When She Was Wicked

Chapter Four

Owen didn’t speak to Miss Honeycote during the walk to his townhouse. He was much too busy trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with him.

The little miscreant at his side had threatened to ruin Olivia’s reputation, and instead of turning her in—which would have been the logical course of action—he’d invited her into his home, giving her unfettered access to his sisters. Not to mention the silver. Good God.

He strode through the park and headed west on Picadilly, slowing now and then when she fell too far behind. He’d almost offered her his arm—out of sheer habit—but thankfully caught himself. This wasn’t meant to be a pleasant stroll. He wondered what his friends and acquaintances would think if they saw him in his current disheveled state with his dreary companion. Shuddering at the thought, he walked faster and thanked heaven that no self-respecting member of the ton would be out at this ungodly hour.

At the sight of his brick townhouse, Owen breathed a sigh of relief. Once he stepped through the front door, he could hand Miss Honeycote off to his housekeeper—Mrs. Pottsbury had a fondness for strays—and return to his normal duties.

He opened the door and hurried Miss Honeycote into the foyer. Dennison sauntered in moments later, his bushy eyebrows twitching at the sight of a strange young woman with the master of the house.

Owen shot the butler a warning look. “Tell Mrs. Pottsbury I wish to see her.”

Dennison rushed off, and Owen paced, his boots clicking on the Venetian tile.

“I don’t have any supplies with me,” Miss Honeycote said. “Thread, needles, fabric, lace… I’ll need a great many things just to get started.”

He paused and glared at her. She must be in quite a hurry to fulfill her duties, which, for some reason, irked him. As did her cap. He pointed at her head. “Why do you wear that ridiculous thing?”

“For modesty’s sake, Your Grace.” Her tone, however, was the opposite of modest. Rather sarcastic, actually.

He wasn’t sure why the cap bothered him so much. All the female servants wore some form of it. But it seemed too dowdy for someone as proud as Miss Honeycote. If she was capable of making such beautiful things, why didn’t she make something less hideous for herself? “It makes your head look like a mushroom.”

Her eyebrows shot up and she opened her mouth, but Mrs. Pottsbury teetered in and effectively cut her off. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she said with a curtsey. Owen was always fascinated by how the woman managed to keep her balance. Shaped like her namesake, she was round about the middle, with spindly arms and tiny feet. Even her cap resembled the knob on a teapot’s lid.

“Mrs. Pottsbury,” he said, “this is Miss Honeycote. I’ve commissioned her to design new wardrobes for my sisters, so she’ll be staying with us for a few months.”

The housekeeper smiled at Miss Honeycote, but the wrinkles on her forehead signaled her confusion. “I see. Shall I put her in one of the attic rooms?”

Even his capable housekeeper was uncertain about what to do with a live-in seamstress. “I’ll leave the decision to you.”

Mrs. Pottsbury frowned and spoke to the newest member of her staff. “Where are your things?”

“At my home.” Miss Honeycote gave him a pointed look. “I didn’t have time to retrieve them.”

The housekeeper clucked. “Goodness.”

For the love of—He turned to Miss Honeycote. “We will send for your things. You may write that letter to your mother and sister. I will speak to Mrs. Smallwood about your assignment and ask her to send you all the materials you’ll need. But before you do anything else, you are to follow Mrs. Pottsbury directly to the kitchen and eat a decent breakfast.” He knew he sounded like a tyrant. Didn’t care. “And find yourself another cap.”

Both women gasped, and the housekeeper quickly ushered Miss Honeycote toward the servants’ hall.

Lack of sleep must be responsible for his foul mood. He stalked off to his study, wishing it wasn’t too early for a glass of brandy.


Mrs. Pottsbury escorted Anabelle to a small, tidy room that appeared to serve as the housekeeper’s office. A wall of shelves was crowded with colorful jars of preserves, shiny tins of all sizes, and a variety of household books. The homey smells of coffee, tea, and spices made Anabelle’s stomach rumble.

The housekeeper pointed to a ladder-backed chair that was tucked under a round table just big enough for two. “Sit. The master wants you to eat.” She pursed her lips and eyed Anabelle critically before adding, “And I can see why. I’ll get us each a plate from the kitchen and join you. Then we’ll get you settled. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you look like you could use a rest before you start”—she fluttered her tiny, graceful hands—“cutting, pinning, and sewing.” She left, black iron keys jangling at her waist, before Anabelle could respond.

Grateful to have a minute to herself, Anabelle willed the stinging in her chest to subside. She attempted to smooth the bodice of her gown, ignoring the bumps of her ribs beneath the layers of cotton and wool.

First, the duke ridiculed her cap, and then Mrs. Pottsbury insinuated she was too thin and tired-looking. Anabelle was no beauty. She’d needed to wear spectacles soon after she’d learned to read and had always been the plain sister. If Daphne was a sunny, perfect daffodil, Anabelle was a plain, dry reed. It was just the way of things.

And quite fortunate, actually. In comparison to her, clients at the dress shop always appeared beautiful and elegant. Gentlemen rarely noticed her, so she didn’t have to ward off unwanted advances.

No, she’d never really fretted over not being pretty.

But today, she wished that she were. If for no other reason than to erase the pity on Mrs. Pottsbury’s face. And, possibly, the sneer on the duke’s.

“Ah, here we are.” The housekeeper’s shoes clicked across the wooden floor with staccato steps, and she set two plates, napkins, and silverware on the tiny table.

Anabelle gazed at the food heaped upon her plate. Ham, eggs, pheasant, and pastries.

“Please, eat,” instructed Mrs. Pottsbury. “I’ll fetch tea.”

The housekeeper toddled off again, and unexpected tears burned Anabelle’s eyes. The food on her plate amounted to more than her family had eaten in the past two days. While she sat there with a feast before her, at home Mama and Daph choked down dry toast and maybe a poached egg. She would speak to the duke today and ask—no, demand—that he send them money and a delivery of some necessities, too.

As she debated how to approach the duke, Mrs. Pottsbury returned.

“What’s this? Miss Honeycote, you must eat. Good heavens, child, what’s wrong?”

Anabelle swiped at her face and shook her head. “Nothing. This looks wonderful—thank you.” She picked up her fork and took a bite of ham. It was heavenly. She would see to it that Mama and Daph had food in their cupboards. Soon.

A quarter of an hour later, her plate was empty, her belly full, and her eyelids drooping. She took a sip of tea and sighed. Mrs. Pottsbury placed her last bite of egg in her mouth and dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Now then,” the housekeeper said, “I’ve been thinking about which room you should use during your stay.”

“Anywhere is fine, I can assure you.”

“Mmm. But it occurs to me that you’ll be spending most of your time with Lady Olivia and Lady Rose. You’ll need room for all your supplies and sewing projects. The attic rooms are small and would not be convenient.”

Anabelle shrugged. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m certain I can manage.”

“No, no. An attic room won’t do. I’m going to put you in the spare chamber next to the young ladies’ rooms. It connects to the nursery, which will make an excellent workroom for you.”

“I don’t know…” It didn’t seem right for her to stay in a guest chamber when she was half-indentured servant, half-prisoner. However, Mrs. Pottsbury was correct—Anabelle would need ample space for designing and creating.

“The duke left it up to me, and I think the guest chamber is the perfect solution.” The housekeeper stood and pushed in her chair. “Come. I’ll show you to your room.”

Mrs. Pottsbury ushered Anabelle from the tiny office and led her down the carpeted hallway, detouring to point out the well-equipped kitchen and spacious dining room. But the opulent drawing room on the first floor took her breath away. The ceiling was comprised of hexagons that fit together like a honeycomb, and at the center a painted frieze depicted plump seraphim frolicking among the clouds. Three recessed windows framed with elegant carved paneling stretched from floor to ceiling. Several large mirrors placed at regular intervals around the room made it seem even more enormous than it was. The top half of the walls was covered in a light green brocade that tied everything in the room together: the ceiling mural, the plush carpet, and the graceful furniture.

That particular shade of green—sea foam—made Anabelle’s heart beat faster. She’d often dreamed of making herself a dress of light green silk. Maybe one day, after she’d served her sentence, and Mama had recovered, and Daphne had married an upstanding gentleman—then Anabelle would sew herself a pale green gown. She sighed softly. The odds of this particular dream coming true were about as great as her chances of ascending to the throne.

But dreams were free.

On the first floor the housekeeper also proudly pointed out the duke’s study, which was, of course, strictly off limits.

“And now for the second floor.” Mrs. Pottsbury held a finger to her lips as she tiptoed up the stairs. “Lady Olivia and Lady Rose are still abed, which is as it should be. Such fine girls,” she said. “They’ve been through so much.”

Anabelle longed to ask what had happened to the young women and whether it had anything to do with their overbearing brother but didn’t want to risk waking anyone.

The housekeeper paused at the top of the stairs to catch her breath and pointed down the hall. “To the right is the master’s suite,” she whispered with the appropriate amount of respect. “These two rooms”—she indicated the closed doors located side-by-side in front of them—“are Lady Olivia’s and Lady Rose’s bedchambers. Yours is to the left. Come.”

Mrs. Pottsbury entered, waved Anabelle in, and closed the door behind them.

Anabelle caught her breath. The entire chamber was decorated in… pale green. It reminded her of the lichen that had grown on the trees in the woods surrounding her family’s cottage and the new leaves that sprouted each spring. Though the room was small, the furnishings were sumptuous. The silk bedding, velvet curtains, and thick Aubusson rug were fit for a palace.

“It’s terribly dusty,” the housekeeper said apologetically. “I didn’t have the chance to air it out.”

Understandable, since she couldn’t have predicted that the duke, after being out all night, would return home with a seamstress.

“It’s beautiful.” Much too grand, in fact. After spending each night of the last two years either in a chair or on a settee, such luxury seemed positively decadent.

“I’ll have a maid bring up some water. You’ll find paper, pen, and ink in the desk drawer. I know you want to send a message to your family, so make use of whatever you need.”

“Thank you.”

“Now. Your workspace is through here.” Mrs. Pottsbury walked toward a door across from the bed and reached for a key on her belt. She fiddled with the lock until it clicked, and the door to the one-time nursery swung open. “This room’s been closed up since… well, for a long time.”

The large room had a picture window, and once Mrs. Pottsbury opened the drapes, Anabelle could see it overlooked a colorful garden in the back of the townhouse. A few bulky pieces of furniture were hidden by sheets, and everything in the room was covered with a thin layer of dust. Tiny motes floated in the air, illuminated by the morning light streaming through the cloudy windowpanes.

It was perfect.

The housekeeper nodded as though she concurred with Anabelle’s thought. “I’ll send up a couple of maids to dust and remove the drop cloths. Thomas and Roger—they’re the footmen—will bring up some tables and additional lanterns.” She let her gaze sweep across the room. “Is there anything else? Any questions?”

Oh, Anabelle had questions, like, when would she meet with the sisters, and did they know she’d used a secret about Olivia to try to extort money from their brother? And why had the duke taken pity on her? But she said, “No. Thank you.”

“I hate to mention it, but the duke did seem rather adamant about your cap.” Mrs. Pottsbury fiddled with her keys. “I have several that are quite smart and… less worn. You may pick one to use until the rest of your things come.”

“Thank you, but I’ll make do with what I have.”

Mrs. Pottsbury deflated. “He won’t be pleased. I’ve no idea why it vexes him so.”

“Nor do I.” But she was not going to let him tell her what she could and could not wear. She had precious little freedom as it was.

The housekeeper gave her a suit-yourself smile, turned to go, and then spun around like a top. “Would you like me to send your glasses out to be repaired?”

Although Anabelle would have loved nothing more, she could not afford it. She had no wish to be further indebted to the duke. “No, thank you. I have a spare pair at home,” she lied.

“Oh. Very well, then.” The kindly woman patted Anabelle on the shoulder. “Get some rest, and I’ll see you at lunchtime. I suspect you’ll have your first meeting with the young ladies this afternoon.”

Anabelle waited until Mrs. Pottsbury left the nursery—er, workroom—and then walked back into her room through the adjoining door. She shed her dreary black shawl and placed it on the bed. The shawl’s coarse, rough texture was distinctly incongruous with all the lovely luxury in the room. It was the only thing that didn’t belong—besides her.

She walked around the four-poster and sat at the small desk below the window. Locating the paper, pen, and ink was easy. Deciding how much to tell Mama and Daphne was much more difficult.


Dearest Mother and Sister,

I’m sure you are shocked to receive correspondence from me, so let me allay your fears at once: I have excellent news. I have been commissioned by the Duke of Huntford to create entirely new wardrobes for both of his sisters. It is a wonderful opportunity, and I’ll be earning much more than I did at the dress shop. In fact, the duke has generously advanced a portion of my wages so that I can pay Dr. Conwell as well as the rent we owe. I will send you money for other expenses as soon as I am able.

My only regret is that I must stay here, at the duke’s residence in Mayfair, until my assignment is completed. It is no hardship, I assure you, except that I shall miss both of you dreadfully. I wish I could be there to help with household matters.

However, I expect that I will be working here for about three months. I will write regularly, of course, and you must keep me apprised of everything Dr. Conwell says and how Mama is faring. If you need me, send word to this address, and I will come as quickly as I can.

Lovingly yours,

Anabelle


Relieved to have the letter written and frustrated that there was nothing more she could do at the moment, she removed her spectacles, tugged off her cap, pulled the pins from her hair, and rubbed her aching scalp. After slipping off her shoes, she climbed onto the bed and sank into the mattress. Although she’d been awake for two days straight, she was far too anxious to sleep. She would try to rest, though. She curled up on her side and let the silky pillowcase cradle her cheek.

Although her living arrangements were more than comfortable, she would not let down her guard. Members of the aristocracy were not to be trusted. Her own titled grandparents were the perfect example. They’d disowned their son—just because he’d married a commoner.

Wealth and privilege corrupted a person, and the Duke of Huntford had plenty of both. He also had the sort of green eyes that dazzled unsuspecting women.

Which was neither here nor there.

She was thinking of those heavy-lidded, soulful eyes, when, despite her best intentions, she drifted off to sleep.