Anita Mills (15 page)

“My thanks, Captain. Annie, the library.”

“I shall be waiting directly outside,” Collins reminded him.

“Of course.”

Dominick held the door for her, and as Anne stepped past him, he said appreciatively, “ ’Twas an extraordinary performance, my dear.”

She half-expected him to somehow make a run for it, to perhaps escape through the window, and she was prepared to speak loudly until he was gone. But after he closed the door, he moved to face her soberly.

“I’ve not much time, Annie.”

She nodded.

“First, I’d apologize for my abominable behavior last night.”

“You were foxed, sir.”

“ ’Tis no excuse for rebuffing an offer freely given.”

“Sometimes I should learn to hold my tongue.
I am
a managing female,” she admitted. “And I should not have tried to talk to you then.”

His mouth curved into the faint smile. “Never give coffee to a man in his cups, my dear. It merely irritates him.” Abruptly the smile faded, and his expression sobered once more. “I was wrong—there are more than two kinds of females,” he said softly. “You are an exception, you know, for you are possessed of a kind and generous heart.”

“Stuff, sir.” Then, realizing how ungrateful that must sound, she added, “I am quite ordinary, really.”

“That, my dear, is the first lie you have told me.” Despite his solemn mien, his blue eyes were warm, disconcerting her. “Annie, I am asking you to stay until I can return.”

She looked away. “What about Mr. Fordyce? Naught’s to say they will not come looking for me also. Mrs. Philbrook will recall I left London with him. Surely someone at the Blue Bull must make the connection, and … well, I’d cause you no more difficulty, sir.”

“I have sent Burton to make a discreet inquiry, and he should be back in a few days. If Fordyce is dead, ’twill not matter.”

“ ’Twill matter to me.”

“Wilkins will give you the key to my box,” he went on matter-of-factly. “You may use the money in it at your discretion.”

“You do not even know me, sir,” she protested.

“I trust you, Annie.” He slid his knuckle under her chin and lifted it. Before she knew what he meant to do, he’d bent his head to hers. His face blurred; then she felt his lips brush hers. “Take care of things for me,” he whispered as he drew back. “Until we are met again.”

He was leaving. “Wait—”

He swung back around. “What?”

“Why did you do it—let them take you, I mean?”

“I am tired of running, Annie. There comes a time when a man ought to get on with his life, you know. And I didn’t commit murder.” Somehow, in that moment, it became important that she believe in him. “Beresford did not elope, Annie—he fired ere the signal was given, and I can assure you he did not fire into the air.”

Afraid for him, she could scarce form the words, but she managed to ask, “What will they do to you, sir?”

“Dominick.”

“What … ?”

“ ‘What will they do to you,
Dominick
?’ ”
he repeated. “I don’t know. There will be a formal inquest, and a great deal depends on how much the witnesses lie.”

“Your second? Surely—”

“My second disappeared.” Once again he started for the door. At the last moment, he stopped. “I shall be forever in your debt, you know. Good-bye, Annie.”

She stood there rooted to the floor, listening as the door closed after him. She heard him tell Captain Collins he was ready, and then they were gone. She watched through the window as the soldiers’ red coats disappeared into the blowing snow. Her hand crept to her lips in memory of the brief, warm feel of his.

Bertie came in, and Meg followed on his heels. “Are you quite all right, Annie?” she asked. “I vow I could have died when I saw the soldiers. I know not how you were able to be so … so
composed
about it.”

“He kissed me,” Anne responded absently.

“Oh, how awful for you! And you did not call for help?”

“Sometimes, Miss Mitford, females want to be kissed,” Bertie reminded her. “If they don’t, they let a man know it.”

“No.” Anne sighed, then collected herself to face him. “Mr. Bascombe—Bertie—I have decided to stay.” Aware that he was looking quite askance at her, she sighed again. “I know. But ’tis not fair to leave Meg to bear the burden of Mrs. Deveraux’s care.”

“What about For … about the other matter, that is?”

“I am to wait until someone named Burton returns from Southampton. After that, I don’t know. I suppose ’twill depend on what he has learned. In any event, perhaps Mrs. Deveraux will be better by then.”

Bertie took a deep breath, then let it out heavily. “Well,” he conceded, “I ain’t actually got any place to be neither. Besides, it don’t seem right to leave two females alone.” He looked to Margaret Mitford almost defensively. “Well, stands to reason, don’t it? You ain’t got a man in the house. Go on—go on back to eat. I’m going to be there in a minute also.”

He waited until she’d left; then he turned again to Anne. “Guess I should’ve asked whether you wanted me here first, huh?”

“Bertie, I was going to ask you.”

“You were?” He brightened. “Well, of course you were—need a man to take care of things.”

“I need a friend.”

“You got at least two of ’em, Annie—me and Deveraux. Come on—you got to eat.”

“No. I am not yet hungry.”

She sat alone, staring unseeing into the small fire long after Bertie left, mulling over those last minutes with Dominick Deveraux, reliving his words and his kiss until she caught herself guiltily. She ought not to refine too much on those things, she told herself sternly, for was he not a rogue? He had probably kissed a hundred women—or done a great deal more than that even with some of them. And it was woolgathering to think he meant anything more than gratitude, for men of his stamp did not look twice at the Anne Morlands of this world. Or if they did, their intentions were seldom honorable.

Annie, I am asking you to stay… You may use the money in it at your discretion…. I trust you….
He’d spoken of himself, of her, of her situation. But once alone, he’d said nothing of his mother. He’d only said, “Take care of things for me.”

Well, she would do it. For now, she would do her best for his mother, but as soon as the roads cleared, she would send to Lord Trent. Perhaps he could exert some influence on the local magistrate ere Dominick was moved to London. And she would ask his aid in discovering a good solicitor for his cousin. Surely, with the family honor at stake, he would help her provide one.

To take her mind from that which she could not help, Anne wholeheartedly devoted her time and effort to Dominick’s mother. For the first two snowbound days she spent nearly all of her waking hours in the sickroom, setting up a schedule whereby she chatted with, read to, and verbally cajoled the seemingly unresponsive woman at intervals. In between, she washed her, combed her hair, and patiently fed her a thin, sustaining gruel, taking care that Mrs. Deveraux did not choke on it. Sometimes she despaired, but then something would happen to encourage her. On this day, for instance the old woman had seemed aware when Anne spoke to her, and more than once she’d been able to exert pressure with her fingers. Regimen was important, Anne insisted to the skeptical Meg and Betty. Sometimes, when she would give Dominick’s mother a rest, she would either catnap herself or sew.

Still determined to save her ruined dress, she had taken it completely apart at all the seams, sponged it, and was now using the quiet time with the old woman to work on it. It was, Meg insisted, an utterly hopeless undertaking, but Anne simply could not be brought to part with it. To her, the dress represented far too many hopes. But try as she would, she could not seem to restore it to its former glory.

“You ought to use Mr. Deveraux’s money to buy yourself a gown,” Meg told her. “If he could see what you have done for Aunt Charlotte, not even he would begrudge it.”

“I haven’t even looked in the box,” Anne murmured, biting off her thread.

“Someday, when you are downstairs, I am going to throw that on the trash heap,” Meg promised. “And then you will have to buy yourself something.”

For a moment Anne sat, seeing Dominick Deveraux running back into the Red Hart to retrieve the dress for her, and she shook her head almost absently. “No. Even if I should have others, I should still want this one.”

“But
why?”

“Well, I cannot expect you to understand it, I suppose, but after several years of practicing the most shocking economies, I persuaded myself that I ought to have something quite nice to wear to meet my grandfather.”

“The general?”

“I see you have been speaking with Mr. Bascombe,” Anne observed dryly.

“But I think it quite romantic, truly I do,” Meg insisted. “To have had a toasted opera singer for a mother, and a general for your grandfather. None of my relations has done anything.”

Anne lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “He told you about my mother also?”

The girl colored. “Well, there is naught else to do, is there? You are cooped up here much of the time, and there is no other diversion.”

“I did not think you cared for the company of gentlemen, my dear.”

“Well, I don’t, but I find Mr. Bascombe quite droll, actually.”

Although Anne had developed a certain attachment for Bertie, she would not have precisely described him in that vein. “Droll,” she repeated.

“Well, he is a sad rattle,” Meg admitted, “but beneath that he is possessed of a great deal of practical advice, you know.”

“No.”

“Only fancy, when I would not speak with him, he told me I should pretend he was one of my sisters. And of course, since I am not expected to fix his interest, I could see he was quite right.” She looked across at Anne. “He holds you in the highest regard, you know.”

“Fiddle.”

“Well, you could do a great deal worse,” the girl retorted.

“He is, after all, Haverstoke’s heir. And his papa is as rich as a nabob.”

“Yes,” Anne agreed noncommittally.

Meg eyed her suspiciously. “Are you casting out lures to him?”

At that, Anne laid aside her sewing. “I do not believe we should suit.”

“Why?” the girl persisted. “You cannot say your affections are engaged anywhere else, can you?”

“No.” Anne caught herself guiltily. “That is to say, I do not think so.” Even then, she was not sure she did not lie just a little.

She was saved by a rap on the door, followed by Wilkins peering inside. “Miss Morland, I am to tell you Burton is back.”

For a moment Anne’s hands turned to ice, and she felt her stomach knot. “Already?” she said hollowly.

“Housekeeper’s in a taking ’cause I told him to wait in the front saloon, but Mr. Deveraux said I was to see he came to you,” the footman explained. “Says for you to hurry—he’s dripping mud on the floor.”

“Yes. Of course. Meg, do you mind sitting with Mrs. Deveraux for a while?” Without waiting for an answer, Anne rose. “ ’Tis her nap time, in any event, so there is naught for you to do. In fact, there is a book on the table, should you wish to read.”

The girl glanced at the slim volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets and shuddered. “I should just sit, I think.” As Anne left, she leaned back in the chair, a satisfied smile lingering on her lips. She did not note the old woman’s eyes following the other girl to the door.

Dread and hope warred in Anne’s breast as she forced herself to walk calmly into the saloon. The groom’s back was to her as he stretched gloved hands toward the fire.

“Mr. Burton?”

“Aye.” He turned around. “Heard they took Master Dominick. Bad business.”

“Yes.”

“Couldn’t get back any faster,” he apologized.

“Mr. Burton, I am amazed you made it at all. There’s not even been mail for these two days past.”

“Roads is bad,” he conceded, “but I used Mrs. Deveraux’s vouchers to change m’horse often enough. Get tired in the mud, ye know.”

“Yes.” Unable to bear the wait any longer, she could not help asking, “What did you discover at the Blue Bull, sir?”

“Nothin’.”

“Nothing? How can that be? Did you not ask?”

“Nothin’ to learn. I drank mysel’ half under the table, miss, a-waitin’ fer somebody to spill. Finally allowed as how they must not get many of the gentry coves.”

“And?”

“Said they did sommat—not often, mind ye.”

“Did you mention Mr. Fordyce?”

“Uh-huh. Never heard o’ him. Last cove was a Smith, and he was gone. They was a-Iaughin’ as to how some mort’d fleeced him.”

“A woman fleeced him?”

“Aye—and left ’im fer dead. The cove woke up and wouldn’t tell ‘em nothin’. Said he fell on ‘is ‘ead.”

“Are they quite sure this Smith was the only … er … cove lately?”

“ ’Cept Master Dominick and Mr. Bascombe. Described ‘em both—said Bascombe left light.”

“Left light?”

“Wit-out ‘is money, miss.”

“Yes. Of course. But nobody was found dead?”

“No’m.”

She hadn’t killed Quentin Fordyce. She hadn’t killed Quentin Fordyce.
She hadn’t killed Quentin Fordyce.
An indescribable relief washed over her, leaving her unable to think of anything else for the moment.
She hadn’t killed Quentin Fordyce.

“Are you all right, miss?”

“Huh? Yes. Oh, yes!” It was then that she realized he was waiting expectantly. “Thank you, Mr. Burton!”

He shifted from one foot to the other. “Master Dominick said I was to have two quid fer me trouble, ye know.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She’d not even looked in Deveraux’s box yet. “One moment while I get Mr. Wilkins to fetch the money.”

She did not know what to expect when the footman brought it. Carrying the leather-covered box to a small table, she took the key Wilkins gave her and unlocked it. The hinges were old and stiff, making it difficult to pry open. Finally, after considerable effort, the lid came up, and she could not help gasping. Inside lay a thick sheaf of banknotes, a number of gold coins, and a heavy old ring. There appeared to be a fortune.

“There must be some mistake …” She lifted the sheaf of notes and began to count. There was at least a thousand pounds there, more than she could expect to see in twenty years, if not in a lifetime. “Oh,
my
!”

“Druther have the gold,” Burton insisted.

“What? Oh.” Laying aside the banknotes, she picked up two coins. “Be careful with them.”

He doffed his cap and hurried out, ostensibly to show his fellows his money. Anne forced the lid down and quickly locked the small box. “Are you quite certain this is the box Mr. Deveraux meant?”

“ ‘Give her the box,’ he told me, miss.”

“Does he … ?” She cleared her throat nervously. “Does he always keep so much money in it?”

“Sometimes more. He took some with him when they came for him—said he might need to bribe somebody, I believe.” Perceiving that she still stared at the little leather- covered chest, he shook his head. “That ain’t nothing, Miss Morland. The Deveraux are rich,” he declared. “Nicholas Deveraux left Master Dominick some twenty thousand pounds. And that don’t count what came from his grandfathers on both sides, nor this house neither.”

“Twenty thou …
twenty thousand? Pounds?
”

He nodded proudly. “Pleasure to serve him, miss. Ain’t a pinchfarthing like some of ’em, nor a gamester like old Nick.”

She sank into a chair. “What am I supposed to do with this? I cannot keep it in my chamber—I should be afraid to be done in for it.” But even as she said it, she could hear Dominick Deveraux’s voice.
You may use the money in it at your discretion.

“Miss Morland, nobody’s going to steal anything at the Haven,” Wilkins protested stiffly.

“No, no, of course not. ’Tis just that I do not believe I have ever seen quite so much at once, you understand.” She looked up at him. “Where
do
we put it?”

“Well, Mr. Deveraux keeps it in the library wall, but he said I was to give it to you,” he reminded her.

“I should very much rather you put it back into the wall.”

“He said I was to give you the key.”

“Well, I do not mind the key—’tis the money I’d not keep.”

She sat there staring into the fire for several minutes after he’d carried the box out. Over one thousand pounds. Why on earth had Dominick Deveraux done it?
I trust you. You may use the money in it at your discretion.
How did he know she would not take it and run?
I trust you. I trust you.
He could not know.
Take care of things for me.

“You seen Miss Mitford, Anne?”

“Huh?”

“You seen Miss Mitford? Dash it, but it ain’t like you to sit there a-gathering wool, Annie,” Bertie complained.

“There is more than a thousand pounds in this box.”

“Whose box?” Baffled, Bertie moved closer. “You ain’t been tippling, have you?”

“No.” She looked up. “Deveraux left me the key to his box, Bertie, and there is more than one thousand pounds in it.”

“Surprised there ain’t more’n that. The Deveraux are deuced plump in the pocket, from all I ever heard.”

“He said I was to use it at my discretion.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know,” she answered slowly. “Unless …”

“Guess you could buy yourself a dress.”

It came to her then. “Bertie, how soon until the roads are passable, do you think?”

“I don’t know.” He regarded her strangely. “Look you ain’t wanting to tip him the double, are you?”

“What?”

“Take the money.”

“Of course not.”

“Didn’t think so. Didn’t think I could be that mistaken in you.”

“What I want to know is how to discover the best solicitor in Nottingham. Bertie …”

“How’m I to know that? No, leave it to Trent, Annie. Dash it, but I don’t even like the fellows!”

“It could take days to hear back from Lord Trent. In the meantime, I think we should go into Nottingham, speak with Deveraux, then discover someone to represent him.”

“Ten to one, he’s got one.” When he perceived she was indeed serious, he protested, “Dash it, Annie! Them fellows wants money!”

“We have Deveraux’s thousand pounds,” she reminded him.

“Look, I was only wanting to find Miss Mitford—thought maybe she’d play cards or toss dice with me, you know. I ain’t wanting to get out in the mud.” He looked out the window. “Besides, it’s raining now. Snow’s melting—roads ain’t nothing but mudholes!”

“Burton made it in from Southampton.”

“When?” he snorted.

“Just now. Besides, you have no business tossing dice with Meg.”

He sighed. “You know what, Annie? You are a deuced managing female!”

“I know.”

“When was you wanting to go?”

“What time is it?”

“It ain’t late …” He stopped himself. “I don’t know.”

“Look.”

He drew out his watch and squinted. “Eleven,” he mumbled. “And I ain’t missing nuncheon for nothing!”

“I can be ready within the hour.” She rose. “I wonder … should I wear the green dress or the checked one, do you think?”

“Wear something as can be walked in,” he muttered glumly, “ ’cause the carriage’s getting stuck.”

She made her way back upstairs, her mind racing. As soon as she gave instructions to Meg for Mrs. Deveraux’s program, she would get ready. Maybe, just maybe, Meg might even let her borrow a hat to cover her awful hair.

“Annie! Annie!” Meg ran from the bedchamber. “Annie, she’s gurgling! Whatever do I do now?”

“Gurgling?”

Anne pushed past the girl and hurried to Charlotte Deveraux’s beside. Taking the old woman’s hand, she murmured soothingly, “ ’Tis Annie-Annie Morland.” The hand seemed to tighten in hers.

“Her eyes are open,” Meg said behind her.

“They often are.” Reaching behind Dominick’s mother, Anne lifted her higher onto the pillows. “You are all right, Mrs. Deveraux.”

“Aaaaaahhhhhh … aahhhh.”

“What is she doing?”

“She’s trying to talk. ’Tis all right, Mrs. Deveraux,” Anne murmured, trying to keep calm despite the surge of elation she felt. “ ’Twill come. Each day you will be stronger,” she promised. “If you will but keep trying, ’twill come.”

“I thought she was dying.”

“No. She’s getting better. I would that I were going to be home this afternoon. Meg, you will have to continue talking and reading to her. And do not be surprised if she attempts making words, but rather if she seems to want something, you must work to understand her.”

“You are leaving?” the girl demanded incredulously. “Oh, but you cannot! No! I should not know how to go on without you! Annie—Miss Morland—oh, I pray you will not!”

“I shall be back to sup with Mrs. Deveraux—unless the roads are truly impassable.”