Chapter 4
Sterling stared out the multipaned, inset window of his office, and brooded as he awaited Lady Annabelle. Though he was famished, manners dictated that supper be held until she showed and he escorted her into the dining hall. It was the least he could do—quite literally.
He was not in the habit of dressing for dinner, and he had not changed his routine out of deference for his uninvited guest.
Although, he had considered doing so. Years of good breeding could not be easily dismissed. For Lady Montrose, however, he made the effort.
An odd sense of agitation had him in its grip. Had him wanting to move. To pace. To prowl. It was Annabelle’s arrival, of course, that precipitated the restless energy. Not the woman herself—simply what her presence here might mean.
He turned from the window to eye the tall shelves filled with the artifacts and tomes his grandfather had accumulated.
Mainly books on astronomy. His passion for studying the stars, a love for which he’d passed down to Sterling, had been a contributing factor in his decision to purchase the castle—and why he’d left the construct to him.
Sterling wished the old man was here now.
His stomach rumbled and he wondered how long he would be made to wait while she did whatever ladies did to refresh themselves after a journey.
It couldn’t be much in this case, as she had brought with her no personal effects.
No gowns to change into, no combs or hair embellishments or powders or tonics.
She had come intent on one thing and one thing only—dragging him back to London to speak with a detective of the Yard.
He wandered to the large, ornate desk that took up one corner of the space, and picked up the polished glass paperweight sitting atop the blotter. The glass felt icy and smooth and utterly solid in his grasp.
Lady Annabelle must be lying. It made no sense that the Yard would wish to speak with him. It was not something normally done, for Scotland Yard to look for problems when an obvious conclusion existed, especially if doing so meant questioning a member of the aristocracy.
In this instance, Lord Gaston Montrose had been found dead on the floor beside his bed, having, apparently, stumbled upon rising following a night of drunken debauchery.
The fact that a member of the aristocracy—Sterling, as it happened—had been seen with him the night before was a matter of course.
Precisely the conclusion Sterling had expected them to reach.
The fresh, tantalizing scent he’d noted in Lady Annabelle’s periphery teased his nostrils. He replaced the paperweight and shifted to face the open doorway.
There she stood, expression defiant, bearing regal as a queen’s despite wearing a rumpled gown.
She’d re-pinned her hair into an elegant twist, leaving none of the loose tendrils that had fallen to frame her face earlier.
It turned out either style became her. Her hair shone in the candlelit chamber like spun gold.
By God, she was beautiful, and well she knew it.
“Shall we go in to dinner?” he asked without preamble.
She nodded once, and he strode toward her. An odd uncertainty flicked through him. Normally, he would take a lady’s arm to lead her into supper. Propriety said he should do that now. Loath as he was to bestow the courtesy, he could not quite bring himself to eschew every ingrained habit.
He offered her his arm.
She glanced down at his proffered elbow in obvious surprise, ruby lips parting slightly. Then she swallowed, looking almost shy, and placed her hand on his arm.
Energy sparked through him at her touch, shooting straight to his groin.
He drew in a mind-clearing breath and got a noseful of sophisticated mélange— rosemary, lavender, lemon, and smoke—that struck him as all wrong.
It didn’t match her pretentious, shallow existence.
She should favor candy-sweet violet. This herb-infused scent bespoke elegance and made him want to nuzzle the place behind her ears in search of more.
And for the love of the saints, why was he spending any thought on this insanity?
Luckily, his feet had not stalled alongside his brain and their descent down the broad, spiral stone staircase proceeded at a normal clip.
Once in the dining room, he was never so grateful to relinquish his hold on anyone.
He held out her chair for her, then made for his own adjacent seat at the head of the table.
He should have instructed Nell to put the lady’s place setting at the opposite end of the table, he thought, snapping open his serviette.
Within minutes, Nell entered the room pushing a cart laden with several dishes. Babette came in behind her, evidently to assist.
“What has Cook prepared for us this evening?” he asked in a friendly tone, studying Babette as she placed one of the plates, her gaze transfixed on Annabelle.
He frowned a question at Nell.
“Och, in keeping with the cold, Cook thought some oxtail soup might warm you up, and some nice baked cod and roasted turnips, milord.” She looked up, then, and a dawning light of understanding crossed her features.
Babette was a lady’s maid, or had been in her previous life, before tragedy had left its ugly mark on her, leaving her somewhat touched. She did not normally function as a working maid in this household.
Oh, he and the staff had devised tasks for her. Typically, she fluffed pillows, rearranged items on shelves to make them more aesthetically appealing, an odd skill for which she had a distinct flair, all the while wielding a feather duster like a wand. But she did not serve dinner.
Nell shifted her eyes toward Annabelle briefly in a silent answer. Though he could not be certain, he comprehended that his interpretation was that Babette had taken a shine to Lady Annabelle.
Good God. It was like a toddler drawn to a razor-sharp blade by its silvery gleam.
The moment Annabelle seemingly noticed Babette’s stare locked on her, she frowned in disapproval. Babette’s face immediately fell.
“Thank you, Nell, Babette, that will be all,” he hastened to say, gratified when Nell took the hint and ushered her helper from the room with an apologetic grimace.
That left him to serve, something he vastly preferred to witnessing one of Babette’s crying jags.
Unless he missed his guess, Lady Annabelle would not resist the chance to criticize. Might as well get this over with. He reached for the ladle in the tureen with one hand and held out his other for her bowl.
She sniffed and handed him the dish. “You did say you have limited staff.”
He ladled out a generous portion and proffered the dish, which she accepted, placing it before herself.
Swiping up a soup spoon, she cocked her head. “The maid. What is wrong with her? Why does she stare like that, and more to the point, why do you allow it? No maid like that would last in my parents’ home.”
“Truer words,” he said, and something in his tone must have struck her, because out of the corner of his eye, he saw her head snap in his direction.
“My parents’ home runs like clockwork.”
“Congratulations,” he said dryly.
She spooned up several bites of soup in blessed silence. “You did not answer my question.”
He swallowed several spoonfuls himself, then said, “Not that it is any of your concern, but she was hurt. Someone hurt her,” he added a moment later, reading the intention to press for more on her beautiful, and yes, intelligent face. He hoped that would be the end of it.
It wasn’t.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. As it is not my story to tell, and I only came by it secondhand, I will merely share with you that she was employed, in a manner of speaking, by my family when the incident occurred, and, unlike some families of the ton, mine does not toss out defenseless servants to fend for themselves when they become inconvenient.”
Her mouth fell open, not missing the implication. “How dare you? What do you know of my family? Precisely nothing.”
He snorted. “Are you saying if a maid turned up pregnant, she would not be cast off?”
Her mouth worked, and a red stain crawled up her cheeks. “Of all the crass subjects to broach. And what has that to do with—”
“What if a butler’s arthritis made his gait slow? More damning still, what if a governess or chambermaid proved too tempting?”
Her expression morphed with each additional question he threw at her. In rapid succession, her initial defensiveness and pique gave way to bemusement, then chagrin, then outright confusion, though through it all she seemed clear that he, by inference, had insulted her family.
“Tempting? Tempting for whom? No, do not answer that.” She held up one hand, palm out, and closed her eyes briefly in an obvious attempt to regain her composure.
“I know what this is,” she said quietly, as if to herself.
“Lady Caroline explained about the incident.” She shot him a glare.
“Not that it excuses your abhorrent behavior.”
A moment ago, for a split second, guilt had pricked him. He’d gone too far, and he knew it. If his grandfather had witnessed his unspeakable rudeness, he’d give Sterling an ear lashing that would leave him temporarily deaf.
But with Annabelle’s mention of his sister, the apology on his lips died.
“What about my sister?”
Busy spooning up a portion of soup, she shook her head in dismissal. “Never mind.”
“I insist.” He articulated each word.
She put down her cutlery and met his eye.
“When I asked her about”—scarlet bloomed over her cheeks, but she did not look away—“your statements about my family and…me, the afternoon of the betrothal party for her and Gaston, she explained that, due to an incident involving a friend of yours, you had developed a bias against certain members of the ton that actually stems more from a misplaced sense of guilt rather than any actual wrongdoing by the upper class set whom you judge so harshly.”
Sterling blinked at her, stunned into momentary speechlessness.