When She Was Wicked (4 page)

“The world is very black and white to you, isn’t it? Right and wrong. Truth and lies. Master and servant. But it’s really much more complicated than that.” Olivia turned to Rose and extended a hand. “Come. It’s late, and I don’t want to have puffy eyes at Lady Hopewell’s ball tomorrow evening.” She smiled wistfully at Owen. “Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

Rose stood and gave him a brief, fervent hug before following Olivia out of the room, leaving him alone.

Damn. The gossip obviously held a kernel of truth, and yet, he had no more information than before. Olivia had appeared so dumbfounded by the accusation that he doubted she was guilty. But what was that nonsense she’d spouted about black and white? It was times like these that he
almost
wished he had a wife—someone who could help him understand his sisters and love them as fiercely as he did.

Exhausted, he sank onto the sofa and withdrew the extortion note from his pocket. He tried his best to analyze it objectively.

Forty pounds was a paltry sum for a man of his wealth. Why hadn’t the degenerate demanded more? How had he heard the gossip concerning Olivia, and was he bluffing about going to
The Tattler
?

No answers would be forthcoming tonight. Tomorrow, however, was another matter.

Owen trudged back to his study and picked up his pen from the center of his ledger. Just before dawn, he found the culprit: a nine that resembled a bloody zero.

He corrected the error and, two minutes later, was slumped over his desk, snoring blissfully.

The time between delivering the note and retrieving the coins was always the most excruciating.

Anabelle had fretted all day Friday. She’d demanded money from four wealthy aristocrats before the duke, but he was altogether different. More austere, menacing… and sinfully attractive. Sleep had eluded her that night; no matter—it was a comfort she didn’t deserve. She needed to leave the townhouse two hours early that Saturday morning so she could walk through the park, pick up the coins before the sun rose, and get to the dress shop on time.

Now that it was time to go, she was relieved to have something to do. Action was infinitely preferable to waiting.

Although the weather was mild, Anabelle draped a dark shawl over her head and shoulders. A few industrious souls populated the sidewalks of Oxford Street, but they were too concerned with their own errands to notice her. Shops and businesses were still closed up tightly; only the bakery showed signs of life. She passed Bond Street, where she normally turned to go to the dress shop, and her skin prickled. No longer could she delude herself into thinking she was simply on her way to work and not about to commit a heinous crime.

As she approached the pebbled footpath that wound through the north side of Hyde Park, her pulse skittered. The bridge she’d chosen as the drop-off location was on the opposite side of the river from Rotten Row, so she didn’t have to contend with raucous gentlemen out for a drunken ride. This end of the park was almost deserted.

A haggard woman with a cane hobbled toward her on
the path. Anabelle’s heart pounded so hard she was certain the woman would be able to hear it, but she merely passed with a smile and a nod.

She had just managed to catch her breath when the bridge came into view. She paused to scan the entire area. The reeds along the banks of the river were too sparse to hide anyone, and the trees were spaced too far apart for anyone to be lurking there. The dim light of the pre-dawn hour made it impossible to be certain that she was alone, but at least it extended some protection to her as well. She attuned her ears to the sounds of the park: the rustling of squirrels, the caw of birds, the gentle lapping of the river, but otherwise, silence.

Her mouth dry as the pebbles beneath her feet, she followed the path up the slight incline to the bridge. After one last sweeping glance behind her, she stepped across the grass that sloped down to the riverbank. Staying close to the stones that formed the base of the bridge, she reached blindly into the damp air underneath. She wanted nothing more than to feel the weight of the coins, slip them in her bag, and flee to the safety—and the blessed drudgery—of the dress shop.

At last, she located the flat rock, its surface cool and rough to the touch. Farther underneath the bridge she stretched, until she brushed against something lumpy and heavy. She grabbed at it and heard the beautiful, unmistakable clinking of gold against gold.

Thank God.

She crouched and opened her satchel so that she could slide the coin-filled handkerchief directly into it. But as she reached for the bundle again, a hand closed around her arm.

Anabelle cried out in surprise and tried to yank away, but her captor squeezed her wrist so tightly that her skin burned.

She couldn’t budge.

Despair, cold and raw, seeped into her bones. How could she have let this happen? She’d failed Mama and Daphne. She’d probably hang, or perhaps be deported to America.

Her life was over.

The man yanked her closer, so forcefully that her spectacles toppled off her nose.

She was face to face with him under the bridge. In that instant, even in the shadows, she knew.

She’d been caught, red-handed, by the Duke of Huntford.

S
top squirming.” Owen pressed the girl’s wrists together and grasped them with one hand. With the other he shoved the bag of coins into his pocket. He stood bent over at the waist in deference to the mossy stones a few inches above his head. “Step back, out from under the bridge. I feel like a damned troll.”

The girl ignored his command and crouched, shaking like a frightened rabbit.

Which made him think maybe he
was
a troll. Or an ogre of some sort.

Owen heaved a sigh. “I wasn’t expecting a girl.”

She sniffled. “Sorry to disappoint.” Her voice was more mature than he’d anticipated.

“It
is
disappointing, you know. I spent all night cramped under here so I could give the man who threatened my sister a solid blow to the nose.”

She cowered, and he felt another stab of guilt. Ridiculous.
She’d
attempted to extort money from
him
.

“Who
are
you?” he asked.

Instead of answering, she leaned back, planted a foot on one of his thighs, and used all her weight to try and pull her wrists free. She struggled, kicked, thrashed.

An impressive show of resistance for someone her size, but Owen had no difficulty holding on to her. He let her wriggle ’til she’d spent all her energy and was gasping for breath.

Before long, she fell to the ground in a heap, choking on a sob.

Perfect. Exasperated, he scooped her up in his arms, took a step and—

Crunch.

He froze mid-stride.

“Oh, no. My spectacles.”

Cursing, he let her feet swing to the ground, but kept a tight hold on her waist. Then, he leaned over and groped around in the brush ’til he felt the mangled wire rims. “I’ve got them.” What was left of them, anyway. He stuffed them in his pocket.

Finally, he managed to pull her out from under the bridge. They staggered onto the grassy riverbank, slick with dew. The sky had lightened from dark gray to silver, and the trees on the horizon were silhouetted by the rising sun. With the exception of a few ducks that waddled on the other side of the river, he and the woman were alone.

And Owen had absolutely no idea what to do with her.

Who was she, and how did she know about his sister’s activities? Her plain, dark-colored dress and floppy white
cap suggested she was a servant. A thought occurred to him. “Are you working with someone else?”

“No!” she cried. It was the first time she’d looked directly at him, and fear flashed in her eyes.

“I see. So this… scheme was entirely your own?”

“Yes.” She raised her chin, and the proud gesture looked oddly familiar. He’d seen her somewhere before—he was sure of it.

“And how long is your list of victims?”

“Pardon?”

“I assume you’ve done this before.”

She flushed. “Never.” Right.

“My butler said a lad delivered the demand note.” He let his gaze drift over her as though he were making a frank assessment of her build—which he was. She seemed to be of average height, but she was thin. Too thin. “I assume that was you?”

She swallowed before answering. “It was.”

Interesting. With his free hand, he rubbed his lower back, which ached like the devil. “If I released you, would you promise not to run away?”

She nodded.

“I’ll need to
hear
your promise.”

“You have my word,” she ground out.

“Excellent.” He let go of her wrists. She took a step back but did not bolt. Which was fortunate, as it spared him a morning run through Hyde Park. “Your extortion scheme was
completely
fool-brained. But your letter suggests that you possess at least a modicum of intelligence. That being the case, I’m sure you realize that you’ve left me no choice. I must turn you over to the authorities and make them aware of your illegal activities.”

She flinched as though she’d been hit. “But Your Grace,” she pleaded, “you
do
have a choice. You could show me mercy—let me go. If you did, I’d swear never to bother you or your family again.”

He refrained from snorting. Barely. “Maybe not. But you’d prey upon another hapless victim.” She opened her mouth to deny it, but he cut her off. “I can’t allow that to happen. You’ve committed a crime, Miss…?” The stubborn chit didn’t supply her name. “There are consequences.”

“True,” she said softly. “There are also consequences of inaction.”

What, in God’s name, was that supposed to mean? Perhaps she wasn’t altogether sane. The sooner he rid himself of her, the better. But he was curious about a few things. “Before I take you to Bow Street, I’ll need some answers.”

She swayed on her feet.

Christ. “When was the last time you had something to eat?”

She fisted her hands, and there it was again—the flash of pride. “I don’t see where that’s any of your concern.”

He couldn’t have her swooning on him. “There’s a bench beneath the trees on the other side of the bridge. We’ll finish our conversation there.”

“Conversation or interrogation?”

“Call it what you will. Come.” He took her elbow, keeping a firm hold as they walked across the footbridge toward a grove of trees. She sat on the bench and gripped the edge of the seat. The light was better here, and he was now certain that he knew this woman. Thick lashes veiled her wary, gray eyes. Her hair was of an indeterminate color—light brown, he’d guess—but it was pulled back
tightly, revealing a smooth forehead and hollowed cheeks. The way she pressed her lips together suggested that the answers he sought would not tumble forth. But he had to try.

“Who are you? How did you know about Olivia?”

She stared at the ducks that had waded into the river for a morning swim but said nothing.

“I am very protective of my sisters,” he said.

She glanced at him and nodded. He detected something akin to approval.

“Naturally,” he said, “I’d like to ensure that the rumor you threatened to reveal is squashed. You could undo some of the damage you’ve caused if you were forthcoming now.”

A frown marred her face, and he could tell her mind was scrambling, probably concocting an elaborate lie.

Finally, she spoke. “If I tell you who I am and how I learned the news about your sister, will you let me return to my family?”

“Do you have a husband? Children?” The possibility hadn’t occurred to him.

She arched a brow. “Do we have a deal?”

“No.” He raked a hand through his hair. “It would be irresponsible of me to let you go.”

“And I suppose you’ve never done anything irresponsible,” she said glumly.

If she only knew. “Not lately.”

“You know,” she said, “sometimes there’s good cause for bending the rules.”

She didn’t speak like a servant. And she was much too philosophical for this godforsaken hour of the morning. “Nonsense. That’s a lie people tell themselves to ease
their guilt. I suppose you’re going to say you had a good reason for extorting money from me.”

“My mother’s very ill.”

He shifted on the bench. As reasons went, it was good. Of course, he had no way of knowing if it was true. “I’m sorry.”

“The forty pounds would have paid for the doctor’s visits, her medicine, and our rent. At least for a few months.”

The bundle of coins weighed heavily in his pocket. To him, forty pounds was just a new jacket and a pair of boots. But it was the principle of the thing. She’d threatened to ruin his sister. “Why was it left to you to raise the money? Do you have a father or siblings?”

“My father is dead.” Her voice cracked on the final word. “My sister and I take care of our mother.”

“Surely you had other options. Besides extortion.”

She snorted. “I could have tucked up my skirts and hung about Covent Garden.”

“I meant you could have sought gainful employment.”

“I
have
a respectable job. At least, I did until today. But my salary didn’t begin to cover the cost of Mama’s care.”

Owen wasn’t sure why he believed this woman when she had every reason to lie. All he knew was that the whole exchange had left him feeling depressed. And confused.

“I assume you possess a skill for something other than writing demand notes.”

“Yes,” she said.

“But if I were to release you”—she looked up at him, gray eyes full of hope—“you’d still be in dire need of money. You might turn to extortion again.”

“I would do whatever I needed to do to take care of my family,” she said unapologetically.

And there it was—the familiar, haughty look. A ray of sunshine, pure as the morning, penetrated the canopy of trees and illuminated her face. And in that moment, he was almost certain of her identity. Upon meeting her, the proud tilt of her chin had struck him as completely incongruous with her drab clothes and ill-fitting spectacles. Given her demeanor and appearance, the seamstress’s name had, at first, seemed ironic. Upon further inspection, however, he’d noticed that beneath the godawful cap she wore, there were golden streaks in her hair. They started at her temples and traveled obediently to the bun at the back of her head. And then he’d thought her name suited her after all.