Her Secret Lover (Aphrodite's Club 2)

Her parents had died when she was barely five and Cecilia just turned two, leaving them to the guardianship of their uncle Jerome, a dreamy, otherworldly man. They had loved him dearly, but he had never been much of a guardian when it came to practical matters. As she grew older Antoinette had taken over the reins of their household and their lives, and so it had been until six months ago when their uncle died and Lord Appleby stepped into their midst.

At first Antoinette quite liked him. Appleby was a self-made man and proud of it, and she found his conversation interesting, although sometimes overly concerned with himself. His manufacturing company was involved in the building of the Paxton-designed Great Exhibition building, and when it opened on May 1 she had hoped to visit London and wander through the many rooms of displays from all corners of the world.

Her uncle Jerome claimed Lord Appleby as an old friend, but Antoinette wondered if they were really little more than acquaintances. They seemed to have met at one of the London clubs, and then Appleby arrived to visit when Uncle Jerome was in his last illness. After that he seemed to be always there, and after Uncle Jerome died, he came to call upon Antoinette and Cecilia, offering in some measure to take the place of their relative.

Cecilia, always eager to believe the best of people, insisted Lord Appleby was just being kind, but Antoinette was more cautious. Money, especially a fortune as large as the Dupre girls’ fortune, could cause people to do wicked things. But, as Cecilia pointed out, Lord Appleby, with his London house and country properties and manufacturing business, was already a wealthy and influential man. His latest venture, supplying the cast-iron components for the Great Exhibition building, had made him a household name. Why would he want their money?

When he invited Antoinette to come to London and be his guest at the opening of the Great Exhibition, she’d agreed. As well as the pleasure she expected from attending such an event, she thought it would be a good chance to get to know Lord Appleby better.

And now she knew him better.

Dusk was on the verge of night as the coach began to slow. Antoinette huddled within her fur-lined cloak, fetched from her luggage by the coachman, and peered through the window. She could see a long driveway down into a valley, and there, at the bottom, soft lights shining from many windows. Wexmoor Manor appeared to be a stone building of three stories, old and a little forbidding.

She was here at last.

As they drew closer, servants came out onto the cobbled forecourt and stood silhouetted against the flare of torches. No London gaslights here. The coachman jumped down from his seat and opened the door for her, and as she stepped down, he touched the brim of his hat. In the flickering light he seemed almost shamefaced, as if the holdup had been his fault.

“I hope you’ll put what happened out of your mind, me lady,” he said quietly. “It were just some lad on a prank, I reckon. Best forgotten.”

Amazed, Antoinette blinked at him behind her spectacles. “You could have been shot!”

“Oh well, I weren’t, so no harm done,” was his answer to that, and he shuffled his feet.

But of course! Antoinette realized with a sense of betrayal. The coachman was in on the plot. Lord Appleby would not have risked his man getting shot. The whole thing was staged for her benefit. Probably the servants at Wexmoor Manor were aware of it, too. Well, she would know the answer soon enough.

“Miss Dupre?”

Antoinette turned to face the figure at the open door, silhouetted against the light; a big woman with a cloud of white hair. “I’m Mrs. Wonicot, the cook and housekeeper here at the manor. Do come inside.” Her voice was authoritative as she led the way.

Flaring candles did little to relieve the effect of dark wood paneling and gloomy Jacobean furnishings. A moth fluttered about a vase of sweet roses, the spent petals scattered on the polished floor. Antoinette breathed in a combination of flowers, wood polish and…mutton stew. Her stomach rumbled.

“Miss Dupre? This is Wonicot, my husband.”

Mrs. Wonicot was trying to capture her attention. She was a big, motherly-looking woman, but there was something cold and suspicious in her eyes, and her mouth had such a disapproving look that Antoinette knew she could expect no welcome here. Her husband, a small man with a balding head, murmured a greeting without looking up from his boots.

“We didn’t know you was coming until yesterday. Lord Appleby’s letter didn’t reach us till then.” Mrs. Wonicot’s voice was growing chillier by the minute, as if the tardiness of the post was Antoinette’s fault. “We’ve done our best to prepare, of course, but we’re a long way from London here. I hope you’re not expecting all the comforts you’re used to, miss.”

“I’m sure there will be no need to—”

“Sally…” Wonicot interrupted, and touched his wife’s arm in what could have been a comforting gesture or one of warning. He colored when he saw Antoinette watching and went back to staring at his boots.

“We’re only poor ignorant country folk here,” Mrs. Wonicot finished triumphantly.

Antoinette drew her cloak around her and decided that she was too tired to be bothered with haughty housekeepers. Tomorrow, maybe, they might be able to find some common ground.

“My room…?” she hinted, watching a couple of burly servants carrying her luggage up the oak staircase. There was a small landing at the top, and candlelight illuminated a portrait, a man wearing dark clothing and white lace, glaring down at her.

Lord Appleby’s ancestors? But surely not. He was a self-made man and the first of his family to have more than two farthings to jingle together in his pocket, as he was so fond of telling anyone who would listen.

“Your room’s up here. This way.” Sally Wonicot waddled ahead, puffing as she mounted the stairs, head held high. Wonicot remained in the hall, but as Antoinette followed the housekeeper, she was certain she felt his eyes lift from his boots and fasten on her back.

She was deep in enemy territory here. She could trust no one.

An ache gripped her heart. She missed her home in Surrey. She missed her sister and Miss Bridewell, far more of a friend and confidante than a mere governess. It was Miss Bridewell who had sent her the letter, after discovering Lord Appleby’s dark secret. It was Miss Bridewell who had warned her of the dangers of her situation, making Antoinette aware that it was unlikely Lord Appleby would accept the loss of her fortune without a fight. Tread carefully, she had written. Trust no one.

How right she had been! “This is it.” Mrs. Wonicot’s sour tones interrupted Antoinette’s thoughts as she opened the door at the end of a short passage.

The bedchamber was clean, with a faint trace of lemon polish. The reflected gleam on old wooden surfaces and the scent of newly washed draperies spoke of much effort to ready the room in time. An old four-poster bed with time-dulled red velvet curtains stood in pride of place.