Secrets of a Summer Night (22 page)

A short silence, and then Hunt replied in a softly mocking drawl. “Why, Miss Peyton… I’m overwhelmed by the thought that you might have a desire for my company.”

Annabelle couldn’t bring herself to look at him, her face covered with an awkward blush, as she muttered, “I’d keep company with the devil himself, if only to have something to do besides stay in bed.”

Laughing quietly, he reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “We’ll see,” he murmured. “Perhaps I’ll come by your room later.”

And with that, he gave her a deft, shallow bow and left, walking down the hallway with his usual self-assured stride.

Too late, Annabelle recalled something about a musical evening that had been planned for the guests while they enjoyed a buffet supper. Certainly Simon Hunt would prefer to keep company with the guests downstairs rather than play a rudimentary game of chess with a sickly, unkempt, cross-tempered girl. She cringed, wishing that she could withdraw the spontaneous invitation… oh, how pitifully desperate she must have appeared! Clapping a hand to her forehead, Annabelle trudged into her room and let herself collapse stiffly onto the unmade bed like a tree that had just been chopped down.

Within five minutes, there was a knock at the door, and a pair of chastened-looking maids entered the room. “We came to tidy up, miss,” one of them ventured, “The master sent us — ’e said we must ’elp you with anyfing you need.”

“Thank you,” Annabelle said, hoping that Lord Westcliff had not been too severe on the girls. Retreating to a chair, she watched the whirlwind of activity that ensued. With almost magical speed, the young housemaids changed the bed linens, opened the window to admit fresh air, cleaned and dusted the furniture, and brought in a portable bath that they proceeded to fill with hot water. One of the girls helped Annabelle to remove her clothes, while the other brought in a length of folded toweling and a bucket of warm rinse water for her hair. Shivering in comfort, Annabelle stepped into the mahogany-rimmed folding tub.

“Take my arm, please, miss,” the younger of the two said, extending her forearm for Annabelle to take hold of. “Yer not quite steady on yer feet, looks like.”

Annabelle obeyed and sank down into the water, and let go of the girl’s muscular arm. “What is your name?” she asked, lowering her shoulders until they were submerged beneath the steaming surface of the water.

“Meggie, miss.”

“Meggie, I believe I dropped a gold sovereign on the floor of the family’s private parlor — will you try to find it for me?”

The girl gave her a perplexed glance, clearly wondering why Annabelle had left a valuable coin on the floor and what would transpire if she couldn’t find it. “Yes, miss.” She bobbed an uneasy curtsey and rushed from the room. Dunking her head beneath the water, Annabelle sat up with a streaming face and hair and wiped her eyes as the other maid bent to rub a cake of soap over her head. “It feels nice to be clean,” Annabelle murmured, sitting still beneath the girl’s ministrations.

“Me ma allus says ’tisn’t good to bathe when yer ill,” the maid told her dubiously.

“I’ll take my chances,” Annabelle replied, gratefully tilting her head back as the maid poured the rinse water over her soapy hair. Wiping her eyes once more, Annabelle saw that Meggie had returned.

“I found it, miss,” Meggie exclaimed breathlessly, extending the coin in her hand. It was possible that she had never held a sovereign before, since the average housemaid earned approximately eight shillings a month. “Where shall I put it?”

“You may divide it between the two of you,” Annabelle said.

The housemaids stared at her, dumbfounded. “Oh, thank you, miss!” they both exclaimed, eyes wide and mouths open in amazement.

Grimly aware of the hypocrisy of giving away money from Lord Hodgeham, when the Peyton household had benefited from his questionable patronage for more than a year, Annabelle lowered her head, embarrassed by their gratitude. Seeing her discomfort, the two hastened to help her from the tub, drying her hair and shivering body, and helping her to don a fresh gown.

Refreshed but tired after the bath, Annabelle got into bed and lay between the soft, smooth bed linens. She dozed while the maids removed the bath, only hazily aware when they tiptoed from the room. It was early evening when she awoke, blinking as her mother lit a lamp on the table.

“Mama,” she said groggily, dazed with sleepiness. Remembering the earlier encounter with Hodgeham, she shook herself awake. “Are you all right? Did he—”

“I don’t wish to discuss it,” Philippa said softly, her delicate profile gilded by the lamplight. She wore a numb, blank look, her forehead lightly scored with tense furrows. “Yes, I am quite all right, dearest.”

Annabelle nodded briefly, abashed and despondent, and aware of a pervasive feeling of shame. She sat up, her back feeling as if her spine had been replaced by an iron poker. Aside from the stiffness of her unused muscles, however, she felt much stronger, and for the first time in two days her stomach was aching with real hunger. Slipping from the bed, she went to the vanity table and picked up a hairbrush, dragging it through her hair. “Mama,” she said hesitantly, “I need a change of scene. Perhaps I will go back to the Marsden parlor and ring for a supper tray, and dine in there.”

Philippa appeared to have only half heard the words. “Yes,” she said absently, “that seems a fine idea. Shall I go with you?”

“No, thank you… I’m feeling quite well, and it isn’t far. I’ll go by myself. You probably want some privacy after…” Annabelle paused uncomfortably and set down the brush. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

With a low murmur, Philippa sat in the chair by the hearth, and Annabelle sensed that she was relieved by the prospect of being alone. After braiding her hair into a long rope that lay over her shoulder, Annabelle left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

As she went out into the hall, she heard the subtle rumble of the guests who were enjoying the supper buffet in the drawing room. Music overlaid the blend of conversation and laughter — a string quartet with an accompanying piano. Pausing to listen, Annabelle was astonished to realize that it was the same sad, beautiful melody that she had heard in her dream. She closed her eyes and listened intently, while her throat tightened with a wistful ache. The music filled her with the kind of longing that she should not have allowed herself to feel.
Good God
, she thought,
I’m becoming maudlin in my illness — I have to get some control over myself
. Opening her eyes, she started to walk again, only to narrowly miss plowing into someone who had approached from the opposite direction.

Her heart seemed to expand painfully as she looked up at Simon Hunt, who was dressed in a formal scheme of black and white, a lazy smile curving his wide mouth. His deep voice sent a shiver down her spine. “Where do you think you’re going?”

So he had come for her, in spite of the elegant crowd that he should have been mingling with downstairs. Aware that the sudden weakness in her knees had nothing to do with her illness, Annabelle toyed nervously with the end of her braid. “To have a supper tray in the parlor.”

Taking her elbow, Hunt turned and guided her along the hallway, keeping his steps slow to accommodate hers. “You don’t want a supper tray in the parlor,” he informed her.

“I don’t?”

He shook his head. “I have a surprise for you. Come, it’s not far.” As she went with him willingly, Hunt slid an assessing gaze over her. “Your balance has improved since this afternoon. How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” Annabelle replied, and flushed as her stomach growled audibly. “A bit hungry, actually.”

Hunt grinned and brought her to a partially opened door. Leading her over the threshold, he brought her into a small, lovely room with rosewood-paneled walls hung with tapestries, and furniture upholstered in amber velvet. The room’s most distinctive feature, however, was the window on the inside wall, which opened out onto the drawing room two stories below. This place was perfectly concealed from the view of the guests below, while music floated clearly through the wide opening. Annabelle’s round-eyed gaze moved to a small table that was covered with silver-domed plates.

“I had the devil of a time trying to decide what would tempt your appetite,” Hunt said. “So I told the kitchen staff to include some of everything.”

Overwhelmed, and unable to think of a time that any man had gone to such lengths for her enjoyment, Annabelle suddenly found it difficult to speak. She swallowed hard and looked everywhere but at his face. “This is lovely. I… I didn’t know this room was here.”

“Few people do. The countess sometimes sits here when she is too infirm to go downstairs.” Hunt moved closer to her and slid his long fingers beneath her chin, coaxing her to meet his gaze. “Will you have dinner with me?”

Annabelle’s pulse throbbed so rapidly that she was certain he could feel it against his fingers. “I have no chaperone,” she half whispered.

Hunt smiled at that, his hand dropping from her chin. “You couldn’t be safer. I’m hardly going to seduce you while you’re obviously too weak to defend yourself.”

“That’s very gentlemanly of you.”

“I’ll seduce you when you’re feeling better.”

Biting back a smile, Annabelle raised a fine brow, and said, “You’re very sure of yourself. Should you have said you’re going to
try
to seduce me?”

“ ‘Never anticipate failure’ — that’s what my father always tells me.” Sliding a strong arm around her back, Hunt guided her to one of the chairs. “Will you have some wine?”

“I shouldn’t,” Annabelle said wistfully, sinking into the deeply upholstered chair. “It would probably go straight to my head.”

Hunt poured a glass and gave it to her, smiling with a wicked charm that Lucifer himself would have tried to emulate. “Go on,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of you if you get a bit tipsy.”

Sipping the smooth, soft vintage, Annabelle sent him a wry glance. “I wonder how often a lady’s downfall began with that exact promise from you…”

“I have yet to cause a lady’s downfall,” Hunt said, lifting the covers from the dishes and setting them aside. “I usually pursue them after they’ve already fallen.”

“Have there been many fallen ladies in your past?” Annabelle couldn’t keep from asking.

“I’ve had my fair share,” Hunt replied, looking neither apologetic nor boastful as he met her gaze directly. “Though lately my energies have been absorbed by a different pastime.”

“Which is?”

“I’m overseeing the development of a locomotive works that Westcliff and I have invested in.”

“Really?” Annabelle stared at him with kindling interest. “I’ve never been on a train before. What is it like?”

Hunt grinned, suddenly looking boyish in his barely suppressed enthusiasm. “Fast. Exciting. The average speed of a passenger locomotive is about fifty miles an hour, but Consolidated is building a six-coupled express engine design that should go up to seventy.”

“Seventy miles an hour?” Annabelle repeated, unable to imagine hurtling forward at such speed. “Wouldn’t that be uncomfortable for the passengers?”

The question made him smile. “Once the train reaches its traveling speed, you don’t feel the momentum.”

“What are the passenger cars like on the inside?”

“Not especially luxurious,” Hunt admitted, pouring more wine into his own glass. “I wouldn’t recommend traveling in anything other than a private car — especially for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” Annabelle gave him a chiding smile. “If you’re implying that I’m spoiled, I assure you that I am not.”

“You should be.” His warm gaze slid over her pink-tinted face and slender upper body, then sought hers again. There was a note in his voice that gently robbed her of breath. “You could do with a bit of spoiling.”

Annabelle inhaled deeply, trying to restore the natural rhythm of her lungs. Desperately, she hoped that he wouldn’t touch her, that he would keep his promise not to seduce her. Because if he did… God help her… she wasn’t certain that she would be able to resist him.

“Consolidated is the name of your company?” she asked shakily, trying to retrieve the thread of conversation.

Hunt nodded. “It’s the British partner of Shaw Foundries.”

“Which belongs to Lady Olivia’s fiancé, Mr. Shaw?”

“Exactly. Shaw is helping us to adapt to the American system of engine building, which is far more efficient and productive than the British method.”

“I’ve always heard that British-made machinery is the best in the world,” Annabelle commented.

“Arguable. But even so, it’s seldom standardized. No two locomotives built in Britain are exactly alike, which slows production considerably and makes repairs difficult. However, if we could follow the American example and produce uniform cast-molded parts, using standard gauges and templates, we can build an engine in a matter of weeks rather than months, and perform repairs with lightning speed.”

As they conversed, Annabelle watched Hunt with fascination, having never seen a man talk this way about his profession. In her experience, work was not something that men usually liked to discuss, as the very concept of laboring for one’s living was a distinct hallmark of the lower classes. If an upper-class gentleman was obliged to have a profession, he tried to be very discreet about it and pretend that most of his time was spent in leisure activities. But Simon Hunt made no effort to conceal his enjoyment of his work — and for some reason Annabelle found that strangely attractive.

At her urging, Hunt described the business further, telling her all about his negotiations for the purchase of a railway-owned foundry, which was being converted to the new American-inspired system. Two of the nine buildings on the five-acre site had already been transformed into a foundry that produced standardized bolts, pistons, rods, and valves. These, along with some parts that had been imported from Shaw Foundries in New York, were being assembled into a series of four-coupled and six-coupled engines that would be sold throughout Europe.

“How often do you visit the site?” Annabelle asked, taking a bite of pheasant cutlet dressed with a creamy watercress sauce.