Chapter Nine
Anna made it out of the hedge maze and onto the steps leading up to the terrace the same time an azure blur launched itself out the glass door. A blur that became a familiar figure upon closer inspection.
She came to the top step and tilted her head. Yes, even at the perpendicular angle, Jackson was crouched behind a large lilac bush in a rather ostentatious floral pot. She waited for him to notice her, but his gaze was fixed on the glass doors. “Duke.”
“Gah!” Jackson whirled around, a hand to his chest. Seeing her, the tension dropped from his shoulders. “Anna.” He swallowed notably. “Er—you caught me.”
That boyish look of contrition . . . something in her chest warmed against her will.
Anna’s gaze went from the open door and back. “If I caught you, that means you are hiding.”
The tips of his ears went pink. “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I have a good reason.”
“Such as?”
More pink, this time staining his cheeks. He grumbled something that sounded strangely like “beasts” before he straightened his cuffs but didn’t move into the sightline of those who may glance outside from what appeared to be the parlor. “What are you doing here?”
“I arrived not ten minutes ago by carriage. No one answered the door when my maid knocked, so I thought to go through the garden maze—”
“And you didn’t lose your way?”
She scowled. People needed to stop thinking of her as a wayward child. “Obviously.”
“Where is your brother?!”
Jackson flinched at the shrill shout that came from inside the house. “May I present the reason I was hiding, and the reason your arrival was not noted by the staff?”
Anna frowned as another shout went up, this one just as commanding, as condescending and authoritative. And female. Only one position in the house that filled all roles. “The dowager duchess, I presume?”
He nodded.
So did she.
“Very well.” May as well get this over with.
She walked through the open door and into a lushly furnished parlor with facing divans in cream damasks and a grand harp in the corner. The two people—an older woman with a pinched expression and a young man with a decidedly more pleasant one—gaped at her.
The woman reacted first. “How dare you enter Grandfellow Hall unannounced. Identify yourself at once!”
Anna instantly decided this woman—the Dowager Duchess of Grandfellow—with her overembellished dress, pile of graying locks neatly coiled around her crown, and curling lip would never accept her as the new duchess. All the better. There was no need to pretend, then.
“Which is it, Your Grace?” Anna asked without inflection. “Must I return to the hall and have your butler announce me properly, or shall I take on the proper airs and save us all the shuffling about by announcing myself?”
The man stepped forward, his smile wide. “You must be the lovely Miss Greene.” He looked down at her right hand.
Anna belatedly remembered to raise it for his access.
The man’s blue eyes were dancing when he pressed a chaste kiss to her gloved knuckles. “Bravo!” he whispered.
Anna recognized those eyes, so like Jackson’s. The same straight nose, the same mocking lift to his mouth. “You are his brother.” Lord Figaro, if she remembered right.
The man winked. “Guilty as charged.”
“What are you muttering about?” the dowager duchess demanded. “Really, Figaro, who is this insulting woman?”
“This would be Miss Annabeth Greene,” Jackson said, stepping into the parlor, his expression contrite.
Anna arched a brow in his direction. “Decided to use that backbone and join us after all, Duke?” she taunted.
Lord Figaro coughed beside her, though Anna swore she’d heard the words, “I love her.”
“Jackson.” There was a subtle thawing to the dowager duchess’s cold stare.
“You have returned.” A sharp chill permeated the room as she turned her attention back to Anna.
“I assume this Miss Greene is a wayward servant for whom you had the charitable mind to find a position?” The old woman sniffed.
“She needs lessons in addressing her betters before she is fit for more than a visit from the local butcher.”
Anna smiled, making sure all her teeth showed.
Jackson came up beside her and laced his fingers with hers.
The small show of solidarity had her glancing up . . . straight into those blazing eyes.
“Mother, Figaro, may I present—”
The parlor door opened.
“—Miss Greene.” Jackson squeezed her hand. “My betrothed.”
There were gasps from the doorway.
A man in butler grays stood in the doorway with his mouth open, as if frozen in the action of announcing visitors.
The visitors: three older women in matching black bombazine, one holding a large volume in her arms.
Anna had seen two plays in her life, both low-quality productions by a traveling troubadour group that passed through Widmore every spring.
The way the three ladies clutched their chests in unison, their gazes volleying back and forth between her and the dowager duchess, rather reminded Anna of the overly staged gestures.
Guess that made Anna the comedic device.
She sighed. Extricating her fingers from Jackson’s grip, she curtsied to Jackson’s family, low enough the dowager duchess couldn’t claim fault, and said, “Your Grace.” A slight turn.
“Lord Figaro.” Another turn to the ladies at the door, and this time, Anna noted the title of the book in the one lady’s hands.
She took in the trio with new eyes and smiled. “And you are the weird sisters, I presume?”
Jackson sucked in a breath. She hadn’t just . . . She wouldn’t.
But of course, she would.
Anna had just called three of the most influential widows in the English countryside strange to their faces.
Everyone stood frozen.
God, he had to diffuse the situation before the spiders ate her alive. But his mind was reeling. In what order did he make introductions again? “May I introduce the Dowager Viscountess Tisway, the Dowager Viscountess Holloway, and the Dowager Baroness Febass. Ladies, may I present—”
“Yes, yes, we heard.” There was a gruff cackle from Lady Febass, the black, laced bonnet on her head tipping dangerously with the action. “Hail to thee, Miss Greene.” A waved hand to Jackson’s mother. “A charming addition to our coven.” A shrewd look directed at Anna. “But can she play?”
Anna smiled. “Cards, piano, or illiterate dukes, for your pleasure, my lady.”
The three widows shared another laugh, looking truly amused.
Jackson needed to sit down.
“What is this nonsense about a betrothal?” At least his mother could be counted on to remain true to irked form. “Who is this woman, Jackson? What are her connections? Who are her family?”
“Never mind all that,” Lady Holloway said. “Miss Greene, did you say? Your father would not have been Henry Greene, the great locksmith?”
Anna stiffened. “Yes.”
“A locksmith!” The dowager duchess looked faint. “Jackson, you cannot be serious?”
“More than that,” Lady Tisway said. “Her brother is also the new Viscount Brixby. Titled and honored by the Regent himself.”
That had gotten the dowager duchess’s attention. “‘Honored’?”
Lady Tisway was still looking at Anna. “For distinguished heroism on the battlefield.”
Anna startled.
Jackson would share in her surprise, except the spiders always knew everything about everyone. As if every fly on the wall came to report.
Lady Tisway shared a look with the other ladies before her gaze fixed on Anna’s face. “Come closer, girl, so I may see you better. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
Anna—alarmingly obedient—came forward and stood for inspection.
When she’d finished, Lady Tisway looked pleased. “You’ll do. Now, tell me straight: how are you at whist? I won’t take on any greenhorn as my partner.” She nodded toward the baroness and the other viscountess. “Not with those two vipers always upping the ante.”
Lady Febass sniffed. “It’s not fun unless there are stakes.”
“Ladies, really!” The dowager duchess admonished. “It is unseemly to openly gamble.”
Lady Holloway cast their hostess a blank expression. “Then, by all means, Ester, look away.”
Jackson had walked into an alternate Grandfellow Hall, he was sure of it. That, or he was having a terrible reaction to the pudding he’d eaten yesterday. A feeling of queasy excitement that was becoming commonplace.
His gaze went to Anna, knowing exactly from whom the feeling had originated.
She smiled as the trio of women shooed away the servants and busied themselves clearing off the table at the far end of the room and rearranging the chairs before a deck of cards was produced.
His betrothed could plant a fine facer and tame wicked widows.
Lady Tisway waved a hand and called, “Miss Greene, come join us.”
Jackson stopped Anna with a light touch to her arm, feeling compelled to warn her, “You’re in the thick of it now.” The smiles on the ladies’ faces must be a ploy before the fatal strike. “You are lucky they misunderstood your insult earlier.”
Anna studied his face. “Another reference you are unacquainted with, I see.” She shook her head at his questioning look. “‘The weird sisters’ are a reference to Macbeth.”
“A book?”
Lady Tisway snorted, the lady’s hearing apparently fine. “A play, boy.”
Anna threw a smug smile at him. “Yes. One of Shakespeare’s finest portrayals of how greed can turn a man into a tyrannical monster.”
Jackson smirked at the inference. “I promise you, dearest,” he said, for her ears only this time, “when I show you my monster side, it is you who will beg for everything. And more.”
Anna swallowed audibly as the finest blush traced over her cheeks.
“You should read more, Your Grace,” the baroness called, dealing the cards. “Or, at least attend the theater. You’d embarrass yourself less.”
Anna coughed a laugh beside him.
The corners of his lips curled upward. “Yes,” he said, starting to enjoy the torment. “My lovely intended frequently reminds me.”