Page 15 of His Wife, the Spy (His Enterprising Duchess #4)

S he woke expecting Jasper’s head on the pillow. A pink camellia stared at her instead. When she lifted it, a note slid to the mattress. Jasper’s bold handwriting left grooves in the paper.

Too early for peonies. Please don’t scorn the substitute. Duty demands I leave you. There is a hot bath waiting in the other room, assuming you haven’t slept the day away.–J

PS You have delightfully warm feet.

Annabel read the note again as she lifted the flower to her nose. The petals were strong, but surprisingly soft, and they smelled of peaches and violets.

It smelled like Jasper. So did the pillow next to her, and the sheets tangled around her bare legs.

So did she.

A smile split her face as she wriggled against the mattress. He’d been right about sleeping naked. The sheets caressed her skin, reminding her of his hands on her body. The pillow curved against her like he had in the night. Annabel had always thought it would be awkward to sleep with another person, but it had felt natural to drift off in Jasper’s arms and feel his breath on her shoulder.

The floor squeaked a moment before a knock sounded at the door. “Er, my lady?” Travis cleared his throat. “Should, er, the maid—”

Everyone in the house had responsibilities. So did she. “No, Travis.” The words squeaked out in a most un-marchioness-like way. She drew a deep breath. “I’ll step to my room. Just a moment, please.”

Annabel threw back the covers and scrambled across Jasper’s side of the bed, the sheets cold against her knees and palms. She swept up her nightdress before hurrying to the door, the rug muffling her flight.

You don’t need to run. You didn’t break in this time.

“Thank you, Travis.” She closed the door behind her.

Her room was too bright, but it was warm. A copper tub sat in front of a fire stoked high enough to keep the water warm. There was a lot of water, clouded with milk. Rose petals floated on the surface. She trailed her fingers through the water, which was almost hot, and watched the pink petals bob across the ripples.

It was a decadent bath that had taken the staff a great deal of time. If she dawdled until it was cold, it would be a waste of that effort. She slipped into the water one leg at a time before sitting slowly enough not to make puddles on the floor. She soaped a sponge and stroked her skin with the spruce and floral soap that reminded her of home.

Afterward, her spine curved to the back of the tub without effort, and her arms floated in the sweet, cloudy water.

“My lady?” Barnes called as she knocked on the door.

“Yes?” Even Annabel’s voice was softer.

The maid entered, bringing cooler air with her. “What would you—” She put her hand over her mouth, but not quick enough to hide her smile, and not hard enough to mask her laughter. “Your hair.”

Annabel put her wet hands to her head. Her normally straight, boring hair was a mass of tangles. Heat curled through her insides that had nothing to do with embarrassment. “Drat.”

“It will be easy to repair.” Barnes strode across the room. The nearer she came, the easier it was to see the crinkles at the corners of her eyes. She gathered Annabel’s hair in her hands and lifted it over the edge of the tub. “I’ll brush while you soak.”

Annabel closed her eyes and let the heat seep through her. Though her joints were loose already, she ached in unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, places. Barnes worked carefully on her hair, but every gentle tug was a reminder of how they got there in the first place. A knot formed low in her stomach, making her squirm until her feet stirred the water.

“My lady?” Barnes pulled the brush through the now-smooth strands, roots to ends, section by section. “If you don’t mind my saying, it’s about bloody time.”

“Barnes!” Annabel covered her face with her damp hands to muffle her laughter. Barnes’s giggle was muffled as well.

After a moment, she closed one hand on Annabel’s shoulder and retrieved the sponge with the other. “The water will cool soon. Let’s get you into dry clothes.”

Barnes helped her from the tub and into a dry towel, and then into a velvet dressing gown the color of butter. It was so lovely that Annabel had never felt worthy of wearing it. “Could we do something different with my hair?”

“Of course. Why not a chignon?”

The maid was so excited. Annabel felt guilty for making her do braids every morning for the last few weeks. “Whatever you’d like, Barnes. Thank you.”

The result, a low bun with wisps of curls at her ears, was soft and simple. Annabel loved it. “Perfect. I think the red dress today. I’ll be going out for a bit after I resolve some household business.”

“Lovely choice, my lady.”

Annabel left her room feeling like a marchioness for the first time. The maids scurried from Jasper’s room under Stapleton’s watchful gaze, hiding their smiles.

“Breakfast, Lady Ramsbury?”

Given the reactions of the staff, Annabel wasn’t certain she could face Jasper’s mother and sisters over eggs and toast. After all, she wasn’t sure how much noise had escaped their room, and the house wasn’t that large.

“Lady Lambourn hasn’t come down yet, and the young ladies are with their French tutor.”

“In that case, please have a tray sent to his lordship’s study. I would like to start work.”

The butler dipped his head. “As you wish. Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, please.” Today, of all days, she was glad for the man’s unswerving, stoic nature. “Thank you, Stapleton.”

She entered the office and took the chair behind the desk, steadfastly ignoring the spot on the floor where last night had begun. There had been enough relishing the events of the night, and now she needed to get on with the tasks ahead of her.

Breakfast arrived as she was making a list of the household receipts, and she sipped her coffee as she checked her math. Her evidence had to be perfect when Jasper confronted Mr. Jones. Otherwise, the careless man of business would explain it away as Jasper putting too much faith in his wife, whose sex made her incapable of rational thinking.

As she chewed her toast, she scanned the newspaper headlines. Talk of London’s continued growth and hunger for goods occupied one column, while reports of unrest and complaints about working conditions filled the other.

On the inside, the announcement of Charlotte Bainbridge’s betrothal to Philip Melton, Viscount Raines, led the social calendar.

Ramming his way into Wales? The headline caught her eyes, coaxing her to read further.

We have word that Lord R may be exchanging his love of Welsh horses for a vein of Welsh coal. Could he have some inside knowledge, or perhaps a frank friend has given him an advantage…

Annabel sighed as she laid the paper aside. Logic dictated that the gossip would fade, but was it a coincidence that every move they made was broadcast and dissected?

Jasper’s correspondence consisted of invitations for events that had already occurred, requests for patronage or donations, and investment speculations. The more detailed the letter, the more tempting the profit, the more her suspicions were raised. She put the reasonable offers aside to discuss with Jasper.

There were letters from the vicars in both Ramsbury and Lambourn, updating him on the state of affairs in both villages, which Annabel used to begin a list of concerns they could address on their visits. She opened the last letter and looked at the signature first— Uncle Edgar . Reading no further, she put it back in the envelope and on the top of the pile.

The newspaper waited for her, and she needed to meet with the senior staff to discuss budgets, menus, and social engagements. She could also—

“You could stop delaying what you need to do,” she scolded herself, and slouched back against the chair.

She had to see Reginald Spencer, and the quicker she did it, the better. It was also better if she didn’t ask for an appointment or wait for him to catch her in another ballroom.

On her way to the door, she paused at the liquor cabinet. The cut glass decanters caught the sunlight and cast dozens of rainbows across the cabinet walls. Their contents glimmered. Liquid courage. Wasn’t that what Father had called it? Perhaps she could do with some of that herself.

Annabel dithered over the decanters before choosing the clear one. Jasper always drank a clear whiskey. She poured a small amount in the glass and sipped, expecting her nose to burn from fumes. It didn’t. She sipped again. No bitter taste coated her tongue. It tasted like water. Another sip had her giggling.

The Marquess of Ramsbury, known for his devil-may-care drunkenness, drank water .

She scoured and smelled the bottles on the other shelves until she found the gin. Then she poured the water into the nearest plant and refilled the decanter. Imagining his reaction gave her an extra bounce as she descended the stairs.

Barnes, ever efficient, had left her coat, hat, and reticule near the front door. The hat, which had always perched atop her braids like a seabird on a boulder, slid on easily and slanted at an intriguing angle once pinned, giving her a new appreciation for the chignon.

“Shall I have the carriage brought up, my lady?”

The last thing she wanted was a coach and a driver who could report where she’d gone. The household already knew far too much about how she’d spent her time. Besides that, she liked walking in London and seeing things easily overlooked or hidden by curtains. “I’ll walk, Stapleton. Thank you. It’s not far.”

It was early enough in the day that the streets, though crowded, were relatively clean. Visiting hours had not yet begun, since most young ladies were recovering from the latest ball and midnight dinner.

Annabel had never been more grateful to be excluded from social activities, either because the hostess believed gossip or had not invited the newlywed couple out of practicality. Why waste the invitation when the marquess and his new wife would be enjoying each other’s company at home?

She hadn’t lied to Stapleton. The walk to Spencer’s home was brief, for which Annabel was grateful. Too long of a trip would give her time to lose her confidence. And men let their gazes linger a bit too long after they’d tipped their hats. That had never happened when she’d been in gray. Was it the gossip, or did she seem different after last night?

The door opened almost before she could remove her fingers from the knocker. The old butler raised his overgrown white eyebrows. “Miss Pearce?” He blinked, before bowing slightly. “Forgive me. Lady Ramsbury.”

Annabel summoned every lesson she’d learned by watching Jasper’s mother. “Good morning, Henderson. Please tell Mr. Spencer that I wi—am here to speak with him.” It had not been so long that she’d forgotten Spencer’s routine. He wouldn’t visit the palace until after luncheon, when the family was ready to do business.

“He is already in meetings.” Mrs. Riordan emerged from the shadows. “If you will leave your card, Miss Pearce?”

Annabel stepped into the hall, keeping her eye on the housekeeper as she removed her hat. She ignored Henderson’s request for it. She would not delay her departure from this house once her errand was finished. “When his business is concluded, you can tell him the Marchioness of Ramsbury is waiting.”

The housekeeper motioned to a bench near the stairs. “As you wish.”

Annabel ground her molars together and drew a deep breath through her nose. “Please have coffee brought to the drawing room.”

Once alone in the room, with the door closed, Annabel gave in to pacing as she considered her speech. It should be short and to the point. He should be given no opening for argument or innuendo. She was in the right, and her husband’s title now gave her the power to dictate terms.

Once that was settled, she had little else to do. She wondered which door Spencer would use. The one from the hall was the most direct, but he preferred ambush and surprise.

They had added new drapes to the windows, but the rich brocade only highlighted the faded wallpaper and worn rugs. Even the art was uninspiring. Spencer should take the opportunity to hang some of Elizabeth’s artwork where her suitors could see it when they called.

The coffee had not yet arrived. Annabel had expected the slight. Mrs. Riordan had never been kind, and Elizabeth’s perceived failure at the house party wouldn’t have improved her mood. Still, Annabel had a perverse compulsion to make the older woman comply. Her husband, it seemed, was rubbing off on her in more ways than one.

She opened the door and stepped into the hallway, intent on finding the housekeeper in her favorite hiding place—the shadows behind the stairs, in the hallway that led to the kitchen.

“Do you realize what you’ve done?” Spencer’s voice seeped through the library door. “I have spent months whispering in titled ears and planting stories in the newspaper, and your actions in one night have endangered the entire scheme.”

“Saved it, you mean?” another man asked. His familiar accent tickled her brain. “The man saw me with the Irishman, and he had the connections to make sure your little plan would blow up in our faces.”

“Which it still might, since you have garnered unwanted attention by your decisions and your arrival here off schedule.”

“I had no choice. Christian has several blokes on the hook and needed a sample to seal the deals. I can be back in Cardiff by—”

Wales. The man was Welsh, like Yarwood.

“You are supposed to be focused on hiring crew and finding an—”

“I have your man already.” The stranger’s dismissive tone gave the impression that murder and scheming were second nature. “Best powder man in Cork, but he isn’t cheap.”

“I’ll have the funds when they’re needed,” Spencer said.

“Bollocks! The man’s gonna want—”

“Fine, I’ll get half before your return in two weeks. Let’s just hope no one finds the results of your last decision.”

“The body will never be found without me, which I have no reason to disclose. At present.”

Even through the door, Annabel could discern the threat. She kept a wary eye out for household staff as she all but pressed her ear to the door.

“Focus, Collins,” Spencer snapped. “No more of your own decisions. I have told you what I expect. Veer from that again, and my action will be swift.”

“As will mine, Sir Reginald.”

The floorboards creaked as someone stood. A cane thumped heavily against the thin carpet.

Annabel returned to the drawing room on quick, quiet feet and eased the door closed without even a click. The hall grew noisy with activity as she dithered between sitting and standing. Standing would be best. She would not be subservient to Spencer, and it would be easier to run if the murderer followed him through the door.

Sir Reginald entered the room alone through the most direct route. “Lady Ramsbury. This is a pleasant surprise.”

He clearly found it no more pleasant that she did. Annabel squared her shoulders. Her announcement was never going to be received well, but his last conversation had ensured it. “Our business is at an end, Mr. Spencer. The Marquess of Ramsbury is not a traitor, and no amount of skulking about will prove otherwise.”

“I see.” Spencer stepped toward her, his eyes narrow. “This is what I get for sending a woman to do a man’s job. Even one I considered bright enough to see through flash and charm.”

“I promised you the truth.” She would not plead for reason, and she would not run like a frightened deer. One was out of the question, and the other would make her prey. “You have it.”

“And your father? Have you guaranteed his security?”

Annabel’s gut twisted. She hated the heat that rose to her cheeks at the insinuation that she had bargained her body in exchange for her father’s vowels. “My father has the ability to rescue himself, should he choose to do so. I will not tell a lie to save him.”

“But to save yourself? If Ramsbury were to learn of your purpose in his house, his…generosity would end.”

Annabel ignored the skip in her heart and tore a page from Mr. Collins’s book. “If you expose me, you expose yourself. You will not take that risk.”

Mrs. Riordan finally arrived with a tray, providing an avenue for escape. Annabel took it, sweeping past Spencer and into the hall, toward the door. Henderson already held it open.

Annabel was to the end of the block before she slowed her pace. The sunshine warmed her hair through her hat, and, though the air carried the acrid scents of town, it helped clear the dread and fear from her lungs. Though her skin still crawled as though someone was watching her.

She suspected this discovery somehow tied to her original, horrible assignment, and her first impulse was to tell Jasper everything. However, the risk was not just to her. She would be placing him in the path of a murderer. She needed to learn more before she confessed.

“Lady Ramsbury!”

She quickened her pace, not looking to see who was behind her.

“Lady Ramsbury! Annabel!”

Fiona Allen . Annabel shaped her mouth into a smile and forced her feet to stay in one place. Turning to wait for Fiona to join her, she had a chance to scan the crowd. Though she had no idea what Collins looked like, she paid close attention to any man walking alone with a cane.

“It is a pleasure to see you out this morning,” Fiona said. “What is your next destination?”

“Home.” Annabel slowed her pace to match Fiona’s, who kept a watchful eye on Mrs. Linden’s position in the crowd. “I’ve had quite enough of town this morning.”

“Nonsense.” Fiona looped her arm through Annabel’s and opened her parasol. “Let’s take a turn in the park and enjoy the flowers. I have so many questions about what I’m missing in ballrooms this Season, and Jasper will tell me nothing. It’s up to you, I’m afraid.”

Despite herself, Annabel grinned. Fiona’s good humor and spring flowers might be the best cure for the drama from the morning. She was also fairly certain Mrs. Linden could fend off a murderer with her glare alone. She turned with Fiona toward the park. “Very well, and then I insist you both come for tea.”

“Please, no tea. There’s only so much one lady can drink when it’s her only social outlet,” Fiona said. “Let’s stop at Gunter’s for ices instead.”