When She Was Wicked (3 page)

“Uncomfortable for much of the day, but she’s resting
now.” Daphne inhaled deeply. “What’s that delicious smell?”

“Mrs. Bowman sent up dinner. You should eat up and then go enjoy a walk in the park. Get some fresh air.”

“A walk would be lovely, and I do need to make a trip to the apothecary.”

Anabelle worried her bottom lip. “Daph, there’s no money.”

“I know. I believe I can get Mr. Vanders to extend me credit.”

Daphne probably could. Her cheerful disposition could melt the hardest of hearts. If she weren’t chained to the apartment, caring for Mama, she’d have a slew of suitors. She retrieved a couple of chipped bowls and some spoons from the shelf above the table and peeked under the lid of the pot. “Oh,” she said, closing her eyes as she breathed in, “this is heavenly. Come sit and eat.”

Anabelle held up a hand. “I couldn’t possibly. Mrs. Smallwood stuffed me with sandwiches and cakes before I left the shop today.”

Daphne arched a blonde brow. “There’s plenty here, Belle.”

“Maybe after Mama eats.” Anabelle retrieved the paper she’d purchased, pulled out a chair, and sat next to her sister. “I’m going to write a letter this evening.” There was no need to explain what sort of letter. “I’ll deliver it shortly after dark.”

Her sister set down her spoon and placed a hand over Anabelle’s. “I wish you’d let me help you.”

“You’re doing more than enough, caring for Mama. I only mentioned it so you’d know I need to go out tonight. We’ll have a little money soon.”

Later that night, after Daphne had returned with a vial of medication as promised, Anabelle kissed her mother, said good night to her sister, and retired to the parlor.

She slipped behind the folding screen in the corner that served as their dressing area and removed her spectacles, slippers, dress, shift, corset, and stockings. From the bottom corner of her old trunk, she pulled a long strip of linen that had been wadded into a ball. After locating an end, she tucked it under her arm, placed the strip over her bare breasts, and wound the linen around and around, securing it so tightly that she could only manage the shallowest of breaths, through her nose. She tucked the loose end of the strip underneath, against her skin, and skimmed her palms over her flattened breasts. Satisfied, she pulled out the other items she’d need: a shirt, breeches, a waistcoat, and a jacket.

She donned each garment, relieved to find that the breeches weren’t quite as snug across the hips as they’d been the last time. Finally, she pinned her hair up higher on her head, stuffed it under a boy’s cap, and pulled the brim down low. It had been a few months since she’d worn the disguise, so she practiced walking in the breeches—long strides, square shoulders, swinging arms. The rough wool brushed her thighs and cupped her bottom intimately, but the breeches were quite comfortable once she became accustomed to them.

Her heart pounded and her breathing quickened, not unpleasantly, as she tucked the letter she’d written to the Duke of Huntford—left-handed to disguise her handwriting—into the pocket of her shabby jacket. A few subtle inquiries had yielded his address, which was, predictably, in fashionable Mayfair, several blocks away.

A woman couldn’t walk the streets of London alone at night, but a lad could. Her mission was dangerous but simple: deliver the note to the duke’s butler and slip away before anyone could question her. She should be quaking in her secondhand boys’ boots, but a decidedly wicked side of her craved this excitement, relished the chance for adventure.

She sent up a quick prayer asking for both safety and forgiveness, then skulked down the stairs and out into the misty night.

P
ardon, Your Grace.”

Owen Sherbourne, the Duke of Huntford, glanced up from the ledger he’d been scrutinizing for the past two hours. Something in his books was off, and he’d correct it if it took him all night. Which it likely would. His butler stood in the doorway of the study, his bushy white brows drawn together like two damned caterpillars mating. If caterpillars even did. Good God. “What
is
it, Dennison?”

The butler presented a silver salver with an annoying flourish. “This letter was just delivered for you. The messenger said it was urgent.”

“Who’s it from?”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

“Well then,” Owen said, summoning patience, “I suggest you remedy that.”

The butler’s jowls swayed as he shook his head. “I can’t. The messenger ran off after he handed me the letter.”

Owen set his pen in the center of the ledger and rubbed his eyelids to erase the numbers burned onto the backs of them. “A mysterious messenger.” He poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Let the sarcasm fester for a while. “I thought you knew everyone, Dennison. Every bloody footman, maid, and butler for miles around. Here, I’ll take it.” He waved the butler in and held out his palm.

Dennison inched his way to the desk as if he were entering Medusa’s cave. Everyone knew what had happened there, and although three years had passed since Owen’s father’s suicide, the staff still drew straws to see who had to dust the bookshelves. Owen didn’t blame them.

He took the letter and placed it on the corner of his desk. The butler made a quick getaway. Determined to return to work, Owen picked up his pen and scanned the columns of numbers to find his place. Urgent, indeed. Probably another damned ball invitation. He looked at it out of the corner of his eye. Ordinary parchment, a puddle of green wax, a seal he didn’t recognize.

Infinitely more interesting than a page of numbers.

Cursing, he grabbed the letter, slipped his finger under the seal, and unfolded it.

Rage, pure and hot, coursed through Owen’s veins and settled in his temples, pounding steadily. He skimmed the contents of the letter once more, searching for evidence that it was an idiotic prank. Though bizarre, it seemed authentic.

A threat to his
sister
. Nothing could infuriate him more. However, his curiosity had been piqued.

What, pray tell, had Olivia been doing?

He shoved his chair back, rounded his desk, and strode past the bell pull out into the hallway. “Dennison!”

The butler scampered around the corner and attempted a dignified bow.

Owen glared at him. Dennison was a dandy, in his own way. Some of the maids tittered around him. What if—Owen could not even finish the thought. The butler was thrice Olivia’s age and nearly a head shorter.

Owen sneered at the man for good measure. “Tell Lady Olivia to meet me in the drawing room. At once.”

The butler blinked and was off.

With brittle control, Owen folded the letter and placed it inside his jacket pocket. He marched down the corridor and considered plowing his fist into the plaster wall, but thought better of it. At times, his newly acquired restraint was damned inconvenient.

In the three years since he’d become the duke, he’d faced challenges: enormous debt, corruption among his staff, understandably disgruntled tenants, and social and political obligations that had been ignored for decades. He’d conquered each problem the same way: with a logical plan, hard work, and the sheer determination to right things. He would deal with this letter—this misguided attempt to extort money by ruining his sister—the same way.

And the miscreant responsible would rue the day he’d set pen to paper.

Owen stalked into the drawing room, but its elegant furnishings and refined wall coverings did nothing to quell the savagery inside him. He paced in front of the windows so ferociously that the velvet drapes recoiled.
Questions bombarded his mind, but he couldn’t begin to answer them until he spoke to Olivia.

“Good evening.” Olivia flitted toward him, the picture of innocence in a white dressing gown that covered her from neck to toes. Rose, who entered the room on Olivia’s heels, was similarly dressed. Both girls had braided their hair and looked utterly incapable of a wayward thought, much less the shocking behavior described in the extortion note. His heart squeezed at the sight of them.

They were much younger than he, and ever since they’d been born, he’d adored them. Olivia was headstrong, honest, and impulsive, a baby bird eager to test her wings, oblivious to hawks who’d devour her without remorse. Rose was quiet and keen. Well, she hadn’t always been quiet, but she was now. Deep as the woods and wise as the hills. And unless they changed, neither of his sisters had a chance in hell of being embraced by the
ton.

“What are you doing here, Rose?” he said sharply. “I need to speak to Olivia.” Rose’s face fell.

“Goodness, Owen,” exclaimed Olivia. “You needn’t be such a beast. We were in my room reading poetry. When you summoned me, it seemed the perfect opportunity for a cozy family visit. You’re usually so busy.” She plunked herself on the sofa, tucked her feet beneath her, and patted the cushion beside her. “Come sit, Rose darling.”

Owen ran a hand over his chin and glowered at Olivia. No one else would dream of speaking to him so flippantly, but he’d made allowances for his sisters ever since their parents had deserted them. He was a poor excuse for a guardian, but he was doing the best he could. He wished to God his best were better. “I have a grave matter to discuss with you. It doesn’t concern Rose.”

Olivia’s brown eyes grew round. “Grave? What’s wrong, Owen? If there’s a problem, I think it best that we face it together. As a trio.”

He pondered this. Although it galled him to admit it, Olivia might be right. At seventeen, Rose was no longer a child, and smarter than most of his acquaintances. He missed their talks.

“Fine.” He closed the door and sat in the chair across from them. “Someone has informed me that you”—he nodded at Olivia—“are romantically involved with a member of our staff.”

Rose fumbled with the book on her lap, but he would not be distracted. He studied Olivia’s face intently. There was no flash of guilt, as he’d expected—just distress and mild confusion.

At length she asked, “Who told you this?”

“I can’t say.” He wouldn’t distress them with the truth; he was distressed enough for all three of them.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t.”

“I see.” Her face alight, she leaned forward. “Whom, precisely, am I rumored to be… involved with?”

“A servant. I wasn’t given a name.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flattered.”

“Being the subject of gossip is quite an improvement over being ignored. But I can honestly say I have no idea what could have sparked such talk.” She tilted her head to one side as though a thought had just occurred to her. “I
did
give Newton a pair of gloves last Christmas—his old ones were in tatters. Perhaps someone misconstrued the gesture?”

“Newton? Our half-deaf footman?”

“Yes,” said Olivia. “It must be him.”

Owen stood and raked a hand through his hair. “No, no. We’re missing something.” He remembered another detail from the letter. “What are your views on relationships between servants and members of the aristocracy?”

Olivia exchanged a quick, panicked look with Rose. So. There was something to the accusations after all.

“I think,” Olivia said carefully, “that as long as both parties observe social strictures, a friendship is possible.”

“A friendship?” How naïve she was. “Olivia, a servant is not your social equal. That kind of
friendship
jeopardizes your reputation.”

She shrugged as though her reputation was a trifling thing, something that could be sent out for repairs if the need arose.

Owen placed his hands on his hips. “Tell me who he is.”

Olivia again looked to Rose; the latter gave a slight but firm shake of her head. “Why do you want to know?”

“So I can sack him.”

Olivia clapped a hand to her mouth. Rose’s chin puckered like a strawberry.

“Tell me his name.”

With too much vehemence, Olivia said, “I have no idea whom you’re talking about. And I must say, I’m surprised that you’d give credence to idle gossip.”

“Olivia.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong, and you won’t badger me into thinking otherwise.”

“I’m trying to protect you, and the two of you are shutting me out.” Owen lowered his voice from thundercloud to gray mist. “What happened to our trio?”

Olivia stood and placed a reassuring hand on his arm.
“It’s intact, my dear brother. But it’s a fragile thing. You need to respect us, trust us.”

“I do.” He did respect them. Trust was harder. “I try.”