Page 3 of His Wife, the Spy (His Enterprising Duchess #4)

W ithout looking, Annabel was aware of the moment Jasper left the doorway. It was irritating. But worse, the echo of the front door closing sent a cloud skittering across her day. She took a deep breath and exhaled.

He was an incorrigible flirt and a magnet for scandal. He was also, quite possibly, a traitor.

And she preferred cloudy climates anyway.

Annabel trailed her fingers across the spines at eye level, focusing on the embossed lettering teasing her fingertips. Worn spines stood next to new bindings, and she found her favorite authors easily. However, two shelves down, the alphabet began again—a section on history, if the titles were any indication.

Closer to the back of the room, and nearer to the desk, fewer new books were on the shelves. Some of the spines were so cracked and worn that it was impossible to learn the titles without squinting.

It was also impossible to ignore the desk. Father kept everything important in his desk.

Just look and be done with it .

Annabel stared warily into the empty hallway as she reached for the drawer closest to her. The house was so quiet she could hear the wood creak as she tugged the handle. It didn’t budge.

Every drawer along the top row was locked. If this desk was like her father’s, the lower row would be as well. Annabel sighed as she knelt behind the desk. Skullduggery required thoroughness.

“It requires a professional,” she muttered. “You were daft to do this in the first place. You should have packed your things and left. Poverty be hanged.” She punctuated her sentence with a yeoman’s pull on the last—locked—drawer. “Drat.”

Taking advantage of her position, Annabel swept her hands along the underside of the desk and down the sides, searching for a key. No matter how far she reached, she found nothing but dust. The thought of spiders lurking in corners sent her sliding back to safety.

One last place to look . She wriggled backward a few inches, lifted the edge of the rug, and folded it backward. There was nothing underneath and nothing tied to the bottom.

He would be daft to leave his secrets unguarded with a house full of guests. “He never struck me as particularly bright anyway,” Annabel said as she pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hello? Is anyone in here?” called the butler from the doorway.

She froze, thankful for the large desk and the simple shape of her day dress. Even the hideous gray color helped her become part of the shadows. She might as well be the mouse everyone considered her to be.

The butler lingered in the doorway a moment longer, but it was just enough for Annabel to recall her last words. Guilt singed her ears. As a first son, Jasper Warren would have been well educated at the best schools. Even if he didn’t pay close attention, some of it was bound to sink in. He was also well read, given the condition of the books closest to hand. Not to mention, he was the relation of a dear friend, and he’d been kind to her.

Kindness and friendship were difficult to come by these days. When offered, it shouldn’t be met by snide assumptions.

He was likely intelligent enough, but careless. That wasn’t a crime. Most members of the ton believed themselves above reproach or ill fortune.

That was why her family’s invitations had all but vanished, taking her sisters’ Seasons with them. No one wanted to be reminded that everything they valued could be lost with just one tick in a ledger sheet.

The library door closed. Annabel sat quietly, listening for footfalls against the rug or a creak of a chair, until the silence was a weight on her shoulders. She straightened her posture and looked over the top of the desk, then, finding no one, stood upright. After dusting off her skirt, she glanced at the shelves again, this time focusing on the ones nearest the ceiling. Wooden boxes separated groups of books with unlabeled spines. The size hinted they could be ledgers, possibly journals. The boxes might hold clues as well.

“It would be careless to write anything down,” she counseled herself. Still, she found the library ladder and pushed it to the proper shelf. Society men were particularly prone to carelessness, since they were blessed simply by being born.

Annabel climbed the ladder, careful to keep her eyes on the shelf and her boot heels clear of the rungs. Her ribs pressed against her stays in the same quick, shallow rhythm that occurred whenever her feet left the ground.

Father had been born to his title, but she’d never considered him careless. He knew his tenants by name and ensured the family frequented the village shops. They were well loved in Chilworth. But when the fortune dwindled, he’d ignored his man of business, his banker, and his solicitor and gambled everything on a quick solution.

And lost.

Now near the top of the ladder, Annabel kept a white-knuckled grip on the rung at eye level, and reached for the nearest burgundy, leather-clad ledger. It was larger and heavier than she’d expected. There was little hope of descending with it in her arms. That only left one option.

Heart in her throat, she forced her feet to move upward until she could grasp the last rung. She slid the ledger forward, balanced it against her chest, and used the shelf as a reading table.

It was indeed a ledger, which gave Annabel hope. She didn’t always write every detail in her journal. There was something unnerving about seeing her innermost thoughts in stark strokes on a white page, and there was always a chance that a nosy interloper, like one of her sisters, would scavenge through her room and find it.

But ledgers… No one ever kept numbers a secret. Even if they tried, the truth eventually emerged in the columns.

Opening the heavy cover and flipping the large pages required her to lean back on her perch. The ladder never wobbled, but Annabel gritted her teeth to help keep her nerves steady. Why on earth had she agreed to do this? She didn’t have the constitution required for skulking about.

This particular volume was from several years ago and, given the unsteady handwriting, had been kept by the previous marquess. Still, the rows and columns were neat and easy to follow. The man had been parsimonious when it came to his household and his staff, but it was clear he had weaknesses for three things: art, horses, and his grandson Jasper.

It was also clear that Jasper spent a great deal of money, given the number of payments made to him and the frequency of those payments. “Surely he’s not taking funds and putting them in the bank,” Annabel whispered as she scanned the rows.

She leaned back again, balancing with one hand while she flipped several pages at once, going further in the marquess’s records. The book shifted lower, resting under her breasts, its weight threatening to topple her. It left her no alternative but to use her body to push it back into place. It was unladylike, but there was no one here to call her out or follow her example.

Annabel frowned at the date on the page. She hadn’t gone forward in time—she’d gone backward. She lifted the corners of a few other pages to confirm her suspicion and sighed. The old marquess had filled his ledgers from back to front, keeping the most recent accounts at the beginning. That meant going forward in time would require opening another volume.

Which meant moving the ladder and climbing again.

“Drat and damn,” Annabel huffed as she wrestled the ledger back into place. It had been easier to pull it out one-handed than it was to put it back.

It was also easier to climb the ladder than it was to descend. Taking a deep breath and keeping a tight grip on the rung above, Annabel lifted one foot and felt for the rung below.

“What the devil are you doing up there?”

Startled, Annabel looked down and into the stern stare of Kit Yarwood. Her head spun, and her boot slipped on the rung. She tightened her hold on her only lifeline and drew a shaky breath. “At the moment, trying not to fall.”

He didn’t budge from his spot near the door. “Then I suggest you come down. Quickly.”

The longer she stayed up here, staring at the floor, the sweatier her palms became. “I’ll come down at my own pace. Now stop talking and be patient.”

She wiped her palms on her skirt one at a time before stepping down, careful to put both feet on one rung before stepping down again. Yarwood didn’t say another word, but he heaved a great sigh with every other step.

Annabel put both feet on solid ground and, ignoring her trembling knees, faced Yarwood. “Lord Ramsbury instructed me to make myself comfortable in the library.” She wasn’t quite certain of Yarwood’s place in the household, but invoking the marquess’s name was her best chance of putting him in it.

“And you took that to mean risking your neck on a ladder to see what was kept out of reach?” Yarwood arched an eyebrow.

The jibe was too close to the mark for comfort. “I was making myself familiar with the collection and wondered if the more intriguing works were kept out of reach of careless visitors.”

It wasn’t necessarily a lie, and Annabel hoped that the heat flushing her cheeks could be put down to irritation rather than embarrassment. His imperious glare was discouraging.

What’s the worst he can do, send me back to London in disgrace? It would further ruin her reputation, and it would tarnish Elizabeth’s chances. But it would serve Mr. Spencer right for concocting this foolish plot.

She stepped away and pulled the first recognizable title from the shelf. She’d read Currer Bell’s novel so often she could recite it without thinking. The weight of the book was comforting. It would be good company over the next few weeks. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Yarwood stepped forward, blocking the door. “What did you find atop the ladder?”

“Nothing but numbers.” Annabel waved the statement away. “Complete gibberish.” She hoped her gritted teeth resembled a smile. It was galling to play the role the ton demanded of her. Perhaps if she scandalized herself enough, she’d never have to play a simpleton again.

She tilted her head back to look her accuser in the eyes, refusing to be cowed by his height and his stern expression. Poor or not, she was still a baron’s daughter.

Yarwood glared back at her and refused to move.

The front door banged open and slammed shut.

“Annabel!”

Elizabeth’s wail echoed from the entry hall’s stone walls and high ceiling. Had they been home, Annabel would have thought little of it. She’d learned early that Elizabeth wailed at the slightest provocation. But they weren’t home, and the girl knew how to behave in public.

Besides that, rushing to her charge’s aid was the perfect excuse to avoid further interrogation.

Annabel stepped around Yarwood and strode to the door. “Miss Spencer needs me, sir.”

*

“Gentlemen.” Jasper thumped his whiskey tumbler on the table to interrupt the rowdy laughter around the table. “Shall we join the ladies for a respite before billiards?”

In truth, he couldn’t wait to vacate a room fogged by cigars. The smoke burned his eyes, and the scent ruined the taste of his whiskey.

“If we must,” Viscount Raines grumbled as he pushed himself upright. “Though an evening of music seems damned dull.”

“Consider it penance for being banned from the White Rose.” Wareham cackled as he stood. “You’re doomed to polite ladies, Raines. Might as well grow accustomed to the boredom.”

Jasper stood as well, signaling the end of the discussion. “We can’t very well leave them to their own devices for the month.” He ambled to the sideboard and lifted a decanter of gin. “And at least we won’t be required to dance.”

Kit opened the door, letting the fresh air in while encouraging the gentlemen into the hall.

Jasper poured a drink from the nearly full decanter, then took a refreshing sip. It was a small blessing that the ton considered gin to be beneath them.

As he sipped, he stared into the mirror. What had Raines done to be banned from a brothel, and could it be used against him? Did anyone else know? As luck would have it, the former madam of the White Rose was a recent acquaintance who, Jasper believed, saw the world the same way as he did. If she had banned Raines, she wouldn’t balk at sharing the reason.

Kit approached, his reflection grim. “Will you reconsider?”

The man was like a hound on the trail of a fox. “No.”

“Jasper, she cannot be trusted.” Kit rested his hands on the sideboard, keeping his arms stiff. “She was searching for more than something to read.”

“And all she found were my grandfather’s five-year-old accounts.” All the current ones were locked in the attic for the duration of the party.

“You know as well as I that a determined, intelligent searcher will find something if given enough time.”

Given his discussion with Annabel in the maze this morning, determined and intelligent was an apt description. When she let her guard down and spoke her mind, however, she was intriguing. “And if we march into the music room and confront her? For reading? Everyone in the house will shut their mouths and close ranks. We’ll learn nothing.” Jasper pointed his glass at Kit. “You know that.”

“Then we can bring her in here.” Kit’s chin was at an angle that reminded him of maths class at Eton.

“Two men alone with an unmarried young lady?” Jasper chuckled. “That will go well.”

His pocket watch ticked in his waistcoat. The longer they waited between dinner and billiards, the more sober the men would be. It would make for a long night.

Kit met his gaze in the mirror. “You’re going to stand there and tell me you aren’t worried?”

Jasper was more concerned about Annabel tumbling from the library ladder and breaking her neck. Those ledgers were unwieldy, even for him. “If we send her home, we’ll never know what she was hoping to find.”

“Then we keep an eye on her?” Kit stood tall and straightened his coat. “And hope her fruitless searching delivers Spencer into our hands.”

Jasper had no doubt that Annabel’s employer was behind her unladylike investigating. The challenge was to discover what Reginald Spencer wanted before she gave up looking.

He loved a good challenge.

“Exactly.” Jasper refilled his drink before turning toward the door. “Now let’s go listen to yet more Mendelssohn and songs meant to make us fall in love.”

They crossed the entry hall together, and Kit reached for the latch. Then he dropped his hand and stepped aside, his jaw set and his hand in a fist.

Since his return from the war, Kit had insisted on being first through every door unless Society dictated otherwise.

Jasper clapped him on the shoulder. “I don’t think anyone on the other side wants to shoot me. It’s only the first week, after all.”

Jasper didn’t remember ever entering a room unnoticed, but he’d always understood it had little to do with him. He was little more than a title and an estate, wanted for influence and power. Men wanted money, young ladies wanted a husband, older women wanted a lover. The stares grew sharper, hungrier, with every title he inherited.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting,” he said as he raised his glass and ignored the irritation crawling across his skin. “Miss Bainbridge, will you honor us with a song?”

Charlotte Bainbridge was a good choice. Jasper had heard her play not long ago when he dined with her family, so he knew she was talented and polished enough to be understated. And, as expected, Viscount Raines stepped to her side with an offer to turn the sheet music.

Jasper sipped his drink to mask his satisfied smirk. Any attention from Charlotte would soften Raines for later. The young fop used any excuse to drink to excess. Celebrating Miss Bainbridge’s attention, and the possibility of gaining her sizable dowry, would be good enough.

As the song began, a flutter of activity caught Jasper’s attention. Miss Spencer, her face pink under her delicate blonde curls, was agitated. Her companion, again in spectral gray, still faced front, but her head was tilted toward her charge. Despite their postures, their words were quiet.

Jasper ambled through the crowd until he was in earshot, then sat.

“If you must be displeased, you will leave after the performance has concluded,” Annabel hissed. She held Miss Spencer’s forearm in her grasp. “Without flouncing out in a huff.”

“But for him to choose her —it’s just too much,” Elizabeth bit out. “After what she did to me today—”

“She laughed when you missed a wicket, Elizabeth. That is not a crime.” Annabel sighed. “It’s not even in poor taste.”

“She made a fool of me in front of Lord Ramsbury and every other gentleman present.” Miss Spencer’s fingers twitched in her lap. Social constraint seemed to heighten her irritation. “As I was the wronged party, I should have been asked to open the performances.”

“You made a fool of yourself by storming to the house and shouting it down until I arrived.”

Annabel’s words were so quiet, Jasper found himself leaning forward to catch them.

“And for you to perform musically would only compound that error,” she continued.

Jasper rolled his lips inward to keep his laughter bottled up, but it still shook his chair. Miss Spencer’s dramatic gasp hid the creaking and kept him unnoticed. However, it also drew the attention of nearby guests.

Annabel nodded to them and kept her gaze focused on Miss Bainbridge. She squeezed Elizabeth’s arm to ensure she did the same. They were quiet until all eyes returned to the performance.

“Do not playact, Elizabeth,” Annabel whispered. “You know as well as I that the pianoforte isn’t your passion. If you wish to display your talents, take your easel into the garden tomorrow and do a watercolor.”

“What good will that do? No one can watch me paint.”

“But your host will always have a delicate reminder of you and your stay here.” Annabel glanced at the girl. “That will outlive any music or missed wicket.”

Applause signaled the end of the recital, and Miss Bainbridge stood to curtsy. Viscount Raines stayed at her side, keeping her hand so she could balance into a lower dip. His position gave him the opportunity to glance down her cleavage.

Jasper tightened his grip on his glass as he sipped. The man might have been banned from a brothel, but his thoughts apparently stayed there. He’d need to talk to Kit about the young viscount.

The crowd stood and shifted, allowing new performers to jockey for position and choose their songs. Several approached Charlotte Bainbridge to compliment her playing.

“You may cry off with a headache,” Annabel said quietly. “But you should compliment Miss Bainbridge first.” She talked over Elizabeth’s objection. “It will be a long month full of taunts otherwise.”

Miss Spencer walked to the front of the room and spoke to Miss Bainbridge, all under Annabel’s watchful eye. When she left the room, her back was straight, her jaw was set, and there was a determined gleam in her eye.

The crowd took their seats again, and Jasper, obeying a perverse impulse, claimed the now-vacant chair beside Annabel. Her eyes widened, and a blush stained her cheeks.

“Your lordship.”

“Miss Pearce.” Jasper weighed mentioning her conversation but decided against it. Admitting to eavesdropping was a sure way to make sure no one spoke out of turn. “Are you enjoying the music?”

Annabel nodded. The newest performer had chosen a livelier tune. It was a welcome change, but it made it difficult to hear any conversation. Jasper had to lean in to hear what she was saying.

She smelled of clover and apples.

“You should speak to your housekeeper,” she said.

He glanced around the room, looking for anything out of place. “Why?”

The look she gave him was the same she’d given the impatient Elizabeth. “Viscount Raines has the stare of a well-trained rogue.”

Jasper looked into her expectant gaze. It was clear she was awaiting his response, but he wanted to know how she interpreted what she’d seen.

Her sigh was so deep it moved her shoulders. “The young man is a bounder, but Miss Bainbridge has a sharp-eyed chaperone. He’ll not get past her. Your maids will likely not be so safe. They should tend his room in pairs, or with a footman at the door.”

Jasper nodded his agreement with a lazy dip of his chin that had taken him months to master. “Thank you.”

She turned her attention to the music, leaving him no choice but to sit in silence, watch the people around him, and not wriggle in the too-straight, poorly padded chair. After a moment, the light shifting across her gray silk skirt drew his attention. It was too rhythmic to be a fidget. She was tapping her foot in time with the song.

Jasper didn’t remember ever seeing her dance, though, frankly, he didn’t remember seeing her in a ballroom at all. Those events were always a crush, and only the peacocks and fools stood out. Annabel was neither of those.

The only small party they had attended had been his cousin’s house party, and that had ended before the dance could be had. “It’s a shame the floor is crowded. This would be a fine reel.”

The tapping stopped. “It would. If one chose to dance.”

“Do you not?”

“My dancing days are over.”

She’d become a statue in her chair, as though his question had turned her to stone. Agitation skittered over Jasper’s skin as he sipped his drink. She liked wordplay and music, but she’d put it all aside. She was observant and forthright, but she carefully measured out her advice. He’d only get answers from her if he could loosen her rigid control.

He thought back over the days of Amelia’s house party, of what they’d done and what he recalled of Annabel’s attendance. She’d sketched during the hunting party, and she’d read during fishing. They’d ridden, and she’d…

Loved it, if he recalled correctly. She’d cleared every jump and poured enthusiastic praise on her horse. At least, he thought it had been her.

“We’re riding tomorrow,” he whispered, testing his hypothesis.

Her eyes sparked to life before she could stop them. The fire died slowly. “Elizabeth has discussed painting in the garden. We will likely stay behind.”

“Linden always chooses the garden over trailing after Fiona in a carriage. She can keep an eye on Miss Spencer.” He applauded as everyone else did and stood to lead the gentlemen to the billiards room. “You can join us for a morning ride.”

“Lord Ramsbury, I couldn’t possibly.”

He stopped halfway to the door and turned. “Miss Pearce, I insist.”