Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Anna
“More butter,” I said to Mrs. Devon, licking my finger after sampling the French beans. “I need everything just a little bit ... more tonight.” I squinted at her, and she nodded in understanding. Her features were wrinkled with age and wisdom. Our cook loved a challenge, but more, she loved getting things just right. I suspected she loved helping me butter up Papa too, which I needed tonight, desperately.
I needed out of London.
“And the lamb?” she asked with patient eyes, hands hovering above the platter of perfectly sliced meat.
“Oh, the lamb is divine.” I reached to pinch off another piece, but she shooed my hand away, her humor evident in the way she held back her pleased smile.
“You’ll dirty that lovely gown before dinner,” she muttered, handing me a rag to wipe my fingers.
Mrs. Devon was so good to me. So good, I often found myself at her little table belowstairs. Coddled with a slice of late-night pie or a plate of buttered bread, listening to the quiet sounds of servants chattering happily together as they cleaned and prepared for the next day. I envied their comradery. The family they’d created. Papa had become so busy of late.
Through childhood, I’d have said our lives were near perfect. Papa was all I had, but he was all I’d needed. In London, he saw to business and his many holdings. But every summer, he’d take me to Lyme. Just the two of us. He’d say, “Where shall we go, Annie?” and I’d beg for sand and shells and the chance to unearth treasures. He’d bring his book and a few blankets and pillows with us to the seaside, and I’d explore.
Looking back, I couldn’t help but wonder how he survived those trips. He endured my ceaseless questioning about fossils and bones and oddly shaped shells, my temper when I’d forgotten to eat or drink, and then my half-drenched form splayed across his lap for an hour’s nap halfway through the day. No matter if I was an utter devil to take home by nightfall. He’d smile. Again and again for a fortnight by the sea.
As I grew older, I’d hunted less for treasure, more satisfied to sit alongside him and read. Instead of questioning him about shells, I’d question him about Shakespeare and Aristotle. I’d wonder about life and what I might do, where it might take me. And Papa would challenge my thinking, encourage me to consider different points of view. I never felt too young or silly or inadequate. If I lacked knowledge, he’d simply point me in the right direction to find it. And most certainly, if I needed him, I only had to ask.
We’d last been to Lyme three years ago.
And unfortunately for me, finding Papa when I needed him—for anything more than a passing conversation or private dinner—was proving to be a difficult task.
Mrs. Devon brought over the butter dish and sliced several thin pieces to lay over the French beans. “Your father would put butter on his butter if it was all we had left to eat.”
Indeed. With this spread, I’d certainly have Papa’s attention tonight.
“Miss Lane.” Lyons approached, holding a massive bouquet of roses in his arms, a small card attached. “For you. Where shall I put these?”
“I should think that depends on who they are from.” Mrs. Devon frowned, her gaze flicking toward mine. She was the only one I’d told.
Lyons looked at the card. “Mr. Alexander Lennox.”
My jaw clenched, muscles seizing to run as though the man himself was about to turn the corner. The nerve of him, sending me flowers after what he’d done. He’d taken my hand, led me around a turn in the garden, and spoken such lovely words that I’d let him kissme before my maid, Mariah, caught up to us. I shook my head, remembering how thin and dry his lips had been. The whole experience had been as lackluster as a paste diamond. I should have known to abandon him then. But some of us did not have mamas to teach us the ways of men.
“Throw them out,” Cook ordered with a raised finger. “We’ve no use for dirty roses here.”
Lyons looked utterly confused. “But they’re from—”
“Do throw them out, please,” I insisted, then softened the directive with a smile.
“And the card?”
A card? What more could he possibly say? I inhaled deeply and huffed the air out with a wave of my hand. “I am certain it is filled with a thousand apologies, pleading for forgiveness—nothing he has not said already. But I do not wish to hear from nor see him again.” Which was why I had to leave London by week’s end before he returned from Bath.
Oh, I’d made a grand mistake trusting Alexander Lennox. The worst of all.
“Out with them!” Mrs. Devon swiped at the air between us. “Can you not see she is overset? That man is a rake and a scoundrel, Mr. Lyons, and we don’t need reminding!”
Lyons’s eyes grew wide, and his back straightened. “Immediately, Miss Lane.” And he was off.
I blew out another breath, my shoulders sagging. The Season had been a disaster. When I’d confronted Mr. Lennox about the woman he’d secretly proposed to, he’d admitted everything. He’d been engaged for months, but the arrangement was not to his liking, and he did not love her. Not like he supposedly loved me. He could not bear to loseme. Would do anything to earn my forgiveness.
Then I learned that Mr. Lennox—handsome, charming, amiable Mr. Lennox—had spent his inheritance and needed more. Apparently my marriage settlement was worth far more than his intended’s. What he loved, it turned out, was not me but my father’s money.
I shook my head, as though the motion could rid me of the past month’s memories. I regretted every flutter of my heart; in fact, they made me ill to consider. The very idea that I’d given that man an ounce of my affection turned my heart as cold as stone. Were all men liars? Greedy, self-centered, and callous? I was beginning to believe so.
“Thank you, Mrs. Devon,” I said, touching the wooden table between us. “For dinner. And for everything.”
“Not at all, dear,” she said with an affectionate smile. “All will be well. You’ll see.”
She couldn’t know how much her words meant to me. How dearly I hoped she was right. I swallowed hard against the thickness brewing in my throat and blinked through the burning in my eyes. I hadn’t loved Mr. Lennox—how could I? I hadn’t truly knownhim, just the fa?ade he portrayed. But I had trusted him. I’d given him my time and my dreams. And now I felt like the grandest fool.
How was I to face the whispers that were sure to come once news of Mr. Lennox’s entanglement spread? As much as I appreciated Mrs. Devon, her pies and buttered bread could only help so much. I needed to be away from London for as long as possible. I needed to go to Lyme with Papa—just the two of us.
I nodded to Mrs. Devon and turned toward the stairs.
Lyons waited for me at the top, standing tall and resolute.
“Where is Papa?” I asked, glancing at myself in a mirror in the foyer. I winced at the pale girl staring back and pinched my cheeks. My dark hair, curled and pinned, had come from Papa, but my honey-brown eyes were, I was told, from my mother.
Lyons wrung his hands together, then promptly shoved them behind his back. “Mr. Lane is in his study.”
I checked the clock on the mantel. “By now, he should already be dressed for dinner. I shall go and—”
“Allow me.” Lyons stepped back. His features were more wrinkled than usual, not defensive, but also not welcoming.
Why should he care if I wanted to see Papa? I tilted my head and blew out a little laugh. Perhaps, as Papa often claimed, I was reading too much into nothing. “I should like to remind him of the promise he made to be punctual,” I said with a playfully raised brow.
“Of course.” Lyons cleared his throat. “Only, Mr. Lane is entertaining at present.”
My spine went rigid. Father did not entertain at this hour. There was only one person who had an open-door invitation to come and go as he pleased. One man who’d been a catalyst for all my problems, for everything had changed after he’d first shadowed our door three years ago.
But that man had quit London two days ago.
Indeed, that man made Alexander Lennox’s attempts to charm look tame in comparison. He’d swooped into our lives with gleaming opportunities, and before I could blink, he’d stolen Papa’s time and attention, and left me with the wolves.
Yes, the mere thought of that man made me itch all over.
I took a few even breaths despite the nerves collecting in my stomach. No, no. It couldn’t be him. He’d been excited to leave London. Happy to spend extended time with his family. I vaguely recalled choking out a laugh at some stupid joke he made as he waved goodbye, giddy with the pleasure of seeing him go. Papa’s caller couldn’t be him.
Then, who?
I offered Lyons a tight smile. “At this hour? The matter must be quite urgent. Who has come to call?”
Lyons’s shoulders sank as he heaved a great sigh. “After the flowers, I wish not to disappoint you again, Miss Lane.”
No. Not tonight. Not when I needed Papa most.
“Don’t say it, Mr. Lyons. Don’t you dare say his name.”
He was shaking his head. I knew he’d heard me rage belowstairs to Mrs. Devon more times than I’d care to admit, in such an unladylike manner my cheeks grew warm just thinking on it. Because of that, he knew I’d need preparing. So he lifted his shoulders once more, met my gaze with firm resolution, and said, “Forgive me, Miss Lane. But Mr. Everett has indeed returned.”