Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
“Married? Married?! How can he be married?” Annabelle Sinclair raged, throwing down the newspaper on the breakfast table, her beautiful features distorted by anger.
“What was that, dear?” asked an elderly woman in black at the other end of the table, putting an ear trumpet to her head. “Did you say that someone is married? Who is married?”
“The Duke of Westall, Aunt Ada,” Annabelle snapped.
“Who?” repeated her great aunt with a slight frown, trying to lean closer.
“Ambrose Clarke, the Duke of Westall,” the younger woman shouted down the table and muttered further to herself as she scanned the newspaper’s wedding announcement again, in case she had misunderstood something. “Damn his eyes! After all the effort I’ve put in.”
“The Duke of Westall… Is he a friend of yours, Annabelle?” her aged relative now inquired.
“I don’t believe I know him, although I may have met his grandparents, of course.
Their son married a very rich young woman, an heiress of some sort.
It was the wedding of the Season that year and everyone talked of it… ”
“No, you will not know him,” answered Annabelle shortly, cutting off her great-aunt’s reveries, before turning to the young maid who was trying to look unobtrusive as she cleared away the empty plates. “You, go and get Ellen for me. I must speak to her now.”
Eyes cast down fearfully, the maid dashed from the room on this errand.
“So, did he marry a friend of yours?” the deaf old woman continued to gently but persistently question her great-niece, still trying to make some sense of her agitation.
“Oh, for God’s sake, no! He did not.”
“Well then, why…”
Annabelle ignored this question and drummed her fingers impatiently on the table as she waited for Ellen, her personal maid.
Why would the old woman never shut up? Since Baron Chedwidden lost all his money and was forced to rent out their family’s London house, staying with Great Aunt Ada was the only way in which Annabelle could take part in the Season and hopefully snare herself a rich husband.
Still, sometimes the price of keeping company with the childless dowager Countess of Delingford seemed too high.
Annabelle had pinned her hopes on catching a husband this Season and not having to endure the old lady’s constant nosiness any longer.
She had, in fact, set her sights on a very particular man, but now it seemed that her plans had been thwarted by Lady Frances Harcourt, daughter of the Earl of Scovell, whoever she might be.
As Ellen came into the breakfast room, Annabelle picked up the newspaper again and thrust it at the blonde-haired young woman in a close-fitting dark dress.
“Read that,” she said savagely, as though it was somehow her maid’s fault that the Duke of Westall had found himself a wife. “The Duke of Westall was an unattached widower a month ago and ripe for the picking. Now he has married a woman I have never heard of.”
Ellen too seemed surprised by what she saw in the newspaper although her reaction was less extreme than that of her mistress.
“He was entirely unattached,” the maid said, as though confirming Annabelle’s words.
“I had that from several of the Westall Park staff and tradesman who deal with them. His grandmother, Lady Levene, wished him to marry but he had no interest. Even his valet remarked on it, according to the landlord of the local inn at Westall village.”
“It makes no sense,” Annabelle complained. “He is a duke, with a fortune that Croesus might envy due to his mother’s mining inheritance, and the finest physical form I have seen in a man in London. Why should he marry so suddenly after telling everyone that it is the last thing you want?”
“Maybe he fell in love?” the maid suggested blandly, much to her mistress’s scorn. “Or maybe he fell in lust and a quick wedding was needed to cover the results of such passion."
“Of course he didn’t. He isn’t the type, in either case. No, he was like a proud, free lion that must be stalked and hunted down for the kill. He was mine.”
To this slightly unhinged venting of frustration, Ellen said nothing, only handing back the newspaper and awaiting further instruction.
“I want to know how this happened and I want to know who she is, this Lady Frances Harcourt. Is she beautiful? Is she rich? Does she have bedroom skills that would make a professional blush? I want to know everything.”
“Yes, Miss Sinclair,” agreed the maid. “I will do my best.”
“You will do as I say,” Annabelle corrected her coldly. “Remember our deal. When I get rich, you get rewarded. I do not care what methods you must use. Go now.”
“Yes, Miss Sinclair.”
With a quick curtsey, Ellen left the room.
“Do you perhaps know the family of this duke who got married?” asked Great Aunt Ada, once the servant was gone, having been entirely unable to hear a word of their conversation.
“No, but I will know more soon,” Annabelle assured her with narrowing eyes. “Soon, I will know everything.”
Later that day, in a gentleman’s club across town, Oswald Keeton, Earl of Mulford, threw a copy of the same newspaper onto the small fire that was burning in the smoking room’s hearth despite the warmth of the day.
“They didn’t even have the courtesy to invite me to the damned wedding,” he commented resentfully, taking another swig of brandy from a crystal tumbler. “A family friend all my life and not even an invitation. What do you think of that, Hubert?”
The bleary-eyed young man in the chair by the fire regarded him with mystification. He had his own reasons for drinking the day away indoors. Despite some historic family connection, he did not know Lord Mulford well outside their club, being six years his junior.
“Very bad,” he ventured, hoping nothing more complicated than this would be required of him, and received a nod of acknowledgement from the older man.
“We played together as children,” added Oswald indignantly. “We were the best of friends. Our families were neighbors for generations. How dare they marry her off without even telling me!”
“Very bad,” repeated the younger man, since this had proved sufficient last time.
He would have wandered off in search of his own less-complicated and over-emotional friends if Lord Mulford had not summoned over a full bottle of brandy and fresh glasses.
That made it worth listening to a tale of woe.
Hubert’s father had recently cut his allowance in an attempt to control his drinking and opportunities like this were not to be missed.
“Yes, very bad indeed. Lady Frances should have been mine damn it all, one way or another. I had plans for us. She was owed to me, after all the damage her family did to mine.”
Young Lord Baxter regarded his companion owlishly after listening to this latest outburst only slowly gathering who Lord Mulford was actually talking about. The words made little sense but he knew he was expected to make some remark in exchange for his brandy.
“Did they, indeed?” he said, and Lord Mulford nodded vigorously.
“Yes, they did. Would my mother have died of a broken heart if she hadn’t been abandoned by my father? Would my father have run off to the Continent and caught the fever that killed him, if it hadn’t been for that damned Harcourt family?”
“Oh dear,” offered Hubert, before perceiving from his companion’s face that this light remark was absurdly unequal to the occasion and being forced to add something more. “What dreadful people!”
“The Harcourts are all bad, through and through. The lying, cheating deceitful father, the daughter who covered for his deceptions, the mother who cared only for herself and not the damage done to others. Lady Frances can pretend to be as sweet and innocent as she likes. I know the truth!”
“The truth..?”
“Oh yes, I know the truth and there’s nothing she can do to change it. Lady Frances should have been mine. I’ll make her pay! I’ll make them all pay!”
By this point, Lord Baxter was completely out of his depth and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. What in the world was Lord Mulford raving about?
“My parents went to the wedding of Lady Frances,” the younger man put in rather helplessly, hoping to bring the conversation back down to earth. “They said it went well.”
“She didn’t invite you either, did she?” said Lord Mulford with sympathy. “Another old family friend cast aside without any consideration. We’re in the same boat, you and I.”
“I was invited but Father said I couldn’t go in case I disgraced them again,” Hubert admitted.
“They invited you? They invited even you?!” spluttered Oswald now.
Then, rising from his chair and seizing up the bottle of brandy, Lord Mulford looked down at the younger man with contempt and marched away.