35. Chapter 35 #2
How small that risk now seemed. How selfish. Especially considering the way everything her husband did was aimed at making others’ lives better.
It was time for Annabelle to be bold. To give something back. Something costly, like her heart, and ask nothing in return.
She entered his office, shut the door behind her, and breathed in the masculine scents of leather, old wood, and the faint hint of his cologne. Then, squaring her shoulders, she padded across the carpets to seat herself behind his desk.
She withdrew a blank piece of parchment from the neat stack atop his desk, then sat in his big chair and availed herself of his writing implements.
Holding the quill aloft, she hesitated briefly as she decided on what precisely to say. In the end, simple honesty struck her as the best approach.
She dipped the sharpened quill into the ink and scratched out the words.
My dear Sterling,
By the time you get this, I will undoubtedly be gone.
After due consideration, I have decided to permit you to collect Caroline and me en route to London if that is still your desire, once you learn that I have committed a grave social faux pas.
It seems that, despite my best efforts, I have fallen in love with my generous, kind, and sometimes bullheaded husband and I fear the condition is permanent.
Your loving wife,
Annabelle
She blotted the ink, assuring herself it was dry before folding the parchment and sliding open the slender top drawer of her husband’s desk.
Beholding the drawer’s contents, she blinked, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The folded parchment in the center of the drawer looked to be written in an all too familiar hand.
Fingers trembling, she withdrew the foolscap and gazed at the bold, black script, clearly addressed to Sterling. Her father’s penmanship. There could be no doubt.
She swallowed. Told herself this could be an old letter which Sterling may have received during Caroline and Gaston’s courtship.
It could be anything at all.
In any case, she had no right to read it. It was not addressed to her.
She replaced it, closed the drawer, rose on unsteady legs and started for the door. Midway across the chamber, she stopped, turned, and headed back to the desk. After all, she told herself, everyone knew she was curious to a fault.
***
By the time Sterling traversed Fenwick, and the home of the late Jack Blackwell came into view, the afternoon sun slanted high across the narrow lane, illuminating the row of low, tile-roofed cottages and their connecting work yards.
He’d arrived a good hour later than he’d hoped, but what had delayed him had been entirely worth it.
He’d needed to make a point.
Ha. He’d needed to make love with his wife. To show her exactly what she’d be missing if she followed through with her silly threat to spend the entire Season away from him.
He had not anticipated that response from her.
He’d intuitively understood she’d be disgruntled by his claim that her presence here was precluding him from accomplishing his tasks.
But he’d weighed the risks and opted for vexing her into compliance.
Better that than the alternative, whereby she outright refused to go as she no doubt would if she knew the real reason he wanted her gone: to keep her safe.
So he’d insulted her into leaving, and she’d bared her claws. He’d anticipated that.
But hearing her blithely announce her intention to frolic for months in a spa town without him? No, he had not seen that coming.
Reaching Jack’s cottage, he reined in Zeus and dismounted, then tethered the animal to a work-yard railing a slight distance from where a second, smart looking horse stood, stamping his hooves into the dusty gravel. The magistrate, Mr. North’s horse, he guessed.
Good. He’d worried that he’d missed North, who would be privy to all the pertinent details concerning the guide’s suspicious death.
Before entering the cottage, he took a good look around. Two cottages to the left, a woman hung wash on the line, her back to him. As he watched, she flicked a glance over her shoulder at him.
To the immediate right, two men talked quietly as they hunched over some machinery they appeared to be repairing. Like the woman, they appeared to pay him no mind.
But they were not unaware of his presence. More likely, they monitored his every move. Before he left, he would question the lot of them.
He would use his rank, his wealth, and anything else in his arsenal to get to the bottom of this mystery.
And if necessary, he’d risk his wife’s annoyance a thousand times to keep her safe. But he would not allow her to flit about the countryside without him.
Spend the Season apart, indeed.
He made his way into the cottage.
Mr. North, the magistrate to whom he’d entrusted the body of Annabelle’s late maid, glanced up as he entered the small dwelling.
“Lord Randall, I see you got my message. I thought perhaps Mr. Blackwell’s death would be of interest to you, since you shared his connection to the unfortunate woman who’d been murdered. ”
“Indeed.” Sterling approached the short but burly man, arm extended for a shake. “I appreciate your timely notice and very much hope you can fill me in on the details.”