Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) (18 page)

Gareth ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know. There is every possibility. When they couldn’t pin it on me, some people decided it was the work of a madman passing through Llanwyr. But no one remembers seeing any strangers in the area. You’ve been to the village. There’s no way to escape being noticed—one main road and a few lanes, houses all hard by. Very little activity even on a good day. The land around the village is sloping and mostly unobstructed by trees. All the farmers working their fields that day would have had a clear view of comings and goings, and no one reported a mysterious stranger lurking about the dower house.”

“
You
were not seen.”

“No. Because I wasn’t there. But that hasn’t stopped people from imagining I’m as stealthy as a spy. I had all those years nimbly evading the French and wild Indians. Subcontinental Indians, too. I’m like smoke.” He took a deep breath. “Thank God Bronwen’s girls were staying with their grandmother for the night, else they might have met their mother’s fate.”

It was the first Anne had heard about children. Bronwen’s children. And Gareth had planned on being a stepfather to them. How he must have wanted a normal life, a home, children of his own, perhaps. If he got himself straightened out, he’d be a good father. She wrenched her mind away from seeing him surrounded by dark-haired, blue-eyed moppets. “Where were all her servants?”

“There weren’t many. Lewys Abbey’s dower house is not very big. Bronwen complained about it loud and long to anyone who’d listen. It was quite a comedown from living in the abbey. It’s just on the other side of the village, only a stone’s throw from the last house in Llanwyr proper. Lewys Abbey is set back a bit, but the dower house was not part of the original estate. It was purchased by Bronwen’s husband so he’d have control of his nearest neighbors. He’d let it to his cousin for a few years—the man who inherited his title, Parry Lewys. The old baron had finally given up on the hope of a son, I think, and was training Parry to succeed him.”

“And the staff?” Anne reminded him.

“Bronwen had dismissed the lot of them for the evening. It wasn’t unusual for her—everyone suspected that she had a lover and wanted privacy. She was a widow, wasn’t she? Rules are different for widows, and they turned a blind eye. She was killed some time before eleven o’clock, when her housekeeper returned from visiting her sister.”

“
Ian
was with her?” Anne wanted Ian to be found guilty, but not, she supposed, until after he officiated their wedding.

Gareth chuckled. “Nay, not Ian. He spent the night on his knees with a sick parishioner across the Wye Valley. He’s got witnesses, not that I asked them for confirmation. It would have done his holier-than-thou reputation no good to think he was a suspect in a brutal death. No one seems to know about him and Bronwen, which is rather a miracle, really. I guess he truly is blessed by God.”

“So Bronwen had more than one lover.” Anne could not say she was surprised. She had taken an instinctive dislike to the woman, dead or not. But Gareth had wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

“Oh, aye. A regular juggler, she was. Had a stable of studs, me included when I was home long enough. She’d led Ian a merry dance for years, but as her ‘spiritual advisor, ’ he had leave to come and go and no one was the wiser. Parry Lewys was family, so he was in and out, too.” His lip curled at the double entendre. “But he’d left to sail to the Caribbean the day before she died, so he isn’t our man. Rumor is she’d got her hooks in him to marry her when he got back, but I gather she didn’t fancy spending six months alone. So there was someone else. I just don’t know who.”

“Her servants all have alibis?”

“They do. I interviewed every one of them once I sobered up. I could tell they thought I had some cheek.”

“What about her family?”

“Her father, God rot his ambitious soul, is dead. Her mother was with the girls, Mared and Gwyn, and said she had no idea who Bronwen’s visitor might have been. Denied she ever had a lover, too. Not her precious, perfect Bron. Bronwen’s brother Rob lives in Hay, and presumably was at home. I don’t think he raped his own sister and then strangled her.”

Anne shut her eyes, feeling sick to her stomach. “How old are the children?” she murmured. Finding out that Bronwen the Temptress had little girls changed her outlook on the whole affair.

“Mared is about four. Gwyn must be thirteen or fourteen.”

“Poor lambs. This must be awful for them.”

“Aye. Hard on Bron’s mother, too. Bronwen was the light of her life—she spoiled her and wanted her to have an easy life, marrying her off to a rich baron old enough to be her father. She’s given up the family farm and moved in with Rob to help with the girls. Lord Lewys is expected to do something for them when he gets back, but nothing is settled.”

“So we are left with either the madman or the mystery lover as suspects.”

“Or me.”

She snorted. “Do stop. I am not engaged to be married to a murderer.”

His eyes locked on hers. “How do you know, Annie? How can you be sure I am not guilty?”

There was no answer to give him. She didn’t
know,
of course. Everything had happened months before she arrived in Llanwyr. Gareth has been edged right off life’s cliff, suffering a series of blows that would have unhinged most men. He’d poisoned himself with drink, and given up.

But she was sure. The ex-soldier who talked of plucked chickens and war paint, of wolves and butterflies the size of one’s palm, of the relentless Spanish sun and rampaging elephants had once loved life. Killing a man in battle was one thing. Killing a woman—a mother—even if she had broken his heart, was quite another.

“I believe you,” she said simply. “I believe
in
you.” And she reached for his hand.

“I
suppose we must show up in chapel,” Gareth grumbled as Anne folded his tie into a lumpy knot at his throat. He could probably do as good a job himself but he didn’t want to turn away her inexpert help or deny himself the closeness of her body.

“Yes, we must. I don’t like it any better than you do, but if we are to give you a fresh start, we might have to do a great many things we find unpleasant.” It was early Sunday morning, five days after Anne’s spill down the stairs. She was still limping, but Gareth had let her out of bed, much to his regret.

The past week had been exquisite agony. He had made love to her with everything but his cock and was absurdly hopeful that he was succeeding in his announced seduction. Much like a man with a bad tooth who could not stop himself from poking at it with his tongue, he could not stop tormenting himself with the idea of fucking her. It was all he thought about, all day long. When he mucked out stalls. When he toasted cheese. When he plunged into the ice-cold stream behind the house to quell his rampant ardor. When he stole just a small nip from the brandy bottle to help him sleep alone. Once it was empty, he would not buy more.

Gareth didn’t believe he was breaking his oath to her. He was not
drinking
. A pot of ale at breakfast was not
drinking
. A glass of wine—he’d brought all the bottles up so he would not be the next one to break his crown on the cellar stairs—with the simple dinners he fixed for them was not
drinking
. He’d smashed the gin bottles in the cobblestone drive, thinking afterward he should have tried to sell them back to Mrs. Chapman. He was not so flush in the pocket that he could afford to waste perfectly good liquor, but Annie had been insistent. In her citified opinion, gin was the devil’s piss. She’d gone on and on about seeing its effects firsthand when she lived in London—maimed soldiers lying drunk in the streets, street-corner whores who would do
anything
for a bottle, even small children who preferred gin to dinner. She was less hostile to brandy and wine—trust Annie’s tastes to be expensive.

He’d already spoken to Mrs. Chapman about acquiring a barrel of local cider for the celebration of their marriage. Even the strictest abstinence advocate in these parts somehow made an exception for that. It was traditional, and although much had fallen by the wayside as the Awakening and its virtue gripped Wales, there were still some vices too good to reject.

Gareth glanced at Annie’s handiwork in the mirror, hardly recognizing himself. His eyes were clear and focused. Annie had even trimmed his hair and had not made a botch of it. He was rather
a la mode
for a failed Welsh farmer. He doubted the congregants would be impressed, however.

“At least we won’t be subjected to one of Ian’s thundering sermons this morning. He told me it’s the deacon’s turn to lead the congregation today and announce our impending marriage while he inflicts himself on another parish. But he’ll be back next week, and so, I suppose, will we.” Gareth shrugged into his jacket and topcoat and stood patiently while Annie fitted his driving glove onto his hand.

She wore a sober gray dress from her housekeeper’s wardrobe, topping it with an ugly black bonnet that completely obscured the glory of her hair. To make matters even more grim, she donned a coarse brown traveling cloak. Gareth nearly winced at the effort she had made to make herself so plain. Annie looked prim and respectable, quite a contrast from last night when she lay tangled and trembling beneath him, her cheeks flushed and lips swollen from their passion.

Martin had hooked Job to the ancient trap. The sky was milk-white with clouds, but it was neither raining nor snowing. An inch or two of slush coated the dooryard, and the fields rose up as variegated as a quilt, brown earth mixing with white snow and gray-green grass. This winter had not been half so harsh as last, when he was laid up, his body broken and his mind fogged by liquor, left to watch frost fingerprints tapping secret messages on his window. He could not have imagined then that this January he’d be on his way to church with a beautiful, rich young woman at his side.

God truly moved in mysterious ways.

The chapel was set back in a field at the entrance to Llanwyr, looking very much like the small stone barn it once had been. Someone had nailed up a crude cross on one of the roof peaks. A few conveyances and horses were tied to the wooden fence that surrounded the churchyard, but most of the congregation had come on foot and were seated already on the austere wooden benches. The room smelled of damp wool and workman. Someone—nay several someones—had missed their Saturday night bath. A tiny stove along one wall threw out inadequate heat, and Gareth could see his breath even after he shut the door to the elements.

It closed with a thunderclap. If he had intended to enter with Annie in a discreet manner, he had failed miserably. All eyes turned to them, some mouths dropping open. There was a decorous murmur and shifting of bodies. Gareth decided to brave the gauntlet and headed for the empty Ripton-Jones bench at the front of the church. He had not sat there since his father died in May.

Deacon Thomas Morgan—another of Ian’s cousins, but not his—emerged from the vestry and began to read. Annie squeezed his arm.

“What on earth is he saying?” she whispered.

He’d forgotten to tell her that part of the service was conducted in Welsh, which would actually be a whole lot less frightening for her. To have to sit through warnings of lakes of fire and eternal damnation was not always enjoyable, and the less she understood, the better.

“He’s speaking Welsh, love. I’ll have to teach you a few phrases. It’s true everyone speaks English here, but for some reason they’ve kept to the old language on Sundays.” He caught Morgan’s glare and was surprised not to find himself fried to a crisp in his seat. “Hush, now, or we’ll be damned forever.”

Annie hummed along with the hymns. At least the music was familiar to her, and there was a lot of it. The people of Llanwyr loved to sing, and the standing to do so broke up the tedium of the lengthy exhortations and promises of the apocalypse that seemed to go on for hours. She did perk up when she heard the deacon mumble their names. He made rather a hash of Annie’s, but the first of the banns had been read. Now, would the fifty or so congregants congratulate them?

It was tradition for the Ripton-Joneses to follow the minister out the plain wooden door and linger at the step to greet the parishioners, inquiring about their needs. They were the most prominent family, save for the Lewyses, who worshipped in their own Anglican chapel at Lewys Abbey and were much too high in the instep to mix with their lowly Nonconformists neighbors. Gareth’s father had been faithful in what he saw as his duty to his people, even if he had failed his duty to himself. Gareth sometimes wondered if the gambling had not been the result of his father’s desire to continue the charity long expected from the Ripton descendants.

People would be too smart to ask Gareth for help now—everyone knew he was up the River Tick. But he would bet his last shilling they would want to ask Annie questions, which she had assured him she was eager to answer. Deacon Morgan gave them a curt nod once they exited the chapel and moved away from them as far as he dared and still remain in the dooryard. This only made Gareth stand a little closer to Annie, apparently
too
close for her sense of propriety.

“Give me some space, please. People will think we are married already,” she muttered.

“Ha. Most married couples cannot stand to be in the same room together, you know,” Gareth countered. “More than likely they’ll think we’re already lovers, which we are.”

“We are not!” Annie whispered fiercely.

“Don’t quibble, my love. I’ve seen your tattoo and everything else. Kissed it all, too.”

“Shh! What kind of talk is that for Sunday morning at the church door?”

“It’s Sunday afternoon by now.” Old Morgan had gone on and on, and if Annie hadn’t pinched him every so often, Gareth might have fallen asleep. She had worn him out last night.

“People are coming out. You need to smile. You look very grim, not at all like a happily betrothed man.”

He felt grim. Annie seemed to think that by attending one church service he would convert all the congregation to the belief that he was innocent of Bronwen’s murder. The last strains of the old organ died out and several men pushed through the open door to shake Deacon Morgan’s hand. They glanced over to Gareth but continued on the grassy path to the lych-gate. Even Martin simply dipped his chin in his direction and continued walking toward the village, probably to have a proper Sunday lunch at the inn.

“They have cut you.” Annie’s voice was full of disappointment.

“We’ll have better luck with the women. They’ll want to know all about you. Ah! Here is Mrs. Chapman.”

The Silver Pony’s landlady made a show of hurrying over to them. “So good to see you again, Mrs. Mont,” she announced loudly. “You must come to take tea with me in my private parlor to discuss your wedding plans. I would be delighted to help you in any way I can.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Chapman,” Annie said, beaming.

“Of course, you’ve already had one wedding, so I don’t imagine you’ll want much fuss.”

“On the contrary, Mrs. Chapman,” Gareth broke in smoothly. “Mrs. Mont has grand plans to make an honest man of me. It’s my first wedding, you see, and I want it to be as special as she is. My future wife is a London girl, and we must show her that Llanwyr is up to snuff.”

“We want to invite everyone. The more the merrier.” Annie looked past Mrs. Chapman and smiled at a few ladies who were eavesdropping a few feet away. “I do hope you all will join us at Ripton Hall on our happy day. Major Ripton-Jones has suffered so much, and it’s time his luck turned.”

There was an audible snort from somewhere to his rear, but Gareth ignored it. “No man could have more luck than I, Mrs. Mont.
Too much luck
. I thank the day you arrived on my doorstep.”

“Better to thank our Lord,” Annie said piously.

“Indeed. I am prepared to thank the heavens and all the world for my fortune, even the good people of Llanwyr.”

“You’re laying it on a bit thick,” Mrs. Chapman murmured.

“Right you are, Mrs. Chapman.” He leaned in and winked at her. “Just go with it.” He raised his voice. “Dancing is an excellent idea! We can have Burt Fox over there play his fiddle if he’s willing. A few old-fashioned country dances—‘Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing: thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness.’ The Psalms, you know.”

“You’ve been reading the Bible!” Deacon Morgan said in astonishment, unable to keep his distance. Mrs. Chapman suppressed a giggle and shook her head at Annie, implying Gareth would be a trial to her.

“Every night on my knees with Mrs. Mont. She has changed my life.” Gareth was extremely impressed with Annie—she neither clouted him nor rolled her eyes. They would probably both go to Hell for this bit of mendacity, but it seemed to be working. The clot of people grew a few steps closer, and soon Annie was in conversation with two girls who were about her age. Gareth figured that they had five more minutes at most before the cold damp air extinguished curiosity and sent everyone home to their Sunday dinner. He made the best use of the time, repeating the wedding invitation and offering employment in the spring, earning a few raised eyebrows. He hoped the word would get back to bloody Rob Allen that he didn’t need his mother’s jewelry back after all.

Gareth would have liked to give Annie his mother’s betrothal ring, an emerald surrounded by a circle of seed pearls. It would have gone nicely with her eyes and fair skin, but one day he’d buy her something of her own that she could pass down to their children.

Children. He’d like to work on begetting some, perhaps even this afternoon.

“Come, Mrs. Mont. It’s much too cold to linger out here any longer. We must be off.”

“Can we expect you back tonight for Bible study?” Morgan asked.

“Alas, Mr. Morgan,” Annie said, smiling sweetly, “Major Ripton-Jones is expecting a visit from a member of his regiment this afternoon. The poor man will have been riding for days, and we cannot deny him our hospitality. You may rest assured that we shall be reading the Bible in Ripton Hall’s parlor with him as we do every night.”

“It will do old Freddie a world of good, I dare say. He is like to find me much changed and I’ll bore him stiff. No doubt he’ll leave before dawn tomorrow to continue on his wicked way.”

He hustled Annie to the trap, and urged Job on. Once they were out of earshot of the church, they burst into laughter like naughty children.

“We really will go to the devil,” Annie said, wiping her eyes. Her cheeks were pink from cold and mischief, and she was quite the most beautiful sight he’d seen all day.

“What an excellent liar you are!”

“As are you. Who is Freddie?”

“That was the name of my first pony. He used to bite.”

“Then he would fit right in here.”

“Our neighbors are not always so . . . worthy. They do put on a Sunday face to appease the Morgans. What they do when they’re left to their own devices would surprise you.”

Annie brushed a loose tendril of copper hair back under her bonnet. “Nothing surprises me anymore.”

“You are such a cynic for a mere babe, but you’re right. And you’re lucky you didn’t understand the sermon. I have a feeling Tom threw away his notes and tailor-made it just for me. There was quite a bit of the Prodigal Son story.”

“I abhor the hypocrisy of it all—men tricking everybody into thinking they are virtuous but are anything but. Like your cousin Ian, who’s fooled everyone and castigates you for committing the same sin he has. The
exact
same sin.”