she answered again in that low, dispassionate voice which cut him to the quick.

A tray lay on the floor beside the bed. On it, evidently untouched, was a hunk of coarse bread and a bowl of stew.

Frowning, he asked, "Have you eaten?
"

"Yes, thank you,
"
she answered, as polite as he.

They were like two strangers who had nothing to say to each other. She was free to go, but he could not bring himself to say the words that would take her out of his life forever.

"Annabelle, I want you to know that I bitterly regret what happened this morning.
"

He was aware of her hands fisting at her sides. "Thank you,
"
she said, and moved restlessly away from him. "I accept your apology.
"

Her words slew him. He knew her so well. She would not, could not, sever a relationship with bad feeling. She too carried the seed of her parent. Absurdly, he regretted that he would never have the chance now to meet her father.

Her back was to him. For one unguarded moment, he allowed his eyes to blaze with all the pent-up longing, all the passion, all the love (he was past denying it) that only she had ever brought to life within him. When she turned to face him, his expression was hooded.

"We had a good race,
"
he said with a smile that didn
'
t quite reach his eyes.

"Yes, didn
'
t we?
"
She gazed steadfastly at her clasped hands.

"And I take back what I said. You
'
re a good loser.
"

The break in his voice betrayed him. Her eyes flew to his, but his smile never wavered.

"Thank you,
"
she murmured. "But I don
'
t believe that there can be a winner in the course that was set for us.
"

He inclined his head gravely in
acknowledgment
of the hit. Everything had been said. And it was sheer torture to keep her with him a moment longer.

"You
'
re free to go, Annabelle. My carriage is waiting. There are a few loose ends I have to tie up here, so I hope you
'
ll excuse me if I don
'
t escort you to your front door?
"

"I didn
'
t expect it,
"
she said, and pushed past him as he held the door for her.

"Wait!
"
He removed his greatcoat. "You
'
ll freeze without this.
"
He saw the indecision reflected in her eyes, and knew that she wished to avoid any excuse that might lead to another
meeting between them. Very gently, he said, "You may leave it in the coach once you reach home, if you wish.
"

"Thank you,
"
she said, and remained motionless as he draped the greatcoat over her shoulders.

For one brief moment he allowed his hands to skim over her arms and back in a pretense of adjusting the voluminous folds of the garment. "That should do it,
"
he said, and dropped his hands to his sides.

She turned her head up. As if she were asking the time of day, she said, "Lord Dalmar, will you send the retraction to the papers, or shall I?
"

A muscle tensed in his cheek, but he answered easily, "I
'
ll take care of it. Don
'
t give it another thought.
"

He watched as she slowly wended her way to the exit. She did not look back, nor did he expect her to. It wasn
'
t Annabelle
'
s style to weep over spilt milk. He fully expected that in the next few weeks she would throw all her energies behind some new and interesting project. As for himself, he shrugged, he
'
d get by, one way or another. Without warning, the Earl of Dalmar lashed out at the great wooden door with his tightly clenched fist, and for the space of a few seconds an unnatural silence descended on Bow Street.

When she arrived home, Annabelle had very little to say for herself. As was to be expected, Henrietta and Bertie were frantic with worry and fairly hurled questions at her. In as few words as possible she told them that she had come under suspicion for the murder of a French girl in Paris, that she
'
d been cleared of the charges and that, as of that moment, she was no longer engaged to the Earl. Her cool, polite smile and transparently brittle composure surprised the ladies into silence.

In the morning room, Annabelle found the day
'
s post. She absently leafed through it. Only one letter excited any interest. She saw that it had come from Paris. Opening it carefully, she smoothed out the single sheet it comprised. As was her habit, she glanced first at the date and then at the signature at the bottom of the page. Monique Dupres
'
s name leaped out at her.

She thought she screamed, but no one burst in to investigate what had provoked the shocked cry. After a few moments, she
had herself sufficiently in hand to read the letter calmly, though her hands were shaking. Again and again her eyes scanned the page, beginning with the date and ending with the girl
'
s signature.

When she finally laid it aside, she stared blindly into space. According to Dalmar, the girl was dead. Yet in her hand was evidence which refuted his claim. If there was some reasonable explanation for the discrepancy, Annabelle was resolved that the Earl was the last person she would approach for enlightenment. She mused on the problem for some few minutes and reached a decision.

There was only one course open to her if she wished to pursue the matter. She would have to make the journey to Paris. All things considered, the plan had merit. She had to do something to distract her thoughts from Dalmar. Yes, she thought, a trip to Paris might just be the ticket, given her circumstances.

And she did not know why, in a day of unparalleled, unremitting misery, she should choose that moment to start bawling her head off just when she had decided, unequivocally, that she was going to have a grand time.

Chapter Nineteen

D
almar made no secret of the fact that he had come into possession of Monique Dupres
'
s diaries. He also gave out that he had taken it upon himself to destroy them. In fact, without divulging any of the background, and careful not to mention Annabelle by name, he made a joke of it. His object was merely precautionary. Though he did not think that Annabelle stood in any danger, he wished it to be generally known that the diaries were no longer a threat to anyone.

At White
'
s, at Brooks, and at most of the gentlemen
'
s clubs, it became almost the only topic of conversation for a full sennight. And blueblooded gentlemen who had been in blissful ignorance of their jeopardy suddenly became aware of the catastrophe that had damn near overtaken them. Not unnaturally, the Earl became something of a celebrity.

It was Lord Temple who brought the report to Annabelle
'
s ears. He tracked her down at Bailey
'
s.

Her mild, almost indifferent comment, "It was to be expected,
"
baffled the Viscount.

"I had thought Dalmar was a cut above that sort of thing,
"
he observed.

"Did you? No. To such a man winning is everything. It was not to be supposed that he would keep quiet about his success.
"
And as though she
'
d lost interest in the conversation, she gave her attention to the columns of figures on the page she held in one hand.

Temple eyed her consideringly for some few minutes. At
length he observed, "I know the diaries were stolen some few weeks ago. So what exactly did Dalmar get hold of?
"

"Very little,
"
she answered. "I had not the time to recopy as much as half the manuscript.
"

"Recopy?
"

"From memory.
"

"Ah, I thought perhaps you were hoaxing me.
"

Her eyes, so unrevealing of late, lifted to meet his. "Why should you think so?
"

"So! You plan on giving Dalmar his just desserts?
"
He smiled as if appreciating the joke. "I take it he knows nothing of this gift you
'
ve been hiding under a bushel?
"

"I did not take him into my confidence, no. But you are mistaken, Gerry, to think I care one way or the other about revenging myself on the Earl.
"

"What? You have no plans to publish the girl
'
s memoirs?
"

"Not in the immediate future, no. But if and when I do, you may be sure it will be a ma
tter of principle. Personal feel
ngs no longer enter into it.
"

"Tell that to Dalmar!
"

This last brought a ghost of a smile to Annabelle
'
s lips, but it was evident that there was little to amuse her in the subject of the Earl.

When Lord Temple finally excused himself and left her to her labors, she found her powers of concentration quite dissipated. Sighing in annoyance, she tossed to her desk the column of figures she had been perusing when Lord Temple had walked in.

Albert could not return to Bailey
'
s too soon for her comfort, she thought. Perhaps then they could begin to make a start on the press of business which had accumulated in his absence and through her neglect. Then again, she asked herself, was it fair to leave Albert with so much in the way of responsibility, not to mention chores, while she went gallivanting on the continent?

Patently unfair, she admitted, but very necessary for all that. Until her curiosity about Monique Dupres was satisfied, there could be no peace of mind for her. In spite of what Dalmar said about the girl
'
s death, she remained unconvinced.

Not only did she have the girl
'
s letter to disprove his assertion, but she had also belatedly remembered that the bank draft in the sum of two thousand pounds, which she had paid for the diaries, had long since cleared her bank. She did not know what game Dalmar was playing. She only knew that she did not trust him, at least with respect to anything which touched on the diaries.

No. It went deeper than that. She could never forget the Earl as he had been in that very room when he had ordered her bound hand and foot and gagged. That man was a stranger to her. To say that she did not trust him was an absurd understatement. He terrified her! That murderous expression! Those remorseless eyes! That brutal touch! She did not doubt that, given enough provocation, the man could do murder.

Hard on that thought came the awful spectacle of herself as she had been when she had dared him to do his worst. Her hand tightened involuntarily on the pencil she was holding. It snapped. A sob tore from her throat, and she hurled the pieces to the floor. That girl, too, was a stranger to her, and one she did not care to know.

Let it go,
she told herself.
The engagement is over. The retraction has appeared in the papers. You are well out of it. Just let it go!

For the next two hours she forced herself to take up the reins of her business. She answered correspondence, scheduled book releases, and consulted with the managers of the several departments that made up Bailey
'
s. No one watching her would have guessed how much willpower she expended to appear with her usual air of competence. Inside Annabelle was shaking. A week had passed since that dreadful, never-to-be-forgotten scene in her office with Dalmar and the constables. Though she had returned to her desk the very day after, and had brazened through a morning at Bailey
'
s of which she could recollect not one jot, she still half expected snide remarks and furtive, speculative glances from her employees. Annabelle worried herself unduly. Her place in her subordinates
'
esteem was secure. It was the Earl who earned their dislike.

Her intimates held to a more moderate position. Having no real notion of what had occasioned the rift between Dalmar
and Annabelle, they remained on friendly terms with them both. There had been some hope at the beginning that two people who were obviously made for each other would soon come to their senses and effect a reconciliation. That hope was dashed by the subsequent conduct of the two unhappy lovers, for Annabelle proposed a jaunt to Paris under the escort of her most devoted and constant companion, Lord Temple, and Dalmar embarked on a life of unmitigated dissipation.

"What the hell
'
s got into him?
"
asked Ransome of John Falconer as they stripped the groggy Earl of his garments. "This is the seventh consecutive night.
"

Dalmar, spread-eagled on his tester bed in Cavendish Square, grinned lopsidedly up at the ceiling and immediately launched into the refrain of a ribald drinking song.

Falconer averted his nose. "It
'
s not what
'
s got into him that worries me, but who and what the hell he
'
s been getting into. He smells like a brothel!
"

"What would you know about brothels?
"
asked Ransome, grinning broadly. He had to fight the Earl to get his boots off.

"I
'
m not married,
"
said Falconer. "And if Annabelle ever gets wind of what
'
s going on, my brother, drunken sot, can wave good-bye to his chances in that quarter.
"

"I think he already has,
"
said Ransome, suddenly grave.

"Yes,
"
said Falconer. When he reached for Dalmar
'
s shirt, his hands were none too gentle.

It could not be expected, in that small, exclusive society of which she was a member, that Annabelle would long remain in ignorance of Dalmar
'
s mode of living. Nor did she.

Her first inkling came when she stepped out of a milliner
'
s shop in Bond Street and literally bumped into him. The hatbox went rolling. At her back, Bertie sucked in her breath.

Dalmar
'
s strong hands cupped Annabelle
'
s shoulders, steadying her. Their eyes locked. She had to fight the impulse to sway into him, and pulled back slightly.

"Dal?
"

The contact was broken. Dalmar went to retrieve the hatbox, and Annabelle
'
s eyes strayed to the auburn-haired lady who had so familiarly addressed the Earl. She looked to be no more than a girl of twenty or so, and the daring cut and color of
her garments betrayed her profession. In that moment Annabelle felt as if she had swallowed a jagged shard of glass. Speech was beyond her.

She took the hatbox from his hand without a word of thanks. He tipped his hat, gave her one speaking look which she could not interpret, and moved off to offer his arm to the lady, who was impatiently tapping her foot.

When Annabelle next saw the Earl, they were at the opera, and it gave her no more pleasure to note that he had fixed his interest on a different lady. He was in the most notorious box of the theater. It belonged to Harriette Wilson, the queen of London
'
s demireps and, if female tattle was to be believed, the most fastidious in her choice of consort.

Annabelle regretted then that she had allowed her friends to persuade her to accompany them to the King
'
s t
heater. But it seemed that they had come to an understanding among themselves, namely, as far as she could judge, that under no circumstances was she to be left to her own devices. Thus Henrietta, Bertie, Lady Diana, and it went without saying, her coterie of young friends, scarcely let her out of their sight, unless it was when she entered Bailey
'
s forbidding portals. They seemed determined not to give her time to think. She thought it sweet of them, but quite misguided.

She was sure that with one thing and another there were a hundred things more pressing which begged her attention than a
night at the opera. In her mind
'
s eye, oblivious of the musical drama which unfolded on the stage, she began to tick them off, one by one.

At the interval, a delicate white hand settled on her wrist. She looked up to meet the anxious eyes of Lady Diana. "Don
'
t refine too much upon it,
"
said the girl. "Gentlemen will be gentlemen, you know. I
'
m sure he
'
s only trying to make you jealous.
"
Under her breath, she added, "Poor boy!
"
Annabelle heard her and smiled.

She was more than a little ashamed of the uncharitable thoughts she had formerly entertained with respect to the girl. She had discovered that there was in her nature such a sweetness of disposition, such a depth of unaffected solicitude, that one could forgive not only the small understanding, but
the youthfulness and beauty besides. An impulsive creature, not prone to swings of temperament, Lady Diana was the perfect antidote for anyone who wanted to wallow in self-pity. She saw the best in everyone. It was no wonder, thought Annabelle, that the girl was uncommonly popular.

She followed the path of Lady Diana
'
s eyes. Harriette Wilson
'
s box fairly teemed with gentlemen who had come to pay their respects. Annabelle was not sorry that Lord Dalmar was having plenty of competition for the fair Cyrene
'
s favors.

For Annabelle
'
s ears only, Lord Temple intoned, "Now if only
that
little filly could be persuaded to set down her memoirs! I
'
ll wager
she
could tell some tales out of school.
"

Annabelle
'
s eyes widened a fraction. "Now
there
'
s
a thought,
"
she mused, and directed her gaze, now turned speculative, upon the dazzling beauty. Even from that distance, the hue of the lady
'
s locks was unmistakable. Auburn, thought Annabelle, and turned up her nose.

Her next encounter with the Earl left her thoroughly shaken. He turned up, as drunk as a lord, during one of her literary
soirees in Greek Street. Her bê
te noir, the poet, was honoring her guests with a reading from his latest opus, dull-as-dishwater stuff, in Annabelle
'
s opinion. She was just wishing that she could inject a little more excitement into what was a not very memorable evening, when some unholy, mischievous demon took it upon himself to grant her heart
'
s desire. In staggered the Earl, each arm fastened securely (for support more than anything else, thought Annabelle uncharitably), around the bonny, buxom figure of what could only be described, loosely and politely, as a Drury Lane vestal. Both girls had red hair.