Page 5 of His Wife, the Spy (His Enterprising Duchess #4)

“N o.” Elizabeth spun from the mirror for Ruth, the maid, to unlace yet another gown. “I need something that will catch the marquess’s attention, since I was shunted to the garden this morning.”

Annabel took the moment to survey her own reflection, frowning at the gray dinner dress. She’d chosen a fabric with a shadowy pattern to make it seem less institutional and governess-like, but everything seemed drab after spending the morning on horseback in her riding habit—racing, no less.

She’d won that race and Fiona Allen’s friendship—and the attention of the man every woman wanted. Annabel could still feel his arm around her waist and see his wild smile as they’d raced side by side.

She paid for her fun all afternoon, whispered about by the young ladies and ostracized by their chaperones. Even the guests who hadn’t been there were punishing her, especially Elizabeth. No amount of praise for her painting, and it had been sincere, had stirred her from her sulk.

“You should have known there would be a picnic.” Elizabeth twisted one of her curls into place, sparking Annabel’s memories of when her hair had been in something other than braids and pins that scraped her scalp.

“As I have told you, the picnic and the race were both surprises.” Annabel sighed. “And though you would have enjoyed the picnic and the scenery, you would not have enjoyed the ride, nor the race.”

“You keep telling me what I would not enjoy, and it is usually what puts me in Lord Ramsbury’s path.” Elizabeth swept to the mirror in a swirl of white satin and navy stitching. “I would remind you that I have more to recommend me than a love for horses.”

Given Ramsbury’s stables and account books, his chosen wife would need to share that passion, or at least understand it. “You have no desire to be nearer to a horse than a carriage ride. And if you’d ridden with the chaperones—”

“Where you should have been.” Elizabeth nodded to the maid. “This one.”

“It is a lovely choice, Elizabeth.” Annabel looked through the jewel chest for the pearls they’d packed specifically for this dress, using the distraction to cool her temper and soften her tongue. “And, as I have told you, Lord Ramsbury chose my mount and insisted I ride.” She put up her hand to stop the interruption. “I don’t know why, and I don’t care to argue about it any longer. He insisted, and I had no polite option but to accept.”

And thank goodness. That ride, that horse, would be the highlight of her year. She stepped behind Elizabeth and draped the necklace across her collarbone.

“These earbobs are far too small.” Elizabeth made a face in the mirror. “The diamonds catch the eye better.”

“The diamonds will look much better under the candles on the dance floor.” Annabel met Elizabeth’s frown in the mirror. “Ruth can add more curls near your temples and ears to give the illusion of more ornate jewelry.”

As the maid worked deftly with the curling rod, Annabel rehung all the discarded dresses in the wardrobe. There had been a time when she’d been careless with her clothing and left messes for others to clean. The behavior had embarrassed her long before this, but being the servant now hammered home a vow that, should she ever escape this fate, she would never take anything for granted again.

Chatter and laughter filled the hallway. “The other young ladies are going down, Elizabeth.” It was important to never be first, but one should never be last.

Elizabeth rose to leave, but Annabel kept the door closed and arched an eyebrow as a reminder to thank the young maid, who had earned her wages this evening. Elizabeth was not, as a rule, unkind. However, being surrounded by wealth and gossip this Season, and especially at this party—seeing other young ladies as competitors rather than people, if not friends—had sharpened her edges in an unattractive way.

That was one reason they never should have come.

Another was the quickening pace of Annabel’s heart as they descended the stairs. It was foolish. She had been below Jasper’s notice even before her father had used her dowry to fund his speculation schemes. Now, as a governess, he was even further from her reach.

There was no need for her heart to pound at the thought of seeing him, and there was certainly no need to take extra care with her appearance. It was a good thing she hadn’t packed the gray hair ribbon that matched her dress. It would only serve to make her more foolish and a subject of more hateful gossip.

But it was impossible to deny that her opinion of the marquess changed every time they spoke. He was irreverent, but his offhand manner hid a kindness she hadn’t expected.

Like his care over Fiona Allen, born of a lifelong friendship, and unflinching despite the gossip that shadowed her. It echoed, though faintly, in his treatment of Annabel herself.

It was also a lesson about ignoring gossip, because it was widely spread and only possibly true.

Or told to her by a man with a respectable position in the royal household.

Spencer’s suspicions didn’t make Lord Ramsbury a spy, but there was something going on in this house, beginning with the sharp-eyed Mr. Yarwood, who appeared to have no real position in the house. Still, everyone deferred to him. At times, even Lord Ramsbury bent to his friend’s will.

And she could not forget the conversation she’d overheard in the maze. Something was afoot in Wales, and she didn’t believe it had anything to do with buying another horse.

The marquess was intelligent enough to hide his intentions behind his charm and good looks. Not to mention that smile.

“I’m surprised to see you this evening, Miss Pearce. I thought the race might have tired you for the day.”

Charlotte Bainbridge wore a lovely maroon dress, no doubt meant to evoke an association with the Ramsbury crest. The lace was delicate, and the opals she wore sparkled like the galaxies Annabel had once seen through a telescope. It was too bad that her snide smile and hard glare ruined the effect.

“You’ll find I’m made of sterner stuff, Miss Bainbridge,” Annabel replied. Her chin went to the angle she always used with bullies.

“We chaperones must be,” said Mrs. Linden as she approached. “Miss Allen tells me you were good company today, Miss Pearce. Thank you for looking after her in my absence.”

“It was my pleasure. Thank you for staying in the garden with Miss Spencer.” Annabel was certain the older woman had gotten the worst end of the bargain.

“She is a talented artist, and I enjoyed watching her painting take shape—once she focused on where she was rather than where she wasn’t.” Mrs. Linden sighed as they entered the parlor. “Miss Allen has no patience for sketching and painting. Or needlework, for that matter. She refuses to sit still.”

All morning, Annabel had been impressed with Fiona’s lively nature and her unfailing resolve to be nothing but herself. She made no excuses for her past behavior, but she also held nothing back from her life. Many young ladies in her situation would have faded into the country and accepted the ton ’s judgment for the balance of their lives. Fiona had struck back. It was an admirable decision.

“I don’t believe sitting is the virtue Society paints it to be.” Annabel heard the words in her own voice and felt her cheeks heat with shock. It was one thing to think something so contrary, but another to speak it aloud.

The chaperones turned to face her, eyes wide in their stark faces. Only Mrs. Linden was smiling. Annabel drew a deep breath. In for a penny…

“If a gentleman were to sit in the house and wait for the world to come to him, he would be considered a layabout or feeble-minded. But ladies of quality are judged by how little we—they—are heard or seen. We may move the world, or make a mark, but only where no one can see us do it.” She stood straighter. “We are led by a queen who is seen and heard every day in law and in custom—even in war. Why must we limit ourselves to silent decoration?”

The older women stared at her as though she’d sprouted horns and a tail. Beyond them, toward the other end of the table, Fiona raised her glass in a silent salute. Annabel wished she’d put that dratted ribbon through her hair after all.

The silence was broken by the marquess’s arrival and then the shocked inhale of every lady in the room. On his arm was a thin young lady in a violet gown. The color complemented her pale complexion and auburn hair, which was done simply. She was flanked by Yarwood, his expression hawklike.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Mrs. Hughes, the widow of an old school friend.” Jasper smirked as he talked, as though he understood the commotion he was causing. “Claudette could not be here for the beginning of our party because she was in Paris. I hope you will make her welcome.”

Everyone bowed, but no one approached. Fiona was the first to breach the divide. “Welcome, Mrs. Hughes. How was your journey? I crossed the channel in the summer and again in the fall, and while I enjoyed the scenery, the ship did pitch violently at times.”

The young widow’s reply was lost in the sea of whispers from chaperones and English diamonds alike. Charlotte Bainbridge might have had tears in her eyes.

“How dare he bring her here,” someone whispered. “To invite eligible, respectable young ladies to his home and raise their hopes about a match, only to flaunt his mistress as a late arrival.”

The hiss had a French lilt. There was only one other French lady in attendance—Madame Theodore, a dragon of a companion who had emigrated simply to terrorize young Society ladies with haughty sniffs, arched eyebrows, and lectures on what the Paris ladies do . Belinda Wallace was her current pupil.

“That seems an uncharitable assumption about your countrywoman,” Mrs. Linden whispered.

“Not all French ladies are reputable.” Madame Theodore arched an eyebrow. “Just as all English women cannot claim proper behavior.”

Mrs. Linden’s mouth hardened into a thin line and color dotted her cheeks, but she remained silent.

Annabel would have admired her restraint if she wasn’t focused on Claudette Hughes herself, though for a different reason. The marquess, his Welsh connection, and his Paris mistress were all under the same roof. Was this the opportunity to gather the information Spencer demanded and free herself from their ugly bargain?

You were wrong about Fiona’s position in his life. What if you are wrong again?

“I should have worn the blue. I’ll never stand out against that Frenchwoman if I look like a meringue.”

Annabel pulled Elizabeth away from the crowd. “The blue is for the dance at the end of the week,” she said. “And several of the young men in attendance have already cast you admiring glances.” She held up a hand to stop the petty argument she could see brewing in Elizabeth’s bright eyes and too-rosy cheeks. “There is more to life than a marquess who seems to be declaring what life with him will entail.”

It was advice she should heed herself. If Mrs. Hughes was Lord Ramsbury’s lover, her inclusion in the party was in poor taste. If she was part of a larger plot, it was treason.

“The best way for you to behave is to do exactly that—behave. Focus on the those to your left and right and keep the conversation away from gossip.” She tightened her hold on Elizabeth. “You are better than a man who has no qualms about ridiculing you in public. Remember that.”

“Shall we go into dinner?” Lord Ramsbury asked as he turned and led Mrs. Hughes from the room.

Left with no alternative, the party took their seats around the dinner table. Over the first course, the ladies stared daggers at Mrs. Hughes while the men watched her with open curiosity. By the second course, social etiquette prevailed. The dining room was full of conversation.

Since the other chaperones were ignoring Annabel, she stayed focused on the marquess, comparing his behavior with Mrs. Hughes to how he treated Fiona. They spoke quietly, but he didn’t ignore the guest to his left. Mrs. Hughes spent a great deal of time in conversation with Yarwood. Her smiles were soft, almost wistful—not the flirtatious masks used in ballrooms and beyond.

After the dessert course had been cleared, the ladies adjourned to the music room. All except Mrs. Hughes, who disappeared into the shadows.

The young ladies gathered teams for whist, and their chaperones retrieved knitting or needlework to occupy their time until the gentlemen arrived. Annabel watched the clock.

After five minutes, she excused herself to no one in particular and entered the great hall. In the daylight, the space loomed overhead as though she were in a cathedral or a courtroom. In the darkness, with creaks and groans permeating the thick, quiet blanket, the space yawned like a mouth that could swallow her whole.

“Will you not come with me?” Mrs. Hughes’s English lilted as though she sang the question.

“I have responsibilities here, dearest,” Jasper replied. “You will be safe with Kit, and I will join you when I can.”

Annabel followed the whispers until she reached a turn in the hallway. The marquess’s unique cologne, a mix of fruit and flowers she couldn’t identify, scented the still air.

“As you wish.” Mrs. Hughes sighed. “But you work too much, Jasper. You should enjoy your new life more.”

“I will enjoy it later, once matters are settled.” He was smiling. Annabel could hear it in his words. “Rest tomorrow and gather your strength for the journey. You and Kit will sail the day after.”

“Will you show me to my room? This house is… effrayante .”

“Stapleton will show you up, though you could likely find it on your own by now. If you are worried in the night, simply knock on the door between us. I’ll be there.”

“ Merci, très cher ami . Gareth always said…”

“Shh. He would not wish to see you cry. I do not wish to see it either.”

Quiet settled between them. Annabel risked a glance around the corner and found herself watching Lord Ramsbury hold his lover in his arms, his cheek against her hair. The moonlight skimmed Mrs. Hughes’s dress and dusted Jasper’s half with a silvery glow. The rest of him was hidden in shadows.

She retraced her steps to the music room, though the house seemed darker than it had before. It was a tender scene that eased her mind. The young French widow was no more a spy than Annabel was herself.

Though Annabel wished, for the briefest of moments, that she was.

*

“I say, Ramsbury, having your French treat arrive was a boon to the rest of us.” Wareham’s declaration sent game birds scattering out of the grass in every direction. “Set the other girls back on their heels, it did.”

“Wareham…” Jasper stopped to gather his temper. As much as he wanted to send the man home, losing the worst gambler in the party would put all the other gentlemen in a bad mood. “I’ll thank you to be kinder about Mrs. Hughes.” After all, he couldn’t have the entire party angry at him at the same time.

“I’m simply saying that I had Miss Wallace’s attention for most of the evening because she wasn’t mooning over you.” Somehow, Wareham’s whisper was louder than his speaking voice.

“And having the ladies cross with you means a quiet hunting trip.” Garret Spaulding shot a gaze at Wareham. “Mostly.”

“Yes, yes. Poke fun.” Wareham lifted a flask to his lips. “But I’ll crow if I like. Miss Wallace has an excellent pedigree and a sizable dowry.”

“Which you won’t live to spend if you drink while you shoot.” Kit had a white-knuckled hold on his rifle. “Do be wise, Lord Wareham.”

“Just a nip to cut the chill,” Wareham said as he returned his flask to his coat pocket. “Do wish birds slept later.”

“Ridiculous man,” Raines muttered from his position near Kit.

Or, at least, that was what Jasper believed he’d said. The viscount was one of the few guests who was quieter than Jasper would have liked. He kept a level head while playing cards, ogled the ladies at dinner but did not discuss them otherwise, and drank enough to be a sport but never enough to be sloppy. The only thing he’d lost his head over was Jasper’s stables.

All last night, Jasper had paced his room and considered the possibility of bribing the man with a horse if he’d tell what he knew of Spencer and the court. It might be the simplest way of learning the truth.

In the end, he’d dismissed it. He didn’t enjoy the idea of one of his horses in Raines’s stables, though it was difficult to put his finger on the reason.

They reached the ridge and the hides dotted along it. As the gamekeeper led the hounds down the hill, each man took their position, flanked by their valets as loaders. Jasper claimed the spot at the end, nearest the trees. It had the worst view of the shooting grounds.

“Challenging yourself today?” Kit joked as they half slid into the furrow.

“Must save some of the birds for the guests.” Jasper placed his rifle on the low stone wall.

“Not having a loader should slow you down enough for their egos.” Kit placed his powder and shot nearby. “Except for me, of course.”

Competition zinged through Jasper’s blood, much like the race yesterday. He shrugged out of his constricting coat and reached for his weapon. The steel of the barrel chilled his fingers as the hounds sent up their first mournful bay. The rifle bucked against his shoulder, bringing him to life the way few things did.

A volley of shots sent a respectable number of birds to the ground, and the retrievers went to work gathering them into a pile.

“Grouse and pheasants,” Kit said as he stared down the hill. “They’re only grouse and pheasants.”

“Only?” Jasper turned to joke with his friend about their success shooting small targets, but Kit’s haunted stare stopped his laughter. “Are you all right, lad?”

The war was continents away now, but it was never far from Kit. Jasper had seen that stare more than once since Kit’s final return from Egypt. It didn’t always happen while hunting, either. Sometimes it was the weather or a specific smell. Once it was a song in a brothel.

Jasper hated that he could never find, or know, the right words to say. All he could do was wait for his friend to come back to himself.

“Stag!”

The cry brought everyone to their feet, and Jasper had his rifle raised a second before he realized it wasn’t loaded. “Blast.”

Kit’s deep, slow chuckle was the antithesis of his fluid fingers. It became a race to see who could get the first shot. Jasper didn’t know why he bothered. Kit always won.

The stag was near the tree line, badgered to and fro by the hounds nipping at his flanks and heels. He was a magnificent creature, with a wide set of antlers, powerful shoulders, and a broad back, all of which he used to his advantage in the fight for his life. Jasper stood watching, silently cheering for the beast to win.

A fly zinged by his ear, or perhaps it was a bee, given the sting to his cheek. Jasper brushed it away but ended up on his back in the hide with Kit towering over him, pointing his rifle in every direction except at the stag below. He put his boot in Jasper’s chest to keep him from standing.

“What the bloody hell?” he shouted.

“One of these bastards took a shot at you,” Kit shouted back. “Stay down until the firing stops. That bloody beast needs to go back into the woods.”

The baying receded as the dogs chased the stag into the forest. When they finally surrendered, the crashing continued. The animal would likely run to Marlborough. The duke could have him.

Jasper pushed Kit’s foot. “Let me up, y’ bugger.”

Kit didn’t relent until the shooting stopped. Jasper stood and met Spaulding’s wide eyes and raised hands over stones that lined the ridge of his hide.

“The boy couldn’t have missed me from there, and he would have hit you first anyway.” Jasper redirected Kit’s aim down the hill. “It was likely a wild shot with the excitement of following the stag. The dogs had him dithering in every direction.”

Kit relented, but the set to his jaw said he didn’t believe him. The cold pool of dread in Jasper’s gut said it didn’t believe him either.

Jasper used his shirt sleeve to wipe the blood and dirt from his cheekbone. Whoever had done it had been close enough to hit the rock beside him. He scanned the area himself, searching his guests for a guilty stare and then the landscape for a surefooted sniper. He ended staring at the valley, at the gamekeeper surrounded by his hounds.

“Send them again,” he shouted to the man. “We’ve not taken our fill of birds this morning.”

“Jasper,” Kit whispered. “This is mad.”

“It’s a party,” Jasper replied. “We need them to have a good time.” He stretched out in the hide the best he could and used his coat as a pillow. His valet would chide him for days about the state of his clothes. “Keep shooting. I’m going to nap.”

He closed his eyes, but every rifle report jarred him alert. Every whoop of success made his feet twitch.

The successful shooting made the return trip to the house much more of a party. Even Raines was happier, given that he’d bagged the largest bird—a pheasant Jasper pledged to serve for dinner during the party. Kit, dour-faced and trudging two steps behind, refused to be drawn into the celebration. Jasper, itchy, filthy, and cold, spent less time talking than he did listening.

It wasn’t the words he heard. No one would be daft enough to say something about an errant shot. He listened for the tone of each comment. Did someone sound guilt-ridden over almost killing their host? Worse, could someone’s disappointment in the outing be interpreted as failure at meeting another goal?

Stapleton met them at the end of the stairs, and his eyes went wide at Jasper’s appearance. “My lord. Should we send for the constable?”

“I’d be better served by a laundress, I believe.” Jasper sighed when the man refused to smile at his joke and move from their path. Both would have been satisfying. Either would have been sufficient.

“You can’t blame him for asking, Ramsbury,” Wareham said. “You look as though you’ve been through the war.”

As though the tipsy blowhard would know anything of war.

“It’s not that, my lord.” Stapleton leaned forward to whisper, “One of the pistols is missing from the armory. Did you take one?”

“We didn’t.” The pool of dread re-formed low in Jasper’s stomach, filled by the cold trickle running down his spine. “Search the house and the grounds.”

“It’s being done now. The house has been searched from attic to larder. The young men are in the garden now. I’m going back to direct them.”

“Thank you, Stapleton.”

Jasper trudged up the stairs and into the house, imagining he could feel Kit’s breath on his neck. When they reached the door to his room, Kit stepped around and entered first. For the first time, Jasper didn’t mind his friend’s overprotective instincts.

“Our plans must change,” Kit said once they were alone in the room. “I cannot leave for Cardiff with a killer in the house.”

Jasper stripped out of his boots, trousers, and shirt before pouring water in the basin. “We cannot send Claudette to Wales alone, and she must go.” He scrubbed the dirt from his face and hands, and the bracing water helped clear his thoughts. “She and Gareth’s family have to stop blaming each other and put pressure on the police to investigate his murder.”

Travis, his valet, entered the room. “I apologize, my lord. The house is in an uproar, and I wasn’t…” He took in Jasper’s appearance and the pile of dirt-splotched clothes. “Oh dear.”

He went to work then, dressing Jasper in clothing more suited to an afternoon at home. Jasper shook his head when he lifted the coat. “I’d like to be able to move freely, Travis. Thank you.”

After all, an assassin might be lurking around every corner, or even at the top of the stairs.

“As you wish.” Travis unrolled his shaving kit and used his limited medical supplies to address the cut on Jasper’s cheek. “If I may, sir. You should have taken me with you as a loader. You might not have needed me in that position, but it is clear I could have been of help.”

After he was finished, the reflection in the mirror looked more like the confident host Jasper needed to be. He let that feeling seep into his bones. “Thank you, Travis. You are right, of course, and I will rely on you, Stapleton, and the others when Kit leaves for Cardiff in the morning with Mrs. Hughes.”

He turned to Kit. “You must go to Cardiff. Even if the investigation does not move forward, it is what Gareth would have wanted. We owe him that, at the very least.”

Jasper left the room without looking back, certain that Kit was giving orders to the valet, who had been a batman for an overly brave officer in Egypt. For the first time, he was glad his home was so full of retired soldiers that it might well be considered a barracks. Not for the first time, he was happy not to see another soul as he entered the library.

His favorite book waited on the shelf across from the fireplace. He’d read it so often in the last three years that the spine was already ragged. It was a good afternoon to sit quietly with an old friend.

He caught the movement in the corner of his eye and whirled, prepared to use the book as a weapon, if only to allow him to gain ground and throttle his opponent himself. It would be a gratifying experience to take revenge on the culprit who had made him afraid in his own home.

Annabel Pearce stood next to the fire, wide-eyed, her hand motionless on her skirt. “My apologies, your lordship. I did not mean to startle you.”

Spencer’s spy. Or perhaps an assassin sent to do him in. A pistol would have made it easy for anyone to accomplish the task. “I didn’t expect a mouse in my library.”

It was an apt description for the slight woman who was always in gray, perpetually plain, and so quiet that most of the party failed to see her.

Though last night, her eyes had been bright, and her cheeks had still held the bloom from their ride. Even her gray dress had seemed prettier. He had the impression that the ladies in the party, even her professional compatriots, saw her and chose to look the other way.

“I’ll go, then.”

Was it possible that Annabel Pearce, the very proper baron’s daughter, would steal a pistol, trek across the countryside, and attempt to shoot him in the back? Jasper dismissed the theory with a mental wave of his hand.

If Annabel wanted to kill him, she would do it while facing him.

“Please don’t. I apologize for my remarks.” He took a chair and motioned to the one she’d vacated. “My failures in shooting this morning have made me cross.”

She touched her cheek, marking the spot where his wound appeared. “Did the birds defend themselves?”

He barked a laugh. “A branch caught me unaware.”

A fresh-faced maid scurried into the room, carrying a rattling tray of coffee and sweet biscuits. Though it was almost as large as she was, she managed to set it on the table between them without spilling anything or toppling headfirst onto the carpet.

“Thank you,” Annabel said to the girl as she departed. She looked to him. “Shall I pour?”

“Please.” Jasper waited as she filled his cup. Steam curled over liquid dark enough to match his thoughts. Or, at least, his previous thoughts. In this room, things didn’t seem so dismal. “What are you reading?”

“Currer Bell’s novel.” She divided the biscuits between them. “It’s a favorite of mine. And you?”

“Dumas’s novel about the musketeers.” He wondered over her choice of a book about a governess in love with her secretive employer. It seemed far too romantic for such a practical young lady. “A favorite.”

Her smile creased her eyes for a moment before she opened her book and returned to the pages. Jasper followed suit.

The fire popped and crackled, warming his toes as the coffee banished the chill in his bones. He relaxed against the chair and reached for a biscuit.

“That is my plate, your lordship.”

“Apologies,” he replied around a mouthful of sweetness. He risked a sideways glance. She was curled into the chair like a cat, her feet tucked under her as she bent over the page. “Have you reached a suspenseful part?”

“There’s a fire set to kill Mr. Rochester,” she whispered without looking at him.

He returned to his book, and after a moment reached for another biscuit.

Annabel swatted his hand. “Cad.” Laughter infused the word.

Jasper chuckled and turned the page.