When She Was Wicked (11 page)

She’d have to sneak out in the middle of the night. Tonight.

“Good afternoon, Anabelle!”

The sight of Olivia standing in the doorway of her bedchamber made Anabelle jump and give a little shriek.

“Oh dear, forgive me for startling you. Are you all right?”

Anabelle smiled, though her hands still trembled. “I’m fine.” She folded Daphne’s letter and tucked it in the pocket of her pinafore. “I’m glad you’re here. Do you have time for one more fitting?”

“I was hoping you’d ask,” Olivia said cheerfully. “I’m eager to try it on.”

“Then you shall.” Anabelle led the way into the workroom and helped Olivia change into the dress, relieved to have a distraction from the news in Daphne’s letter. Although there was nothing she could do at the moment, she comforted herself with the knowledge that she would visit Mama and Daphne that night. The trick would be getting out of the duke’s townhouse. And then getting back in.

Olivia stood still while Anabelle laced up the gown. She watched as Olivia placed her palm flat over her stomacher and preened in the long mirror in front of her. “This plum silk cord is lovely,” she said. “I look almost…”

“Beautiful?” offered Anabelle. “Most definitely. Your dance card will be full at Lady Milverton’s ball.”

“I don’t know how to thank you. Neither does Rose. She adores the dress you made for her. But mostly, I think she adores you.”

“I can’t imagine why.” She was not the sort of person young ladies admired. Sometimes matrons did, like Mrs. Bowman—maybe because they favored the same type of cap.

Anabelle had grown fond of Rose and enjoyed her visits to the workroom. But the conversation was mostly one-sided. Although Rose communicated using gestures and occasionally writing, Anabelle would have loved to hear her voice and to have an honest-to-goodness chat.

“I’m glad Rose is pleased with her gown,” Anabelle said, stooping to pin Olivia’s hem. “Someone with such a kind and generous nature deserves every happiness.” She paused. “Forgive me for asking a personal question, but why doesn’t she talk?”

Olivia sighed. “She did once. She was a loquacious little thing up until about three years ago.”

Anabelle’s stomach clenched. “Was she injured?”

“No. That is, we’re not entirely certain.” Olivia frowned and lifted the hem of her dress so as not to trip on it, walked to the window seat, and sat on the faded cushion. Anabelle followed and sat beside her. “Rose was a lively, spirited girl. But then, when she was fifteen, our mother left.”

“For where?”

“We think she had a lover on the Continent.” Olivia stated this matter of factly, but the fine creases on either side of her mouth betrayed her pain.

Anabelle knew something of the duchess’s scandalous reputation and wished she didn’t. “Is she still… living?” Although it was impolite to pry, Olivia seemed relieved to be talking about it.

“I haven’t heard any reports to the contrary, so I assume she is. However, we haven’t received any letters from her.”

“I’m sorry.”

Olivia traced the silk cord of her stomacher, criss-crossing, back and forth. “I wasn’t particularly close to her. She left without so much as a good-bye, destroying my father. He killed himself a few scant weeks later.”

Anabelle gasped. She’d heard rumors that the former duke had killed himself, but, of course, the authorities had called his death an accident so that he could have a proper burial. “Oh, Olivia. I don’t know what to say.”

“Owen took care of us, took care of everything. But he hasn’t been able to fix Rose. Nothing pains him more.”

Anabelle’s heart ached. “I don’t think Rose is broken. She seems happy, and she obviously loves you and your brother.”

“Rose and I have very few secrets, but even I don’t know what happened that day—the day my mother left. We were all at Huntford Manor, our country estate, where my parents were hosting a house party. On the fourth evening after the guests arrived, Rose went missing. People searched for her all night. The next morning, my mother was gone and Owen found Rose sleeping in the stable. Physically, she seemed to be fine, but she hasn’t spoken a word since.”

It wasn’t Anabelle’s place, but she had to ask. “Have you tried to talk to her about that night? To find out what happened?”

“Yes, Owen and I have tried. We don’t know why she left the house or what upset her so. Whenever we bring it up, she simply stares straight ahead—as if we aren’t there.” Olivia heaved a deep sigh. “Owen felt she should not come out this year, even though she’s seventeen. He worried that people would ridicule her, mistake her silence for lack of intelligence. Worse, he was concerned an unscrupulous gentleman would try to take advantage of her condition.”

“I can understand his reservations. He’s very protective of both of you.”

“
That’s
an understatement.” Olivia smiled wanly. “I convinced him, however, to let Rose make her debut at a few smaller balls. She has greater strength of character than anyone I know. Insulating her from society would be unfair and insulting in a way.”

Anabelle was impressed. And ashamed she hadn’t recognized that truth on her own. “She’s lucky to have a sister like you.”

“I’m lucky, too.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, and then, as though the thought had just occurred to her, Olivia asked, “Do you have a sister?”

Anabelle touched the letter in her pocket. “I do. She’s a few years younger than I and much more beautiful.”

Olivia reached over and squeezed her hand. “I doubt that. That is, I’m sure your sister is lovely, but so are you. Perhaps in a different way.”

The duke had called her beautiful also. Apparently the
whole family had odd ideas about the nature of beauty. But Anabelle had bigger concerns. She was already a day behind on her self-imposed dressmaking schedule and needed to finish Olivia’s gown tonight. Then, after everyone had gone to bed, she had to figure out how to sneak out of the townhouse, visit her family in the dead of the night, and get back to Mayfair before dawn. She wished she had her boy’s clothes with her, but Daph hadn’t sent them. She’d just have to stick to the shadows and walk briskly.

It was going to be a long night.

A
t two o’clock in the morning, Anabelle threw back the covers and sprang out of bed, fully clothed in a dark gray dress she hoped would blend in with the night. She pulled on her boots, lacing them tightly as though doing so would provide some protection from the ruffians who roamed the streets of London. Perhaps she’d be able to run faster, if necessary.

But she prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

The house was as quiet as a church. Anabelle exited through the workroom and then made her way into the dim corridor. She tiptoed past Rose’s door, then Olivia’s, and down the staircase to the second floor. As she passed the duke’s study, her pulse quickened. Last night hardly seemed real. She’d never forget the feel of the duke’s body, warm and solid, behind hers or the wonder of discovering how perfectly his mouth fit to hers. Her face flushed, and
she walked faster, as though removing herself from the scene could erase the imprints on her mind. Foolish, but worth a try.

Silently, she glided toward the servants’ narrow staircase at the back of the house and descended the creaky steps, treading as lightly as she could. Upon reaching the back door, she paused and caught her breath. She’d considered leaving the house through this door, but a servant might discover the door had been left unlocked and correct the oversight, preventing her from being able to re-enter. Furthermore, the back door led into the garden, and from the upper-story windows, Anabelle had noted the gate on the tall, black iron fence, which was, no doubt, locked. Mr. Dennison slept near the front door, making it out of the question.

She needed an alternate escape route, and so, after much deliberation, she settled on a library window. The library, located on the ground level at the front of the house, had windows facing the street. It was a simple matter of opening the sash and climbing out onto the sidewalk.

She hoped.

With deliberate steps, Anabelle weaved her way around cabinets, arm chairs, and piecrust tables until she reached the huge center window of the room. The heavy velvet drapes were drawn closed, and when she slipped behind them a cocoon formed around her, allowing her to work on the sash without fear of detection. The lock stuck at first, but she eventually slid it to the side and heaved open the window several inches. Warm, humid air kissed her face, and she inhaled deeply. She could do this. Daphne and Mama needed her.

After making sure that no one walked in front of the
townhouse, she stuck her head out the window and surveyed the ground below. The drop looked farther than she’d imagined—perhaps four feet off the ground. With a quick but fervent prayer, she hoisted a leg over the sill, squeezed through the window, and hopped to the ground—and freedom.

Owen decided to walk home from White’s. He’d enjoyed an excellent dinner and several excellent drinks afterward. A brisk, head-clearing stroll was definitely in order.

Earlier that afternoon, he and Averill had paid a visit to Owen’s physician and made some inquiries. His doctor had never heard of Conwell. Owen then instructed his driver to take them to the address where he’d sent the money for Anabelle’s mother’s treatment. The house, located in a rather shady part of Town, looked abandoned.

It seemed his seamstress was more manipulative than he’d given her credit for.

Anabelle had probably fabricated her mother’s illness, made up the doctor’s name, and given him the address of an accomplice—possibly her lover. Owen ignored the sick feeling in his gut.

If she was involved with someone, that was no concern of his, but he wouldn’t tolerate her deception. What a fool he’d been to believe her—sending money to doctors, apothecaries, ailing mothers, and helpless sisters. He’d obviously been blinded by lust. Tomorrow morning he’d summon Anabelle to his study and make it clear that—

What in the
devil
was going on at his townhouse?

He halted at the corner of his street and squinted at what appeared to be a woman’s shapely bottom hanging out of a window.

His
window.

He stayed close to the brick façade of the house he was passing but continued walking toward the woman. As she wriggled her way over the sill, her skirts hitched on the sash. Owen caught a glimpse of lithe legs in the lamplight before she plopped unceremoniously to the ground and tugged her dress down. She glanced around, so he pressed his back against the rough brick and waited to see which direction she would head.

It had to be Anabelle. Even without the offensive cap, he recognized her efficient movements and the lean lines of her body. His heart beat faster at the sight of her. Perhaps because a confrontation was imminent.

But then, being near her always made his blood heat.

What the hell was she doing sneaking out of his house? For one thing, it was damned dangerous for a woman to walk the streets of London at night. But something else vexed him.

She wanted to escape.

He’d thought that they were all getting on reasonably well. His sisters liked the dresses Anabelle made for them. She liked her new spectacles. He liked the way she kissed.

But now she was leaving, and at this time of the evening the only possible explanation was a romantic tryst.

Owen swallowed the bile in his throat and skulked along behind her. She headed east, marching down the sidewalk like she owned it, but he guessed her bravado was a front. Any sane woman would be terrified. He curled his fists. What kind of man must her lover be if he let her roam the streets, unescorted, in the middle of the night?

By God, Owen would soon find out.

Gas lamps illuminated the deserted neighborhood. The occasional owl hoot or coach rumble on a nearby street punctuated the silence. Anabelle hurried, pausing now and then to listen—as though she suspected someone followed her.

He retreated farther into the shadows, and she increased her pace for the next few blocks as she left the relative safety of Mayfair for a less savory part of Town. As she reached the corner of Holborn and Red Lion Streets, a howl echoed. Anabelle froze, and the hairs on Owen’s arms stood on end.

From out of the shadows, a pair of huge dogs charged, aiming straight for her. Their eyes glowed white in the darkness, evil as the hounds of Hades. The beasts barked and bared their teeth as they closed the distance at a run. He’d expected thugs or drunken dandies, for God’s sake—not dogs. From the collar encircling each dog’s thick neck, a frayed rope dragged, undulating behind as it ran.

If their jutting ribs were any indication, the beasts were hungry.

“Anabelle!” She turned toward him, and in the eerie yellow light of the street lamps he could see her terror. “Run!”

He scooped up a stone and ran toward the dogs, hoping to draw them away from her. But he couldn’t throw the rock and risk hurting her.

She looked left, toward a deserted square, then right, down an alley. Hiking up her skirts, she sprinted for the alley and disappeared between two buildings.

He hurled the stone at the mangy pair, but they just snarled and bounded after Anabelle down the alley, close on her heels.

Owen gave chase, running for all he was worth. He rounded the corner, and—
Damn!
The alley ended at a brick wall. “I’m coming,” he shouted.
Hold on.

She whipped her head around, saw him and the dogs, and kept running. He wanted to tell her to watch where she was going, but she seemed unable to take her eyes off the vicious dogs.

Still several yards away, he called, “Look out!” Too late. She slammed into a wooden crate and tumbled over it, landing sprawled on her back. One of the hounds pounced, capturing her skirt in his jaws and shredding it in a mere second. She tried to scoot backward on her bottom, but the dogs circled her.