When She Was Wicked (6 page)

Anabelle shrugged. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m certain I can manage.”

“No, no. An attic room won’t do. I’m going to put you in the spare chamber next to the young ladies’ rooms. It connects to the nursery, which will make an excellent workroom for you.”

“I don’t know…” It didn’t seem right for her to stay in a guest chamber when she was half-indentured servant, half-prisoner. However, Mrs. Pottsbury was correct—Anabelle
would
need ample space for designing and creating.

“The duke left it up to me, and I think the guest chamber is the perfect solution.” The housekeeper stood and pushed in her chair. “Come. I’ll show you to your room.”

Mrs. Pottsbury ushered Anabelle from the tiny office and led her down the carpeted hallway, detouring to point out the well-equipped kitchen and spacious dining room. But the opulent drawing room on the first floor took her breath away. The ceiling was comprised of hexagons that fit together like a honeycomb, and at the center a painted frieze depicted plump seraphim frolicking among the clouds. Three recessed windows framed with elegant carved paneling stretched from floor to ceiling. Several large mirrors placed at regular intervals around the room made it seem even more enormous than it was. The top half of the walls was covered in a light green brocade that tied everything in the room together: the ceiling mural, the plush carpet, and the graceful furniture.

That particular shade of green—sea foam—made Anabelle’s heart beat faster. She’d often dreamed of making
herself a dress of light green silk. Maybe one day, after she’d served her sentence, and Mama had recovered, and Daphne had married an upstanding gentleman—then Anabelle would sew herself a pale green gown. She sighed softly. The odds of this particular dream coming true were about as great as her chances of ascending to the throne.

But dreams were free.

On the first floor the housekeeper also proudly pointed out the duke’s study, which was, of course, strictly off limits.

“And now for the second floor.” Mrs. Pottsbury held a finger to her lips as she tiptoed up the stairs. “Lady Olivia and Lady Rose are still abed, which is as it should be. Such fine girls,” she said. “They’ve been through so much.”

Anabelle longed to ask what had happened to the young women and whether it had anything to do with their overbearing brother but didn’t want to risk waking anyone.

The housekeeper paused at the top of the stairs to catch her breath and pointed down the hall. “To the right is the master’s suite,” she whispered with the appropriate amount of respect. “These two rooms”—she indicated the closed doors located side-by-side in front of them—“are Lady Olivia’s and Lady Rose’s bedchambers. Yours is to the left. Come.”

Mrs. Pottsbury entered, waved Anabelle in, and closed the door behind them.

Anabelle caught her breath. The entire chamber was decorated in… pale green. It reminded her of the lichen that had grown on the trees in the woods surrounding her family’s cottage and the new leaves that sprouted each spring. Though the room was small, the furnishings were
sumptuous. The silk bedding, velvet curtains, and thick Aubusson rug were fit for a palace.

“It’s terribly dusty,” the housekeeper said apologetically. “I didn’t have the chance to air it out.”

Understandable, since she couldn’t have predicted that the duke, after being out all night, would return home with a seamstress.

“It’s beautiful.” Much too grand, in fact. After spending each night of the last two years either in a chair or on a settee, such luxury seemed positively decadent.

“I’ll have a maid bring up some water. You’ll find paper, pen, and ink in the desk drawer. I know you want to send a message to your family, so make use of whatever you need.”

“Thank you.”

“Now. Your workspace is through here.” Mrs. Pottsbury walked toward a door across from the bed and reached for a key on her belt. She fiddled with the lock until it clicked, and the door to the one-time nursery swung open. “This room’s been closed up since… well, for a long time.”

The large room had a picture window, and once Mrs. Pottsbury opened the drapes, Anabelle could see it overlooked a colorful garden in the back of the townhouse. A few bulky pieces of furniture were hidden by sheets, and everything in the room was covered with a thin layer of dust. Tiny motes floated in the air, illuminated by the morning light streaming through the cloudy windowpanes.

It was perfect.

The housekeeper nodded as though she concurred with Anabelle’s thought. “I’ll send up a couple of maids to dust and remove the drop cloths. Thomas and Roger—they’re
the footmen—will bring up some tables and additional lanterns.” She let her gaze sweep across the room. “Is there anything else? Any questions?”

Oh, Anabelle had questions, like, when would she meet with the sisters, and did they know she’d used a secret about Olivia to try to extort money from their brother? And why had the duke taken pity on her? But she said, “No. Thank you.”

“I hate to mention it, but the duke did seem rather adamant about your cap.” Mrs. Pottsbury fiddled with her keys. “I have several that are quite smart and… less worn. You may pick one to use until the rest of your things come.”

“Thank you, but I’ll make do with what I have.”

Mrs. Pottsbury deflated. “He won’t be pleased. I’ve no idea why it vexes him so.”

“Nor do I.” But she was not going to let him tell her what she could and could not wear. She had precious little freedom as it was.

The housekeeper gave her a suit-yourself smile, turned to go, and then spun around like a top. “Would you like me to send your glasses out to be repaired?”

Although Anabelle would have loved nothing more, she could not afford it. She had no wish to be further indebted to the duke. “No, thank you. I have a spare pair at home,” she lied.

“Oh. Very well, then.” The kindly woman patted Anabelle on the shoulder. “Get some rest, and I’ll see you at lunchtime. I suspect you’ll have your first meeting with the young ladies this afternoon.”

Anabelle waited until Mrs. Pottsbury left the nursery—er, workroom—and then walked back into her room through the adjoining door. She shed her dreary
black shawl and placed it on the bed. The shawl’s coarse, rough texture was distinctly incongruous with all the lovely luxury in the room. It was the only thing that didn’t belong—besides her.

She walked around the four-poster and sat at the small desk below the window. Locating the paper, pen, and ink was easy. Deciding how much to tell Mama and Daphne was much more difficult.

Relieved to have the letter written and frustrated that there was nothing more she could do at the moment, she removed her spectacles, tugged off her cap, pulled the pins from her hair, and rubbed her aching scalp. After slipping off her shoes, she climbed onto the bed and sank into the mattress. Although she’d been awake for two days straight, she was far too anxious to sleep. She would try to rest, though. She curled up on her side and let the silky pillowcase cradle her cheek.

Although her living arrangements were more than comfortable, she would not let down her guard. Members of the aristocracy were not to be trusted. Her own titled grandparents were the perfect example. They’d disowned their son—just because he’d married a commoner.

Wealth and privilege corrupted a person, and the Duke of Huntford had plenty of both. He also had the sort of green eyes that dazzled unsuspecting women.

Which was neither here nor there.

She was thinking of those heavy-lidded, soulful eyes, when, despite her best intentions, she drifted off to sleep.

A
fter returning from Hyde Park that morning, Owen spent a few hours holed up in his study. He sent a message to Mrs. Smallwood, letting the proprietor of the dress shop know that her prized employee was on special assignment for a few months. She replied that she’d be happy to lend Miss Honeycote’s services and that the dress shop would supply all the fabric and trimmings.

It occurred to him that Miss Honeycote’s punishment was turning out to be a rather expensive prospect.

At breakfast he’d informed his sisters of the morning’s developments. He left out the bit about the bridge and the extortion.

They’d seemed delighted when he told them that Miss Honeycote would be making each of them several new gowns, and even more delighted when he mentioned that she’d be staying with them. As if it was a damned social visit.

A fly buzzing around Owen’s head distracted him from the papers that his steward had sent from Huntford Manor. He glanced at the clock on the mantel and realized that although it was almost two in the afternoon, he still hadn’t shaved or eaten lunch. Deciding he needed an excuse to stretch his legs, he walked upstairs to his bedchamber and, since his valet was not hovering about, saw to the task of lathering his face himself.

The cool blade scratched over his beard, and when the task was completed, he felt a tad more civilized. Now, if he could only locate a decent sandwich, he’d be a happy man. He strode down the corridor and turned toward the stairs, then stopped. Something at the other end of the hall looked odd. Different.

The door to the nursery. It was ajar.

He walked over and pushed it open. No one was there, but someone
had
been. The sheets covering the furniture were gone, and the shelves had been dusted and cleared. Four small desks were pushed together to make a table, and two other large tables had been placed against the wall opposite the windows. The center of the rug was worn thin from all the battles he’d reenacted with his wooden figures as a boy. But now, there was a full-length mirror propped against a chair. And baskets on the floor. Upon closer inspection, he could see that they held pins, scissors, buttons, and other things he would not venture to name.

Remnants of his boyhood remained. A globe in the corner. Slates on a shelf. A volume of Homer’s works, in Latin—the mere sight of which made him shudder. But it was clear that, at least for now, his old nursery would be used as a sewing room.

It was a good plan. No sense in keeping rooms closed off just because of an unpleasant memory or two when—

Interesting. The inside door that led to an adjoining guest room was open. He crossed the nursery and entered the bedchamber. Everything looked normal.

Except.

There, in the middle of the four-poster bed, a woman slept. He knew he should leave at once, before she awoke or someone saw him here. But he froze.

Her long hair flowed over the pillow in shiny, chestnut waves. Her smooth cheek was tinged with pink. As though she’d been dreaming of something wicked. Her slightly parted lips were the color of a lush peach and curled in the hint of a smile.

He moved toward the bed, pausing and holding his breath when she shifted in her sleep. When he reached her side, he realized the identity of the sleeping beauty.

Beautiful was not a word he would ever have imagined he’d apply to Miss Honeycote. Proud, devious, stubborn, and prickly—
those
words described her. But the evidence lay before him. Her features were almost perfect, save for the concave slope of her nose—the reason her spectacles never stayed put. Her body was lithe, and though he could not see her legs, he imagined they would be long.

The kind he liked to wrap around his waist. Or better yet, caress. Starting at an ankle, lingering behind a knee, grazing the skin on the inside of a thigh, and teasing the soft, swollen—

She bolted upright. “Your Grace?” It was a question and a scolding at the same time. She grabbed the pillow to her torso, as though attempting to cover her nakedness when, in fact, she was fully clothed.

A shame, that. “Good morning, Miss Honeycote.”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she peered at the window. “I slept through the night?”

“No. I jest.”

She scowled.

“I was in the nursery, saw the door open, and wandered in here. I thought Mrs. Pottsbury planned to set you up in the attic.”

Blushing deeply, she said, “She insisted this room would be fine. But I would be happy in an attic room. Would prefer it, actually—”

“No. This is fine.”

“Well, then,” she said, still clutching the pillow to her chest, “perhaps you could give me some privacy?”

It would have been the gentlemanly, decent thing to do. “We still have a few matters to discuss.”

“Now?”

“I assumed you’d be eager to send word—and the necessary funds—to your mother and sister.” He was a true cad.

“I am,” she said quickly. “I’ve written a letter explaining my new circumstances.” Eying him warily, she eased herself off the bed and maneuvered around him toward the desk. The pillow was her shield, positioned between them at all times. She handed him the letter. “Here.”