The Accidental Abduction (32 page)

Damn you, Penrose.
Harry ground his teeth together.
Damn me, too.

Because he couldn't stop his mind from running over everything Leannah had told him about her sister. He thought about all the time she and Genny had spent together, and the number of visits she'd made to her former home. She'd only shared the most trivial of news about what had happened there—new servants, new clothes, and such. He hadn't thought much of it before. There was so much else to occupy his attention when he was with Leannah, first and foremost Leannah herself. But Nathaniel's words cast a fresh, cold light over those vagaries, and they did not look so trivial at all.

Then there was all that Leannah had not said—like why she hadn't yet reclaimed her wedding ring. He'd given her plenty of time. In fact, he'd carefully avoided bringing the subject up. He'd hated the ring anyway, and it was entirely wrong for her, but still, he'd been waiting for her to bring it back or at least say where it had gone. It was irrational and perhaps even mean spirited of him, but it hurt that Leannah had taken the thing off, and given it away, even though she had the best of reasons for doing so.

And it was Genevieve she'd given it to.

The worry in him rose higher. It closed over his head and dragged him down.

“This . . . thing that you say Miss Morehouse was supposed to bring Dickenson. Has your source any idea what it might have been?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “No. Apparently, it was small, something that would fit in a lady's reticule: a letter, perhaps, or some other paper. Perhaps it was a key to a safe or strongbox.”

Or perhaps it was a ring.

“Y
es, if you'll put that here.” The four carters maneuvered the marquetry sideboard to the empty space Leannah indicated, careful to avoid bumping the new chairs that had been positioned around the equally new dining table.

The piece was perhaps a little showy, but its inlaid pattern of starbursts in four different colors of wood was so beautiful that Leannah hadn't been able to resist when she saw it at the warehouse. It certainly did look very fine in its place alongside the gleaming oak table and chairs. Leannah looked about herself. The room only needed its last few details; the two lamps and the silver candlesticks were also promised for delivery today. She should be feeling proud, and satisfied, but all Leannah could muster was a weak smile.

What good is it?
The treacherous question rose once again in her mind.
What good is any of it when it could all be ending tomorrow?

A dozen times already that morning, she'd tried to think of ways to retract her offer to take Harry back to the house and introduce him to the rest of her family. Each time she had berated herself as a coward. This must come. It did not mean the end. What she'd said to Harry had been nothing less than the truth. They could not know if their marriage was real if it only existed inside their rooms, and they had to know. She had to know. The honeymoon had to end and the rest of life had to begin.

Leannah rubbed the knuckle on her smallest finger. For her, endings had never been happy ones. How did she find enough trust to believe that this one could be?

From Harry,
she told herself.
From need and laughter and desire. From love.

She rubbed her knuckle again.

“Mrs. Rayburn?” Stella, a brisk, plump, efficient girl crossed the threshold and curtsied. Stella and Cook, and several other of the new servants had come in today to help with the deliveries and arrangements. “There's a Mrs. Westbrook downstairs who wishes to know if you are at home.” She handed Leannah a card.

Leannah stared at the card. Her mouth opened, and then closed as she read the flowing copperplate script. Mrs. Westbrook was Harry's sister, Fiona, and she was downstairs, waiting to be received. She pressed her hand against her stomach and struggled for calm. What was she doing here at all? How had she even found them? Had Harry written to her, or gone to see her? Was that the business that was keeping him from going to meet Father today?

No, Leannah shook her head to clear it. She must not descend into suspicion. Harry would never spring his sister on her like some party surprise. However Mrs. Westbrook came to be here, it was her own doing, and now that she was here, there was nothing Leannah could do but receive her.

“Yes, Stella, I am at home,” said Leannah. She glanced about her. The sitting room and parlor still smelled of paint and what furniture had arrived for them was still covered with cloths. “You may show Mrs. Westbrook in here, and then please go see if Cook can furnish us with some tea, and perhaps something light to eat.”

“Yes, ma'am.” The girl curtsied again and bustled away. Leannah reached out and gripped the back of the nearest chair, striving to regain her countenance.

When Stella returned, she was accompanied by a tiny, golden-haired woman who carried an air of energy and self-assurance about her. She was immaculately dressed in spring green and antique lace, with a necklace of peridots around her throat and the merest suggestion of a green lace cap on her gold hair.

Leannah straightened. She let go of the chair and she curtsied.

“Good morning, Mrs. Westbrook. Won't you please sit down?”

“Good morning Mrs. . . . Rayburn,” answered Harry's sister. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Westbrook sat or, rather, she perched on the edge of the nearest chair, like she might be required to leap to her feet at any moment. Despite this, she did not look at all nervous. In fact, her gaze was positively steely and the way she met Leannah's eyes indicated she was ready to stay put as long as it took to achieve her ends.

Leannah had the most uncomfortable feeling she knew what those ends entailed. Her heart quailed, but not for long. Pride, and her own native stubbornness came quickly to the rescue, and Leannah was able to take her own chair smoothly.

She did not, however, have any idea whatsoever how to talk to this woman. There was absolutely no etiquette for such a situation. Fortunately, Mrs. Westbrook did not seem to be one to stand on ceremony.

“Shall you begin, or shall I?” she inquired.

Leannah felt her eyebrows lift. “Oh, by all means, please do go ahead, Mrs. Westbrook.”

Mrs. Westbrook nodded once. “Very well. Harry is my older brother and I love him more than just about anyone in the world. But he is quite capable of being an idiot.” She paused.

“Am I meant to agree or argue?” inquired Leannah.

That seemed to startle her. The corner of her mouth twitched. “As you see fit, I'm sure.”

“Very well. I might perhaps observe that all of us can take on the appearance of being idiots from time to time, especially when our emotions are engaged.”

Mrs. Westbrook's bright blue eyes narrowed minutely, and Leannah had the feeling she'd scored a palpable touch.

“You can imagine the news of his having married you came as something of a surprise.”

“I do not need to imagine. It certainly shocked my family gravely, I cannot suppose it had any less of an effect on yours.”

Leannah waited expectantly for Mrs. Westbrook to once more take up her side of this decidedly odd conversation. For her part, Mrs. Westbrook cocked her head. Leannah suspected many people underestimated the delicate looking woman, rather like they mistook Genny's fragile appearance for a fragile nature. Along with the energy Leannah sensed when Mrs. Westbrook first entered the room, she saw the light of a sharp intelligence behind the other woman's eyes, and a willingness to dive headfirst into the unconventional if required.

“Did Harry tell you we'd taken this house?” Leannah asked.

“No. He's pouting. I had to discover it on my own.” Mrs. Westbrook reached into her reticule and pulled out a scrap of newspaper. It was the “Arrivals” column, from the
Woman's Window
, neatly clipped out, Leannah noted, and with a circle in grease pencil around one particular paragraph.

It has come to our attention that one Mr. R, recently returned to town with his new bride, and will be taking an unfurnished house in Dobbson Sq. As that neighborhood is closely connected to both the R—s and M—s, the rumors of a rift between branch and tree cannot be perhaps quite so serious as previously supposed . . .

Leannah stared at the clipping. This was Meredith's handiwork. She should have thought things through more carefully when her friend offered to plant an item in one of the most popular women's papers.

“After I saw this, all that was left was to talk to certain persons and get the exact address.” Mrs. Westbrook reclaimed the article. “I might have lurked about with a dark lantern, but as a married woman, I felt it best to minimize the theatrics, and since my best friend happens to own the ground your house stands on, I had little difficulty discovering you. Now that I have, I must admit, I do not find you at all as I imagined you would be.”

“Given what you probably imagined, I will take that as a compliment.”

“Hmm.” The other woman pursed her lips tightly together.

Silence fell once more.
Perhaps it is time to test the limits of my sister-in-law's unconventionality,
thought Leannah.
If nothing else, it will end this charade all the more quickly.

With the feeling that she was about to plunge headfirst into her own deep waters, Leannah said, “Mrs. Westbrook, I know perfectly well what is said about me, and my family. I've heard it being said for years. I also know that my marriage to your brother will be the sensation of the London drawing rooms. I suppose I should have been more sensitive to that when I accepted his proposal, but to speak the absolute truth, when we met, society's acceptance was the last thing on my mind.”

“Hmm.” The corner of Mrs. Westbrook's mouth twitched again, and she took her time considering the direction of her next salvo. “You know he's quarreled with our parents?”

And with you.
But Leannah kept this addition to herself. “Yes, I did know, and that also was no surprise, all things being taken into account. Before you are bothered with saying so, Mrs. Westbrook, he did tell me his father might cut him off.”

“He already has, or perhaps I should say Harry has cut himself off. He hasn't been to work, or by the house, in weeks.”

Of all the declarations Mrs. Westbrook could have made, this was the one that hit home. Leannah felt the blood drain from her cheeks. “I didn't know, about his work. He hadn't told me.”

Mrs. Westbrook nodded slowly and several times for emphasis. “Mother is nearly frantic, well, as near to nearly frantic as I've ever seen her. She's generally not the frantic sort, not like some others I could name. But she insists that Harry will come home when he's ready. In the meantime she's driving the rest of us mad with her attempts to keep busy, so I decided to take it on myself to make sure he's ready to come home as soon as may be.”
With you or without you.
Mrs. Westbrook did not speak those words, but they hung in the air nonetheless.

“In other words, you're here to ask me what my intentions are toward your brother?”

There was that twitch again in the corner of Mrs. Westbrook's mouth. Was that possibly the hint of a smile? Did this severe and unconventional woman also possess a sense of the absurd? Harry certainly did. It could very well run in the family.

“Yes. I came to ask your intentions. No one else was going to do it.”

Now it was Leannah's turn to be surprised. This frank and unashamed admission was not what she expected. It flew in the face not only of drawing room etiquette, but the accepted rules of verbal combat as practiced among cultured ladies.

Very well. Let me see what you do with a response in kind.
“You want to hear my intentions, Mrs. Westbrook, but will you accept my answer? Or will you just brush me off with a brisk cry of ‘stuff and nonsense' because my past has already condemned me? I am not inclined to waste my breath on a hopeless effort to convince you of the purity of my heart and motivations.”

“I never say ‘stuff and nonsense,'” replied Mrs. Westbrook primly. “To begin with, it makes no sense. It's also Rebecca Islington's favorite phrase, and she never makes any sense even on a good day.” She paused and rallied herself around to the topic at hand. “Mrs. Rayburn, we would seem to be at an impasse because I am in no mood to waste my time on trying to convince you to release my brother when you have no intention of doing so.”

“Your brother is free to go or stay as he will. I have no way of holding him if he wants to leave, and no desire to do so either.” Leannah eyed the other woman. “I suspect you don't believe me.”

“I don't know.”

Stella chose that moment to enter with the tea tray. Both of them fell silent at once in order to avoid the cardinal sin of gossiping in front of the servants. Stella curtsied and took her leave. Mrs. Westbrook looked at the service, which was new, as was everything in the house. Her mouth trembled and her brows knitted. She'd been right, Leannah realized. Mrs. Westbrook was doing her best to keep from smiling. Leannah understood the impulse. Their situation truly was absurd. Here they were, arguing over the course of their lives, but any unpleasant conversation must be set aside for a hot drink and sweet biscuits. Why? Because that was what was supposed to happen, and everybody knew it.

“Tea?” inquired Leannah politely.

“Thank you,” responded Mrs. Westbrook with equal politeness, and with another mighty and obvious attempt to suppress her smile.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“A little of each.”

Leannah fixed the cup and handed it across. “Gossip?” she added, just to see what would happen.

Mrs. Westbrook did not disappoint. “Only if it's fresh.”

“I'm afraid I haven't had time to lay in a supply yet. Perhaps you've brought something?”

Mrs. Westbrook considered. “Mrs. Spinnaker spent three hundred pounds on her daughter's new dress, and it's hideous.”

“That's because she didn't let Emily help choose it,” said Leannah as she added milk to her own tea and stirred.

“You know Emily Spinnaker?”

“A little. She's friends with my sister, Genevieve. They had a bit of a girl's salon together, where some friends gather at the library and read the
Woman's Window
”—she gestured toward Mrs. Westbrook's reticule—“and the latest novels and so forth.”

“Wait. Wait.” Mrs. Westbrook frowned in furious concentration. “There's a G.M. House who writes these wildly radical letters to the editors, about how women should be allowed their own property rights, even after marriage. Is there possibly any relation . . . ?”