Chapter 4 #2
Annabelle did not seem to require a response, however, as she picked up her spoon and resumed eating.
By God, she had said a mouthful. As for his sister—he would deal with her ridiculous assertion at his first opportunity. Guilt? He had no guilt in Dillon’s death—if, indeed, that was the incident to which she’d referred.
The fault for the so-called “incident” rested squarely on the shoulders of the woman who had played Dillon against another man, inviting the duel that took his friend’s life.
But he had no intention of defending himself to Lady Annabelle. None whatsoever.
“Are you saying you eavesdropped on my private conversation with my sister as I was leaving?” he asked instead.
Engaged in dipping her spoon, she clanged the utensil against the porcelain bowl. “I…came to see you out. I may have accidentally overheard a snippet of the conversation between you and Lady Caroline. One in which you disparaged Gaston and…my family.”
And her, hung in the air between them.
He snorted and resumed his own meal. “Eavesdroppers get what they get, my grandfather always said.”
Out of the periphery of his vision, he saw her pretty mouth curve into a pout before she schooled her features.
“She was wrong, by the way,” he added. “I do not feel any guilt over the deed, misplaced or otherwise.”
“As you say,” she murmured.
He sighed. Swiped his serviette over his mouth. “I apologize for my outburst. Earlier. I know nothing of your parents’ household management. I was unspeakably rude.”
“On multiple fronts,” she agreed.
And though her obvious satisfaction galled him, he could hardly protest. He nodded once.
In the awkward silence that followed, he rose, reached for her dinner plate, and filled it with a large portion of cod and asparagus, then plucked a dinner roll from the breadbasket and set it on her bread plate.
“Thank you,” she said as he served himself. “I appreciate your hospitality, under the circumstances.”
He sat, slanting her an amused glance before forking up a bite of flaky fish. “Think nothing of it,” he said. “Why should a little thing like being accused of complicity in your brother’s so-called suspicious death by an uninvited guest cause a man to withhold his welcome?”
Her lips twitched in response, and her tilted ocean blue gaze met his.
For a moment, the adversarial tension between them vanished, and they were just a man and woman, sharing an amicable repast.
She blinked first, and returned her attention to her plate, brows furrowed.
Small favors. He accepted the respite. “May I ask you about your interaction this evening with these so-called robbers?”
He felt her glare on him before a glance in her direction confirmed the suspicion. “You take issue with me asking?”
Her blue eyes sparked with annoyance. “I take issue with your implication I invented the blackguards.”
He sent her a conciliatory smile. “I beg your pardon. It’s not that I doubt you.” Much. “I merely hadn’t heard tell of any robbers lurking about. I will need to deal with this.”
“Why? This land is not entailed. Why not leave the matter to the authorities? Assuming there are any, this far from civilization.”
He ignored her barb in favor of considering the more pressing subject. Namely, that she seemed privy to quite a lot of personal information, such as knowing he owned a large chunk of the island outright. Which again begged the question: how had she come by her information?
He decided to answer her blunt query in the hope she might, in turn, reveal her own sources.
“My grandfather, the late Marquess of Huntsleigh, first came to Holy Island on a reconnaissance mission for the Crown, to ascertain whether or not this particular border was susceptible to invasion.”
Seeing her keen look of interest, he went on. “The North Sea, and the location of Holy Island in particular, could easily provide an entry point for marauders or any force seeking a stronghold on British shores. Strange as it might seem to one such as you—”
“Such as me?”
His gaze flicked over her. How to politely phrase his perception of her and her clan?
She and her family epitomized the socially motivated, newly-minted aristocrat.
The sort lacking the blue blood necessary to claim the highest ranks of society.
The sort willing to do whatever necessary not to descend the ranks—be that marry well, walk on the backs of those deemed socially inferior, or lie, cheat, and steal.
Women of her ilk had likely never conceived of a peer’s responsibilities extending beyond his estates.
He heard a rhythmic sound and realized she was tapping her booted toe under the table with increasing impatience. He reminded himself he had already treated her with ungentlemanly disdain once this evening.
“Someone with little understanding of the expansive duties and responsibilities a member of the peerage, or even a commoner of vast wealth, truly bears.”
She frowned in the manner of one intrigued by a notion. “Go on.”
“Suffice it to say, once he purchased Stoneford Castle, the limestone kilns and the surrounding acreage, my grandfather appointed himself the protector of the island and its inhabitants.”
She slid a morsel of fish onto her fork. “I see. And you feel it is your duty to carry on the tradition.”
He nodded, searching her expression for underlying derision. Amazingly, he saw none. He was not entirely convinced it was not there, lurking, however.
She set her fork down and eyed him. “I’m happy to answer any of your questions regarding my experience.” Spoken like one issuing a royal boon.
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “A description would be helpful, for starters. My assumption is the pair were misbegotten youths, looking to sow misadventure and line their pockets.”
She shook her head. “Doubtful.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Your version of events calls to mind miscreants. Young men, perhaps teenagers, likely impoverished and with idle hands, sneaking onto the island to sow mayhem.”
He half-nodded, ceding her point.
“The men who attacked me were grown, older than myself, certainly, and, I would wager to say, have made a decent living at their ill-gotten trade.”
He propped his elbow on the table and dropped his chin in his hand, studying her. “Explain the latter.”
Surprise flickered in her eyes, almost as if she had not anticipated him asking her opinion.
“The man who rifled beneath my cloak with his grasping fingers in search of valuables had a fine horse.” She cocked her head and stared into space as if calling an image to mind.
“Approximately sixteen hands, well-muscled, chestnut in color. High strung, but the blackguard knew how to handle the animal.”
Uninvited, the scene played out in his mind—Annabelle, alone, and at the mercy of two seasoned criminals. Anger, swift and deadly, surged through him. So much so that it took him a moment to rein in his temper enough to speak.
“That is very helpful,” he finally managed. “The men were of an age—with me?”
“Oh yes, quite ancient.” She grinned. “A bit older than you, I think.”
An answering smile tugged at his mouth. "And at least one was an expert horseman. Do you think you could recognize either man?”
A considering light gleamed in her eyes as she pursed her ruby lips. No, not ruby as he’d first supposed. A juicy summer raspberry, all the more enticing, set off against a complexion of rich cream.
“No. Maybe. He had beady eyes and a hard voice.”
“What is a hard voice?”
She shook her head, as if unsure. Then she glanced his way. Her eyes widened, and she cleared her throat.
He jerked his gaze from her mouth. Good God. How long had he been staring at her mouth, for the love of the saints?
Sterling concentrated all his attention on his plate, on sliding a mound of fish onto his fork, and cursed the tell-tale heat coursing up his neck.