When She Was Wicked (Honeycote #1) Read online

  Olivia replied with an equal measure of drama. “Alas, they do not.”

  “Never fear. I have plenty of experience in this sort of thing and am happy to lend my expertise… that is, if you have no objection, Your Grace.” Miss Starling unleashed a dazzling smile on the duke.

  His intelligent eyes flicked to Anabelle, ever so briefly, and the subtle acknowledgement made her shiver deliciously. Then he returned his attention to Miss Starling. “That is generous of you.”

  Preening like a peacock in the Queen’s garden, Miss Starling said, “You may rely on me, Huntford. A fashionable gown can do wonders for a woman’s appearance. You won’t even recognize your sisters in their new finery. Why don’t you leave us to our own devices for an hour or so?”

  The duke searched his sisters’ faces. “Olivia? Rose?” Olivia nodded happily, but Rose cowered into his shoulder. He gave her a stiff pat on the back and looked imploringly at Miss Starling, who had managed to find a small mirror on the counter and was scowling at the reflection of a loose tendril above her ear. No help from that quarter was forthcoming, and Rose’s cheek was still glued to his jacket. The more he tried to gently pry her off him, the tighter she clung. He turned to Anabelle and held out his palms in a silent plea.

  Startled, she quickly considered how best to put the young woman at ease and cleared her throat. “If you’d like, Lady Rose, I could start by showing you a few sketches and gowns. You may show me what you like or don’t like about each. Once I have a feel for your tastes, I shall design something that suits you perfectly.” Noting Rose’s shy yet graceful manner, Anabelle hazarded a guess. “Something elegant and simple?”

  Rose slowly peeled herself off of her brother, who looked relieved beyond words.

  “Why don’t you and your sister make yourselves comfortable?” Anabelle waved them into the chairs beside her and winked. “I promise to make this as painless as possible.”

  The duke leaned forward and gave Rose an affectionate squeeze. “Very well.” Anabelle endeavored not to stare at his shoulders and arms as they flexed beneath his jacket.

  Miss Starling snapped her out of her reverie. “We’ll need to see bolts of French pink muslin, green silk, blue satin, and peach sarsenet, as well as swansdown and scalloped lace.” Anabelle had started for the back room, rather hoping all the items were not intended for the same dress, when Miss Starling added, “And bring us a fresh pot of tea, Miss Honeycut.”

  “Honeycote.” In a shop teeming with women, there was no mistaking the duke’s commanding voice.

  Anabelle halted. She imagined that Miss Starling’s glorious peacock tail had lost a feather or two.

  “I beg your pardon?” the debutante asked.

  “Her name,” said the duke. “It’s Miss Honeycote.”

  With that, he jammed his hat on his head, turned on his heel, and quit the shop.

  A few hours later, Anabelle tiptoed into the foyer of the townhouse where she lived and gently shut the front door behind her. Their landlady’s quarters were beyond the door to the right, which, fortunately, was closed. The tantalizing aroma of baking bread wafted from the shared kitchen to her left, but Anabelle didn’t linger. She quickly started up the long narrow staircase leading to the small suite of rooms that she, Daphne, and Mama rented, treading lightly on the second step, which had an unfortunate tendency to creak. She’d made it halfway up the staircase when Mrs. Bowman’s door sprang open.

  “Miss Honeycote!” Their landlady was a kindly, stoop-shouldered widow with gray hair so thin her scalp peeked through. She craned her neck around the doorway and smiled. “Ah, I’m glad to see you have an afternoon off. How is your mother?”

  Anabelle slowly turned and descended the stairs, full of dread. “About the same, I’m afraid.” But then, persons with consumption did not usually improve. She swallowed past the knot in her throat. “Breathless all the time, and a fever in the evenings, but Daphne and I are hopeful that the medicine Dr. Conwell prescribed will help.”

  Mrs. Bowman nodded soberly, waved for Anabelle to follow her, and shuffled to the kitchen. “Take some bread and stew for her—and for you and your sister, too.” Her gaze flicked to Anabelle’s waist, and she frowned. “You won’t be able to properly care for your mother if you don’t eat.”

  “You’re very kind, Mrs. Bowman. Thank you.”

  The elderly woman sighed heavily. “I’m fond of you and your sister and mother… but luv, your rent was due three days ago.”

  Anabelle had known this was coming, but heat crept up her neck anyway. Her landlady needed the money as desperately as they did. “I’m sorry I don’t have it just yet.” She’d stopped during the walk home and spent her last shilling on paper for the demand note she planned to write to the Duke of Huntford. “I can pay you…” She quickly worked through the plan in her head. “… on Saturday evening after I return from the shop.”

  Mrs. Bowman patted Anabelle’s shoulder in the same reassuring way Mama once had, before illness had plunged her into her frightening torpor. “You’ll pay me when you can.” She pressed her thin lips together and handed Anabelle a pot and a loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth.

  The smells of garlic, gravy, and yeast made her suddenly light-headed, as though her body had just now remembered that it had missed a few meals. “Someday I shall repay you for all you’ve done for us.”

  The old woman smiled, but disbelief clouded her eyes. “Give your mother and sister my best,” she said and retreated into her rooms.

  Anabelle shook off her melancholy and ascended the stairs, buoyed at the thought of presenting Mama and Daphne with a tasty dinner. Even Mama, who’d mostly picked at her food of late, wouldn’t be able to resist the hearty stew.

  She pushed open the door but didn’t call out, in case Mama was sleeping. After unloading the items she carried onto the table beneath the room’s only window, she looked around the small parlor. As usual, Daphne had tidied and arranged things to make the room look as cheerful as possible. She’d folded the blanket on the settee where she and Anabelle took turns sleeping. One of them always stayed with Mama in her bedroom at night. Her sister had fluffed the cushions on the ancient armchair and placed a colorful scrap of cloth on a side table, upon which sat a miniature portrait of their parents. Daphne must have pulled it out of Mama’s old trunk; Anabelle hadn’t seen it in years. The food forgotten, she drifted to the picture and picked it up.

  Mama’s eyes were bright, and pink tinged her cheeks; Papa stood behind her, his love for his new bride palpable. Papa, the youngest son of a viscount, had sacrificed everything to be with her: wealth, family, and social status. As far as Anabelle knew, he’d never regretted it. Until he’d been dying. He’d reached out to his parents then and begged them to provide for his wife and daughters.

  They’d never responded to his plea.

  And Anabelle would never forgive them.

  “You’re home! How was the shop?” Daphne glided into the parlor, her bright smile at odds with the smudges beneath her eyes. She wore a yellow dress that reminded Anabelle of the buttercups that grew behind their old cottage.

  She hastily returned the portrait to the table. “Wonderful. How’s Mama?”

  “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 br
eathed 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.

  Chapter Two

  Pardon, 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.

  My Lord Duke of Huntford,

  There is no way to pleasantly state this, so I shall be blunt. I have learned that your sister, Lady Olivia Sherbourne, is romantically involved with a servant in your household. They have met, unchaperoned, on more than one occasion. In addition, she has some rather unconventional views regarding relationships between servants and members of the aristocracy.

  I regret to inform you of this news, as I’m sure you find it exceedingly troubling. I further regret to inform you that this information will be made public in the next issue of The London Tattler unless you precisely follow the instructions given below.

  First, you must wrap 40 gold sovereign coins in a handkerchief and secure it with a string.

  Second, tomorrow night, after dusk, have a servant take the coins to the stone footbridge that spans the north end of the Serpent River in Hyde Park. He must place the coins just under the east side of the bridge on the flat rock next to the riverbank.

  Third, neither you nor your servant may lie in wait or attempt to discover my identity. If I detect anyone in the vicinity of the bridge, I will not attempt to retrieve the coins but will instead deliver a letter containing news of your sister’s activities directly to The Tattler’s offices.

  Rest assured, however, that if you do as I’ve instructed, I will never reveal your sister’s secret, nor will I trouble you in the future. I give you my word on this.

  Sincerely yours,

  A Necessarily Resourceful Citizen

  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.

&
nbsp; 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.”