8. Chapter 8
Annabelle dropped back into the armchair, fuming.
She did not like being dismissed. And she certainly did not like being accused of conniving to marry him as if…as if she were some sort of ugly beggar, desperate for a crumb of attention.
She was not ugly. She could have her pick of men.
Smoothing her skirts, she ordered herself to calm. To take this moment to gather herself. Thanks to Lord Randall’s ability to scramble her thoughts, she’d nearly spilled the details of what had occurred between Gaston and Caroline in their entirety.
She rose once more from the armchair and began to prowl the office.
She’d told Lord Randall that Gaston had claimed a desire to better acquaint himself with the patriarch of the family, the Marquess of Huntsleigh, by joining them at the gentlemen’s club. She’d told him that Lady Caroline had dissuaded him.
But she’d yet to detail how the conversation led her here. How could she tell him in such a way that did not paint her brother in a bad light and prove Lord Randall’s accusations correct?
Gaston had never liked being told no, and he knew how to apply pressure to achieve his ends. He had, no doubt, expected Caroline to bend to his will.
But she hadn’t, much to Annabelle’s secret approbation.
In her world, Gaston’s whims had been treated as law.
She moved to the window and stared out at the frozen vista, but in her mind’s eye, she pictured that afternoon as if it happened only yesterday…
Caroline sent Gaston a beseeching look. “You must understand that my brother and the marquess have always been extraordinarily close, from when he was a mere toddler. Like birds of a feather, they are, with their love of the stars and frequent trips to the north.”
Hearing the warmth in Lady Caroline’s tone, Annabelle’s own mouth curved in an answering smile, despite her dislike of the man. She flipped the page of the book she feigned reading.
“And? What has that to do with anything?”
Concerned by the waspish edge in her brother’s tone, she glanced up and saw he was now leaning toward Lady Caroline in a decidedly aggressive manner.
She wondered if he was aware. With Gaston, one could never be sure. At times, he employed such tactics quite purposefully to achieve his ends. Other times, his temper simply got the better of him, as all men’s did.
“My grandfather is ill, Gaston, and has been for some time,” Caroline said, her voice gentle but firm.
“I fear Sterling has been in something of a denial concerning the severity. Meanwhile, the two of them have had to cancel their biannual trip to Holy Island, where our grandfather owns properties—”
“Holy Island? Why on earth would anyone choose to venture to that God-forsaken place? A land full of ruffians and rustics that smell of fish and who haven’t a full set of teeth between the lot of them.”
Caroline recoiled at that, but soon recovered.
“Be that as it may, dearest, our grandfather’s illness has made any further travel quite impossible, something Sterling only grasped recently when he received legal documents showing the marquess has already bequeathed his precious castle to him. Sterling is quite beside himself.”
“And?”
Faced with his continued obstinacy, Lady Caroline folded her hands in her lap and fixed Gaston with a steady eye. “I simply do not think it a good idea for me to broach the subject of you joining my brother at this particular juncture.”
“Not a good idea?” he spat. “Your reasoning is unsound. Why on earth would he care if I join him? By God, I only need him to get me past the front door and to put in a good word. One would think you would obey me, your betrothed, with such a simple request.”
Lady Caroline stared at Gaston, as if momentarily struck speechles, and Annabelle held her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. To her knowledge, until that moment, Lady Caroline had never experienced his unbanked ire, which, when aroused, could be unpredictable.
“A…good word, Gaston? Whatever do you mean?”
Gaston made an obvious attempt to rein himself in, swiping back the golden locks of hair which had sprung forward over his brow and sending her a silken smile that sent a chill up Annabelle’s spine. The only thing worse than an irate Gaston was a calmly furious Gaston.
Though surely he wouldn’t hold Caroline’s astute advice concerning her brother against her?
Couldn’t he see she knew her brother better than he did?
Her prediction that he would not wish his time with his grandfather usurped was no doubt accurate—and showed a rather sweet aspect of Lord Randall—devil though the man was.
“I…thought I might seek membership.”
She sent Gaston a chiding smile. “You have no need of Sterling for that, Gaston. I believe the application process is rather straightforward. I can ask Father, if you like?”
“No, I do not like,” he snapped. “As my simple request is too difficult for you, let us forget the entire thing…”
Annabelle wished, then as now, that she could have confided in Caroline, but she dared not.
Doing so would have been too risky. Should Gaston have learned that she’d meddled in his affairs, informing his betrothed that White’s had discreetly but firmly advised him not to bother making a bid for membership, she would quickly have found herself on the receiving end of his wrath, not to mention her mother’s, who would surely have sided with him.
Mother had always sided with him. Even in his death, she sided with him against Annabelle, her own daughter. Witness her unfailing resolve to remain in keeping with his suggestions concerning Annabelle’s future.
To Gaston, Annabelle was naught but a tool.
A pretty face whose sole purpose in life was to enhance the family’s status through marriage—not to any one of her choosing, of course.
To that end, he had compiled a list of men, men whose fortunes, connections, or any number of characteristics he felt would benefit him and their father in the future.
He’d shared it with her parents, and after garnering their unmitigated approval, he shared it with her. One horrid name at a time.
He was dead, and still, that damned list hung overhead.
But she could change her parents’ minds, earn their love—if she proved her worth to the family. And how better to do that than by solving the mystery of Gaston’s death?
She eyed the closed door, fury building and coiling inside her. Lord Randall thought he could order her to wait like a child? Thought he could accuse her, insult her, deny her the justice she so desperately needed, and she would simply cower?
He could think again.
Fisting her hands, she stalked across the office and let herself out into the drafty corridor.
***
“Good afternoon, Lord Vane. I’m surprised to see you today,” Sterling said, entering the small downstairs parlor. “I wouldn’t have thought anyone foolish enough to venture the seas during this squall.”
Vane sent Sterling his customary toothy smile, one which managed to be both obsequious and arrogant.
The former he ascribed to the man’s desire to rub elbows with those he perceived as his betters, the latter to the wealth he’d somehow accrued and which he relished flaunting, going by his bejeweled fingers and flashy manner of dress, not to mention the funds he’d poured into the priory restoration.
He lowered his booted feet from the ottoman upon which he’d propped them, heedless of the ice and snow he’d trudged in, then rose from the sofa. “Lord Randall, how right you are. A traveler to the island on this day—or yesterday—would have risked his, or her, life.”
Sterling kept his expression carefully neutral, but he could not help but wonder at the man’s choice of wording. Did he somehow know of Lady Annabelle’s arrival?
“I arrived two days ago after several weeks away,” Vane went on, sighing as if in regret. “My estate in Beadnell has required my attention, of late, keeping me from my beloved priory, and I was anxious to return to see how the refurbishments I funded have progressed in my absence.”
“I see.”
Vane’s rings glinted in the muted light from the window behind him as he smoothed one hand over hair well slicked with dark pomade. “Alas, I was forced to put up at the local inn.”
Sterling nodded in polite acknowledgment and pretended not to comprehend the man’s inference—that if only Sterling would sell Stoneford Castle to him, as well as the land upon which it sat, limestone kilns and all, he would not have to make do with the less than stellar accommodations on the island.
An awkward silence followed. He knew he should offer the man a drink, but he also knew he wasn’t about to—and not simply because he wanted to get rid of him before disaster struck should Annabelle put in an appearance.
He did not like the man. He’d made a pest of himself, badgering Sterling to sell the property his grandfather had left him, even after being told, in no uncertain terms, the property was not for sale.
“Was there something you needed? I regret to say I am occupied at the moment with—” His words died when the air at his back stirred, and something behind him drew Vane's attention.
And then his face went slack.
Annabelle.
Crunching sounded in his ears. His own teeth, he realized, and made an effort to relax his jaw.
“Am I interrupting, Lord Randall?” came the lady’s too-sweet query.
In the guise of smiling his welcome, he glared over his shoulder at her.
She hovered in the open doorway, wide-eyed and, for all the world, innocent as a lamb.
So it had been a ploy. She thought to play him for a fool. He was not going to marry the chit, scandal be damned.
“Oh, you have a guest,” Vane said, sounding awed. “I had no notion.”
“Guests,” Sterling growled. Vane had no need to meet the lady’s chaperone to believe she existed—which she did. Just…not here.
Annabelle glowed under the man’s adoring gaze.
Or perhaps she simply glowed because…because she bloody did.