Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) (24 page)

U
nder a threatening sky, Gareth and Annie braved the elements to attend church services. They stopped to pick up Martin on the main road as he was walking alone to church. The groom had tipped his cap to Annie and refused the lift at first, but finally climbed into the trap on Gareth’s orders.

The man was stubbornly independent. Gareth thought he was a touch too old to be walking all the way to town in this weather, though he did it every Sunday. Gareth had never noticed—he’d not darkened the chapel’s door in years, and had been too hungover Sunday mornings to keep an eye on Martin’s whereabouts.

They settled on the Ripton-Jones bench, right up front, Annie between them like a scarlet rose between two thorns. Eyes were raised to heaven, hymns were sung, banns called, and the congregation seemed a bit warmer toward them today despite the cold. Mrs. Chapman could claim credit for that—she’d given her stamp of approval to Gareth’s housekeeper-bride and let everyone know it. Gareth even felt a thaw toward his own allegedly wicked self.

After everyone had filed out of the building and made for home, he told Martin to wait by the trap, then collared Ian. Annie stood subdued by his side, examining her boots as if it was the first time she realized she had feet. Gareth threw his arm around her and drew her closer.

“Just a minute of your time, Ian.”

“You had no time for me yesterday.”

“I’m sorry if I was rude. I needed time to think about all you told me.”

“I can see you haven’t changed your mind. This is a churchyard, Gareth—stop pawing your fiancée.”

Annie opened her mouth, a puff of angry air escaping. Before she had a chance to say anything cutting, Gareth squeezed her arm.

“We’d like to count on your discretion, Ian. Annie has suffered enough in her short life. I need to know that you will not cause further harm to befall her.”

“I’m sure she’s caused enough harm to herself,” Ian bristled. “May the Almighty forgive her sins.”

Pompous ass
. “We’ll marry two weeks from yesterday. I trust that will be convenient, and that her secret is safe.”

“Aye,” Ian replied grudgingly. “My cousin Thomas will keep his mouth shut, too. I didn’t tell him
why
he had to mangle Mrs. Mont’s name when he read the banns for me, just that he had to.”

“You truly are a man of God, and I’m humbled by your mercy,” Annie said softly. “I will endeavor to be more circumspect and leave my London ways behind.”

Ian could not resist such a speech, although Gareth doubted Annie meant one word of it. She probably wanted to kick Ian in the shins for sowing the seed of discord between them.

“The truth shall set you free. Repent, Imaculata, repent.”

It was Gareth’s turn to envision kicking. “Christ, Ian, that is exactly what I’ve asked you
no
t to do. Her name is Anne now. Forget the other.”

“No one heard me save the two of you.”

Gareth glanced at Martin, who was a good distance away. “Nevertheless. It will do Annie no good if people learn who she is before she’s ready to tell them and she has the protection of
my
name. Give her time, man.”

“Are we done here?” Ian asked, annoyed. “I have been invited to Lord Lewys’s for luncheon.”

“Parry Lewys is home?” Gareth had not heard of the baron’s early return. The winter crossing must have been hellish.

“He arrived yesterday evening, and was most anxious to learn the news of the investigation into Bronwen’s death.”

The baron should have spoken to Gareth as acting magistrate first. Like everyone else, Lord Lewys probably thought Gareth was to blame. Well, the man was welcome to take up the reins of the inquiry. The trail was stone cold.

“Tell him I will be happy to meet with him at his pleasure.” They had been on friendly terms once. When Gareth had left the army and come home, Lewys, like most everyone, had welcomed him as a returning local hero. He couldn’t expect the friendship to last now, though. Somehow Gareth needed to convince Parry Lewys that he was innocent of Bronwen’s murder, or he might not be marrying Annie after all.

“I will. Good day to you then.”

Sunday was a day of rest, which was a good thing, for Gareth’s head still troubled him, even more now that he knew the baron had returned to stir up trouble. Maybe he should have gone with Ian—to have all three of Bronwen’s lovers in one place to sort out the details. Three heads were better than one, aye? At least Bronwen had thought so.

His own head throbbed at the absurdity. How ironic that the pain was worse than that of the many mornings he woke up covered in sweat and stinking of alcohol. Sitting through Ian’s service had been agony, not just for the usual balance of boredom and brimstone. But there had been no question that he’d show up for the second calling of the banns. He had to show his face and impress upon Ian to keep Annie’s confidences.

They rode home in silence, after Annie’s attempts to converse fell flat. Perhaps there was to be a shift in the weather. Gareth’s entire body felt like a barometer of discomfort. His left leg buckled beneath him as he stepped down from the wagon, and Martin caught him before he slid to the icy ground.

“Your leg bothering you, Major?”

“Leg
and
head, I’m afraid. I bet we’re in for another storm.”

Martin gazed up at the gray sky. “Could be you’re right.”

“Do me a favor, will you, Martin? Make sure there’s enough coal and wood brought in from the shed for the next few days. The kitchen and Mrs. Mont’s room in particular. My study if you’re ambitious.”

“I can help, Gareth,” Annie said, hopping down on her own.

“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to labor so,” said Gareth, before Martin could voice his obvious resistance. “You’re in your Sunday best.”

“So is Martin.”

“I’ll go change.” He led Job and the conveyance to the stable.

“Well, what am I to do, then?” Annie asked brightly, threading her arm through Gareth’s.

“Nothing but amuse yourself. Or repent,” he teased.

Annie scrunched up her nose. “Do you think Ian can be trusted?”

“I hope so.” Gareth sighed. Parry Lewys might be interested to know that Ian had been bedding Bronwen, too, but Gareth did not really want to sink to the level of blackmail. “Don’t worry. It’s Sunday and your day off.”

“I don’t want a day off from
you,
” Annie replied.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to do without me, love. My head is aching like the very devil.” He opened the kitchen door and followed her in. She put her bonnet on a hook and exchanged it for the apron hanging there.

“I’ll take care of you then, just as you did for me when I fell and sprained my ankle. Willow bark tea, wasn’t it? I don’t suppose you have any laudanum.”

No, he did not. The stuff frightened him worse than any pain he’d ever endured. He’d seen too many good men succumb to its pernicious spell. “I’ll just lie down for a while, my lady. If I revive in an hour or two, perhaps you’ll consent to lie down with me.”

“But not in your room,” Annie objected. “Though I don’t expect you to clean it today when you’re feeling unwell.”

“What a fusspot you are. What’s a little disorder?”

Annie raised a bronze brow. “Define ‘little’ for me if you please.”

Gareth laughed even though it hurt his head. “Oh, very well. I’ll go up to my mother’s room and warm the bed for us.”

“Do you want me to bring up lunch?”

The thought of food roiled his stomach. “Not now, love. You have something, but all I want to do is close my eyes.” He hadn’t felt quite like this since contracting a fever after his accident. Gareth didn’t think he was any hotter than usual, but his head ached fiercely.

As if reading his mind, Annie stood on tiptoes and placed a cool hand on his forehead. “You’re warm.”

“I may have a touch of something. Best you leave me be for a bit.” He didn’t like to worry her, and was too tired and depressed to appreciate her attentions to him anyway. The unexpected return of Parry Lewys might complicate all their plans.

She kissed his cheek. “I’ll make the tea right away. Go on up.”

Grateful she didn’t buzz around him, he climbed the main staircase. The delicate furniture in the room was still shrouded in Holland covers, but the bedding had been smoothed over from yesterday’s lovemaking. Gareth was too weary to start a fire, and lay down on the bed still wearing his clothes for the second day in a row. There would be no striptease today.

He fell into near instant slumber, never hearing Annie bring the medicinal tea or strike the tinder box to light the hearth. Never feeling the sag of the mattress or the softness of her body when she joined him as the skies darkened.

When he woke, his headache had retreated and Annie lay on her side next to him, lashes fluttering from afternoon dreams, her fist curled under her stubborn little chin. The room was dim, the fire casting pale golden light on her sleeping form. This was the face he’d see every morning for the rest of his life, and he felt a surge of possessiveness that startled him in its intensity.

Gareth had never thought to love again. And looking back, he wondered if what he’d felt for Bronwen was a combination of lust and obsession rather than love. He’d learned to his detriment she was not a very nice woman. The girl of his youth had disappeared.

Gingerly so as not to disturb Annie, he rose from the bed and pushed open the casement window. He filled his lungs with ice-cold air, then frowned. An acrid tang of smoke had tagged along with the crystalline air. He sniffed.

“Anne! Wake up!”

She blinked at his bark, then sat and stretched. “You’re not supposed to leave the bed until I tell you to,” she admonished with a sultry smile.

“I think the house is on fire. Put your shoes and clothes on.” He tossed her slippers at her.

“What?” She scrambled up and shoved the shoes on her bare feet. She wore only a shift—her brown dress, stockings and stays lay neatly folded over a canvas-covered chair back.

“Stay here until I find out what’s happening.” Before she could object, he sped out of the bedroom and turned left down the hallway to the back stairs’ landing. As he descended, the scent of smoke was sharper. He put his hand on the kitchen door. It was reassuringly cool, but when he pushed it open, smoke billowed out.

Duw
. There were no flames, just a gray miasma coming from the direction of the old stove. Gareth spotted the problem through stinging eyes. A dishtowel had been wrapped loosely around the tea kettle’s handle and had drifted down to touch the hot iron cooktop. By some miracle, it had not ignited, but the smell of scorched fabric made him want to stop breathing. Annie must have been in a rush to bring him his willow bark tea, which he imagined was stone cold by now. He could use a cup again. He threw open the kitchen door and flung the towel and kettle into a snowbank, then opened all the windows.

“Oh my goodness!”

Gareth turned. Annie had misbuttoned her dress and stood at the door clutching her bodice, her face white as a sheet.

“I told you to stay upstairs.” Gareth was annoyed, both with her carelessness and her unwillingness to obey. He reckoned he’d better get used to both.

She coughed and covered her mouth. “What happened?”

“You left a cloth on the hob. I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky that we didn’t fry in bed.”

“A cloth?” Annie looked over to the stove in puzzlement.

“I threw it outside.” And blistered his hand in the process. “It was tied to the handle of the kettle, but it slipped.”

She was even pale now. “I-I’m so sorry, Gareth. I must have been in such a hurry to get upstairs to you,” she said, sounding crushed.

“No matter. Nothing’s really damaged.” He glanced involuntarily at his reddened palm.

“You’ve burned yourself!” She flew across the room to the Welsh dresser where Mrs. Smith’s book sat among the chipped teacups. “Common alum, eggs whites—do we have a feather?” The pages flipped between her trembling hands. “Or lime water and linseed oil. Those seem to be recommended remedies. There’s something here about dragon’s blood, too—”

Her guilt was palpable. “How about I just go outside and stick my hand in some snow? That always used to do the trick,” he said with a strained smile. It would be devilishly inconvenient to lose the use of his remaining hand for any length of time, but he was used to inconvenience and incapacitation by now. The important thing was that he still had a functioning brain, and it was telling him to soothe Annie before she fell into a full-fledged panic over what she’d done. “Love, why don’t you fill up a bowl with snow for me?”

“Of course!” She grabbed a tureen from the Welsh dresser and disappeared out the open kitchen door. He watched her rounded backside as she bent to the snowdrift by the door. Another part of him began to function as well.

She returned, her cheeks flushed. “I’m so sorry, Gareth—I cannot say it enough. I don’t remember leaving the rag on the kettle.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m all right, really.” He plunged his hand in the transferware dish. The relief was immediate. He knew the burn wasn’t bad, but he’d likely have blisters. As he wasn’t planning on doing much in the way of manual labor in the next few days, he’d be fine.

Annie still looked worried, so he winked. “When we return to bed, Lady Imaculata Anne Egremont, I expect you will have to do all the work, earl’s daughter or no. And I will be a stern taskmaster, I assure you.”

“What’s all this?”

Gareth looked up from Annie’s blushes to see Martin standing in the doorway. He wasn’t wearing a coat, and looked as if he’d sprinted down the stairs and across the yard in a hurry to help.

“It’s nothing, Martin. Just a small mishap with the stove.”