Practically Wicked (30 page)

“This is what comes from snooping about in my chambers,” Madame chided. “A
new
contract was agreed upon. He offered a lump sum of eight hundred pounds in lieu of an allowance and I accepted.” She brushed a hand down her sleeve while a smirk danced on her lips. “Payment was delivered in full.”

“No…” Anna took a small, calming breath. She would not let her mother’s lies get the better of her temper. “I saw the letters and—I heard you. I
heard
you say the contract had done you little good.”

“In keeping him. I didn’t want the eight hundred pounds. I wanted your father, the heartless cad. He left the moment he became aware of my condition. Coldhearted, that one.”

“You’d have made the perfect match,” Anna bit off. “I want to see this new contract.”

“It was an informal understanding.”

“You came all this way to tell me a lie?”

“I came to fetch you home, as I said.”

“No. Truth or lies, I’ll not be returning to London.” Now that she’d tasted freedom, sampled life beyond Anover House, she could never go back.

“But…Don’t be ridiculous child, where do you think to go?”

“I have friends now, family who—”

“
I
am your family,” her mother snapped. “You belong to me.”

And there, Anna realized, was the crux of the matter. Mrs. Wrayburn was unwilling to give up one of her possessions.

“I am not a reticule or jeweled necklace, Madame, nor one of your lapdogs.”

“For pity’s sake, who has said otherwise? Oh, never mind. This is absurd. Take me to see Engsly, he shall be made to see reason.”

Oh, dear Lord.
The very idea of inflicting Mrs. Wrayburn on Caldwell Manor and its occupants was terrifying. “Not for the promise of ten thousand pounds.”

Madame’s brow lifted. “No longer good enough for you, am I?”

Anna took a steadying breath and squashed the urge to continue the argument. There was nothing to be gained from it, no possibility of compromise, understanding, or reconciliation.

It might be momentarily satisfying to confront her mother with every lie, every blatantly selfish bit of manipulation, but it wouldn’t be worth the inevitable frustration that would follow when her mother simply denied everything.

She would never apologize for having sent Max away four years ago. She’d likely not even admit to it. Where was the sense in fighting for either?

Instead, Anna sought the cool, calm façade she had honed over her lifetime. “You may form whatever opinions of me you like and take them back to London in all due haste. What must I do to make you leave?”

“You are cold, Anna Rees. As cold and heartless as your father—”

“Indeed. Tell me what it will take, Madame.”

Mrs. Wrayburn sniffed, her nostrils flaring. “Unlike you, I do not seek out family for payment. Either you return with me to London or I remain in Codridgeton. I daresay the Marquess will look upon your company less favorably if his precious wife is forced to make room for me in her parlor as well.”

“I daresay the marquess could have you exiled to Australia if it suited him or his wife.”

Madame brushed that concern away with a careless sweep of her hand. “Too much trouble for him. Easier to send you packing, which he’ll do and quick once he learns the truth of things.”

“Once he hears your lies, do you mean?”

“I thought it might come to this. Very well, if it is proof you require…” Madame trailed off dramatically and limped over to the bed to retrieve a stack of letters from a small leather satchel. She handed them to Anna with a smirk. “…Here it is then. All the proof you, or the Haverstons, could ask for. Letters between the marquess and myself in which we discuss, and agree upon, the terms of the settlement.”

Anna snatched the letters out of her mother’s hands and opened one at random. To her shock, she discovered that it had been sent from Madame to the late marquess. “How on earth did you acquire these?”

“The previous Lady Engsly was happy to sell them back to me for a nominal fee,” Madame explained with an indifferent lift of her shoulder. “My affair with the marquess was over long before their marriage, and she was in considerable debt. An opium eater, that one. Now…” She took the letters back, stuffed them back in the satchel, and handed the bag to Anna. “You have the night to explain things to the marquess. I want to leave for London by morning. Wear something decent. I can’t be seen traipsing about the countryside with my daughter in rags.”

Anna shook her head, baffled, horrified, and disgusted. “You
gave
me this gown.”

“Not for you to wear in public. Some things aren’t meant for the public. You don’t see me traipsing about in my nightclothes, do you?”

Nightclothes? There was no response to that, only the growing worry that, perhaps, in her success at keeping her distance from Madame at Anover House, Anna had missed the indications that her mother was growing a little mad.

She stepped backward, toward the door. Her mother had always been odd, and more than a little mean. But this, all of this, was beyond the pale. “I’m leaving, now.”

“Yes, of course. I said you could.”

Anna stopped when she felt the wood of the door against her back. With the satchel gripped in her hand, she spun around and let herself out as fast as she could. The last thing she heard before closing the door behind her was her mother’s voice.

“I expect to have those letters back, Anna. I expect you to bring
everything
back.”

 
 
Chapter 21

Max knew something was wrong the moment Anna walked into the library. She wasn’t hiding and fidgeting as she’d been on the day the Haverstons had arrived, nor sad about the eyes as she’d been when Mrs. Culpepper left. She was stiff as a pole, and paler than he’d ever seen her.

A sick fear lanced straight through his belly. He reached her in three long strides and took her by the hands. “Something’s happened. What is it?” His eyes raked over her form. “Are you ill? Hurt—?”

She shook her head stiffly. “No. It’s my mother. She’s in Codridgeton.”

“Your mother,” he repeated and gave the fear a moment to abate. This wasn’t welcome news, but it was a far cry better than a few of the alternatives that had flashed through his mind. “You’ve had word from her?”

“I’ve spoken with her.”

“You went to see her? In Codridgeton? Alone?” He swore ripely when she nodded. “Tell me you had more sense than to walk there.”

“I borrowed one of the carriages. It wasn’t the best, and I’d have asked first, but…I didn’t want to tell anyone where I was going. Besides, Lucien is out with Lilly doing”—she withdrew one of her hands to waggle it in the general direction of the outdoors—“whatever it is a marquess and marchioness do. Settling a dispute, or collecting rent, or I don’t know.”

“They’re at a neighbor’s. Sweetheart, there was nothing wrong in taking the carriage. You needn’t have asked, except that you shouldn’t have gone alone.”

“I shouldn’t have left her that blasted note, that’s what I should not have done,” she muttered. “And I shouldn’t have taken Madame’s carriage. We should have taken a mail coach. She’d not have been able to come after me so quickly.”

“Why has she come? Not to wish you well in person, I presume?”

“No.” Anna worried her bottom lip, clearly wanting, and not wanting, to tell him more.

He rubbed the pad of his thumb gently along her knuckles. “What is it, Anna?”

She looked at him, her fae gray eyes searching his face. “Can I trust you with a secret?”

You can trust me with anything.
The words nearly tripped off his tongue. It was a neat and easy promise, and one he badly wanted to make, in part because he was so desperate to make her happy, and in part because he wanted it to be true.

But then he thought of Beatrice, standing battered on his front door step, and he was reminded that he was capable of failing those most important to him.

And so, in the end, what he said was, “Yes.”

Because he could. If nothing else, he knew he could be trusted with a secret.

Fortunately, it was all Anna seemed to require.

“Madame…Madame says the Engsly estate owes me nothing.” She shook her head. “Nothing. She gave me these.” Her free hand shook as she reached into the leather satchel she had over her shoulder and withdrew a handful of letters. “They’re letters from mother to the late marquess. The marquess’s second wife sold them back to my mother. She says the proof is in here.”

“All right,” he said carefully and gently took the letters from her. There was a new catch in her voice that made him distinctly uneasy. “We can look through them together if you like.”

“She’d not have given them to me if she’d lied about the contents.” She stared at the letters with eyes that were beginning to shine. “My father settled with my mother. I came here under false pretenses and now—”

“No. You came here with information you believed to be accurate in every way. There is a considerable difference.”

“Not considerable enough. Once Lucien hears of the truth, he’ll…” She opened her mouth, closed it.

“He’ll what?” Max pressed.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how he’ll react.”

“Clearly you believe he’ll act poorly, else you’d not be so worried. You should learn to have a little faith in your brother.”

Her brow lowered in annoyance. “That’s ridiculous. How does one
learn
faith? That’s a contradiction of—”

“
Have
some faith in Lucien,” he amended. Good Lord, the woman did grow argumentative when she was upset.

“I do,” she returned, but the strength of her conviction was diminished by a sheepish wince. “Truly, I do. Just…not as pertains to this. He’ll have every right to be angry. I should have taken better care.”

Max considered his response carefully. Anna was as tenacious in her misconceptions and worrying as she was in everything else. If she thought the discovery of a journal, a pile of letters, and a signed contract constituted having not taken enough care, it was unlikely she was in the mood to be convinced otherwise.

Clearly, a new approach was needed.

“Then don’t tell him.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If it troubles you so, keep the information to yourself.”

She looked horrified by the mere suggestion. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“Why not? It’s your word against your mother’s, isn’t it? It was shortsighted of her to have handed you the only proof—”

“I am certain she didn’t. She would have kept at least one letter mentioning the settlement, which is neither here nor there.” She withdrew her hand from his. “I can’t lie to Lucien.”

“Certainly, you can. I do it all the time.” He’d left out pertinent details recently regarding his past with Anna, which was hardly the same as lying all the time, but for the sake of argument, he was willing to lie a little bit right now.

“All the…? He is your dearest friend. Does honesty mean nothing—?”

“I value the truth,” he cut in. There was a limit to how far he was willing to take the role of devil’s advocate.

“But you would toss it away so easily.”

“No, I would be judicial in its application.” And that was the truth.

“Semantics.”

“Common sense. Everyone lies now and again.
Everyone
—” he stressed when she opened her mouth to argue. “You’d not insult a friend by pronouncing her new gown unappealing, would you?”

“Mrs. Culpepper doesn’t have ugly gowns. She has exquisite taste.”

Her literal interpretation threw him less than the reminder that Mrs. Culpepper had been her only friend.

“You understand my meaning,” he said quietly.

“I do,” she admitted with obvious reluctance. “But this is not the same. I’d not be lying to Lucien to spare his feelings, but my own. And I’d be cheating him out of a thousand pounds.”

“He didn’t invite you here for the thousand pounds, Anna.”

“That would only make my stealing it that much worse,” she muttered miserably. “
Damn
the woman.”

He couldn’t agree more, but he had the impression Anna needed more than easy agreement at present. “For telling you the truth?”

“For telling the truth now, of all times. She’s always lied, why…Heavens, she could be lying now, couldn’t she? I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier.” She turned to him. “Those letters could be forged, couldn’t they?”

“They could,” he agreed. “Anything can be forged, but I can’t imagine why she’d bother.”

“For the same reason she bothered to come all the way here to deliver them. To make certain she gets back what’s hers.”

“I don’t follow—”

“She wants me to return to Anover House,” she explained. “My mother collects things for herself and
only
for herself. I think…I think she’s come to retrieve a part of her collection.”

“She doesn’t own you.”

“I know that. But as far as Madame is concerned, I belong to her as surely as the horses in her stables. And mother doesn’t share.”