“King Charles slept in that bed when he was at war with Parliament,” Mrs. Wonicot offered, noting Antoinette’s interest. “Him that had his head chopped off.”
The grate was empty and cold, but the evening was mild enough not to require a fire. Candles flickered in a draft from the window, and Mrs. Wonicot hurried to shut the casement, muttering about the dangers of the night air.
“Oh please don’t, I enjoy the night air.” Antoinette spoke before she could stop herself.
Mrs. Wonicot turned and gave her a disapproving stare. “Be it on your own head then,” she warned. “I won’t take responsibility if you sicken and die while you’re here.”
“I’m sure no one would expect you to,” Antoinette assured her, and removed her cloak, turning to lay it over a chair. From behind her came a gasp. She looked over her shoulder. Mrs. Wonicot was staring at her, mouth open, hand pressed to her generous bosom.
“Your clothes! Goodness gracious me, child, whatever happened?”
Her tone was so different from the earlier chilly one that for a moment Antoinette was too surprised to answer her. She’d completely forgotten the state of her dress, but now she looked down at the torn bodice ruefully. “We were held up along the road by a highwayman.”
The woman swallowed, shook her head. “You must be mistaken.”
Angrily Antoinette asserted, “I assure you I am not! A man in a mask held us up at pistol point and demanded…Well, he was searching for…for jewelry. He tore my clothing and—and man-handled me.” She felt her face color.
Mrs. Wonicot appeared to be genuinely shocked, but a moment later her expression hardened and she pursed her lips. “I’m sure it was nothing of the kind,” she said firmly, as if daring Antoinette to argue with her. “Just a lad having a lark, that’ll be what it was, Miss Dupre. You’re not used to our country ways.”
“Are these country ways?” Antoinette retorted angrily, gesturing at her torn clothing. “This was no lark, Mrs. Wonicot.”
“If you say so.” She seemed determined not to believe Antoinette.
“I want it reported to the local magistrate.”
The woman’s eyes widened, and now there was fear in them as well as defiance. “Whatever for? You’re not hurt, are you?”
There was something very wrong about this conversation, Antoinette decided. Mrs. Wonicot was trying to put her off, and the only reason she would do that was if she knew exactly who had held up the coach and was protecting him. Antoinette smelled a conspiracy. As if the housekeeper realized she’d blundered, she turned away, hastily making for the door and murmuring about sending up a supper tray.
A moment later Antoinette was alone.
The room was very quiet. Antoinette wished Mrs. Wonicot hadn’t told her about King Charles sleeping here, because now she felt as if he were watching her, with or without his head. But of course he wasn’t, and even if he was, Antoinette knew she had more to fear from the living than from ghosts.
She went to the window and stared out into the darkness. Lord Appleby’s London house was in Mayfair, where she had truly felt at the heart of a big and bustling city. London never slept. Now all she could hear were the country noises; the murmur of farm animals and the hoot of owls, punctuated by the rustle of the garden.
Was Cecilia looking out over the park back at their home in Surrey? Antoinette prayed she was safe, and that Lord Appleby was too busy in London to think of her.
She remembered the threatening note in his voice when she refu
sed to marry him and hand over her fortune.
“You know, if anything were to happen to you, dear Antoinette, your sister would be the sole heir to your family fortune. I’m sure she wouldn’t turn me down. A little persuasion, a reminder of what can happen to young women who are too independent, and she’d soon agree to be my bride. What do you think?”
Antoinette shivered. Appleby was wrong. Cecilia would fight him, just as she had, and that was what had worried her ever since she’d read Miss Bridewell’s letter. She knew now what His Lordship did to women who stood up to him.
There was a flickering light through the trees. Thick woods, like a dark bulwark, sheltered the house to the north, and the light seemed to come from within those woods. Was it another house? A neighbor or a tenant? Then she heard the scrape of boots on the cobbles below, and looking down at the forecourt saw the dull glow of a lantern, swinging in the hand of someone walking toward the woods.
For some reason she thought she recognized Wonicot, perhaps the gleam of light on his bald head. Whoever it was, he was certainly in no hurry. Antoinette wondered if he was heading toward the village for his nightly ale, with the added bonus of an hour or two away from Mrs. Wonicot.
She yawned. She was tired; the journey had been an eventful one. She needed to sleep so that she could be alert tomorrow and ready for anything Lord Appleby’s servants might have in store for her. Antoinette removed the precious letter from inside her stays and slipped it under her pillow. Tomorrow she must find somewhere safer to hide it.
Until she escaped and made her way back to London.
Chapter 3
Gabriel tore off his mask and threw it into the corner. Frustration and anger, mostly with himself, made him want to smash something. Or someone. Lord Rudyard Appleby would do. How he would love to have Appleby before him now, his prisoner, in chains and groveling for forgiveness.
It was a nice image, but Gabriel doubted Appleby was the kind to grovel. He probably thought he’d done nothing wrong in stealing Gabriel’s rightful inheritance. He probably thought himself clever because he’d made Wexmoor Manor his, and left Gabriel with a hole in his heart.