As she chewed her toast, she scanned the newspaper headlines. Talk of London’s continued growth and hunger for goods occupied one column, while reports of unrest and complaints about working conditions filled the other.
On the inside, the announcement of Charlotte Bainbridge’s betrothal to Philip Melton, Viscount Raines, led the social calendar.
Ramming his way into Wales? The headline caught her eyes, coaxing her to read further.
We have word that Lord R may be exchanging his love of Welsh horses for a vein of Welsh coal. Could he have some inside knowledge, or perhaps a frank friend has given him an advantage…
Annabel sighed as she laid the paper aside. Logic dictated that the gossip would fade, but was it a coincidence that every move they made was broadcast and dissected?
Jasper’s correspondence consisted of invitations for events that had already occurred, requests for patronage or donations, and investment speculations. The more detailed the letter, the more tempting the profit, the more her suspicions were raised. She put the reasonable offers aside to discuss with Jasper.
There were letters from the vicars in both Ramsbury and Lambourn, updating him on the state of affairs in both villages, which Annabel used to begin a list of concerns they could address on their visits. She opened the last letter and looked at the signature first—Uncle Edgar. Reading no further, she put it back in the envelope and on the top of the pile.
The newspaper waited for her, and she needed to meet with the senior staff to discuss budgets, menus, and social engagements. She could also—
“You could stop delaying what you need to do,” she scolded herself, and slouched back against the chair.
She had to see Reginald Spencer, and the quicker she did it, the better. It was also better if she didn’t ask for an appointment or wait for him to catch her in another ballroom.
On her way to the door, she paused at the liquor cabinet. The cut glass decanters caught the sunlight and cast dozens of rainbows across the cabinet walls. Their contents glimmered. Liquid courage. Wasn’t that what Father had called it? Perhaps she could do with some of that herself.
Annabel dithered over the decanters before choosing the clear one. Jasper always drank a clear whiskey. She poured a small amount in the glass and sipped, expecting her nose to burn from fumes. It didn’t. She sipped again. No bitter taste coated her tongue. It tasted like water. Another sip had her giggling.
The Marquess of Ramsbury, known for his devil-may-care drunkenness, drank water.
She scoured and smelled the bottles on the other shelves until she found the gin. Then she poured the water into the nearest plant and refilled the decanter. Imagining his reaction gave her an extra bounce as she descended the stairs.
Barnes, ever efficient, had left her coat, hat, and reticule near the front door. The hat, which had always perched atop her braids like a seabird on a boulder, slid on easily and slanted at an intriguing angle once pinned, giving her a new appreciation for the chignon.
“Shall I have the carriage brought up, my lady?”
The last thing she wanted was a coach and a driver who could report where she’d gone. The household already knew far too much about how she’d spent her time. Besides that, she liked walking in London and seeing things easily overlooked or hidden by curtains. “I’ll walk, Stapleton. Thank you. It’s not far.”
It was early enough in the day that the streets, though crowded, were relatively clean. Visiting hours had not yet begun, since most young ladies were recovering from the latest ball and midnight dinner.
Annabel had never been more grateful to be excluded from social activities, either because the hostess believed gossip or had not invited the newlywed couple out of practicality. Why waste the invitation when the marquess and his new wife would be enjoying each other’s company at home?
She hadn’t lied to Stapleton. The walk to Spencer’s home was brief, for which Annabel was grateful. Too long of a trip would give her time to lose her confidence. And men let their gazes linger a bit too long after they’d tipped their hats. That had never happened when she’d been in gray. Was it the gossip, or did she seem different after last night?
The door opened almost before she could remove her fingers from the knocker. The old butler raised his overgrown white eyebrows. “Miss Pearce?” He blinked, before bowing slightly. “Forgive me. Lady Ramsbury.”
Annabel summoned every lesson she’d learned by watching Jasper’s mother. “Good morning, Henderson. Please tell Mr. Spencer that I wi—am here to speak with him.” It had not been so long that she’d forgotten Spencer’s routine. He wouldn’t visit the palace until after luncheon, when the family was ready to do business.
“He is already in meetings.” Mrs. Riordan emerged from the shadows. “If you will leave your card, Miss Pearce?”
Annabel stepped into the hall, keeping her eye on the housekeeper as she removed her hat. She ignored Henderson’s request for it. She would not delay her departure from this house once her errand was finished. “When his business is concluded, you can tell him the Marchioness of Ramsbury is waiting.”
The housekeeper motioned to a bench near the stairs. “As you wish.”
Annabel ground her molars together and drew a deep breath through her nose. “Please have coffee brought to the drawing room.”
Once alone in the room, with the door closed, Annabel gave in to pacing as she considered her speech. It should be short and to the point. He should be given no opening for argument or innuendo. She was in the right, and her husband’s title now gave her the power to dictate terms.
Once that was settled, she had little else to do. She wondered which door Spencer would use. The one from the hall was the most direct, but he preferred ambush and surprise.
They had added new drapes to the windows, but the rich brocade only highlighted the faded wallpaper and worn rugs. Even the art was uninspiring. Spencer should take the opportunity to hang some of Elizabeth’s artwork where her suitors could see it when they called.
The coffee had not yet arrived. Annabel had expected the slight. Mrs. Riordan had never been kind, and Elizabeth’s perceived failure at the house party wouldn’t have improved her mood. Still, Annabel had a perverse compulsion to make the older woman comply. Her husband, it seemed, was rubbing off on her in more ways than one.
She opened the door and stepped into the hallway, intent on finding the housekeeper in her favorite hiding place—the shadows behind the stairs, in the hallway that led to the kitchen.
“Do you realize what you’ve done?” Spencer’s voice seeped through the library door. “I have spent months whispering in titled ears and planting stories in the newspaper, and your actions in one night have endangered the entire scheme.”
“Saved it, you mean?” another man asked. His familiar accent tickled her brain. “The man saw me with the Irishman, and he had the connections to make sure your little plan would blow up in our faces.”
“Which it still might, since you have garnered unwanted attention by your decisions and your arrival here off schedule.”
“I had no choice. Christian has several blokes on the hook and needed a sample to seal the deals. I can be back in Cardiff by—”
Wales. The man was Welsh, like Yarwood.
“You are supposed to be focused on hiring crew and finding an—”
“I have your man already.” The stranger’s dismissive tone gave the impression that murder and scheming were second nature. “Best powder man in Cork, but he isn’t cheap.”
“I’ll have the funds when they’re needed,” Spencer said.
“Bollocks! The man’s gonna want—”
