Their separation was to be temporary. The wives of many officers followed their husbands, and she was to be no exception. And then the letters had arrived describing the hardships and danger. Her departure was delayed, and delayed again, and finally put off indefinitely.
To begin with, she had not questioned her husband
'
s decision. In the early days of their marriage, her highest ambition was to be a conformable wife, one that Edgar would be proud to come home to. But as the years slipped by, she began to fear that her years of childbearing were slipping away also. She begged him to come home on furlough, or to permit her to join him, to no avail. It seemed that the joys of motherhood were never to be hers.
Ironically, her prayers were answered, though at the time she
'
d felt as if the bottom had fallen out of her world. She would never forget that cold January morning when her brother-in-law called her into his study. Poor Sir Charles! He had hemmed and hawed and tried to spare her feelings. So vague was his address that she had thought at first that her sister-in-law was again breeding, and had felt the familiar ache of envy. Henrietta and she were of an age, but Henrietta had been blessed with four thriving children. It was Charles
'
s sad and solemn demeanor which had been her first inclination of impending disaster.
When all was revealed, she
'
d behaved with commendable restraint. In point of fact, she
'
d been in shock. She was to have her husband
'
s child after all, it seemed, one that he had fathered on a Spanish girl. The mother had died. The child was barely a year old. Edgar was beside himself with worry over the child
'
s welfare. The only solution that presented itself was to send his son home to the arms of one whose heart he knew was big enough to accept and forgive a husband
'
s follies. And
gullible enough, she
'
d thought at the time.
But that was before she
'
d seen Ricardo. Once the babe was in her arms, there was never any question that she would turn him over to her sister-in-law
'
s care. Within months of his arrival, a bonding had taken place. She could not have loved the child more if she had been his natural mother.
Toward Ricardo
'
s father, however, her feelings were otherwise. A child out of wedlock she could forgive. A string of women she could have forgiven. But what she could not forgive was that while she had moped in England, filling her time with useless occupations which held no interest for her, longing to be in her husband
'
s arms, he had another family, a Spanish one, comfortably installed for his convenience. That was the reason why he had forbidden her presence in Spain, not out of any sentiment for her welfare. And while another woman had given him a child, she had been robbed of her chance at motherhood. As a result of her new insight, two things happened simultaneously. She became disenchanted with knights in shining armor and no longer included them when she sought out brasses for her hobby. And the role of conformable wife fell completely into disfavor.
At the age of twenty-six, Annabelle underwent a metamorphosis. She put away childish things and emerged as a woman in her own right. Her transformation was not to everyone
'
s liking. It was one thing for Lady Jocelyn to have an extra pair of willing hands to help with her demanding brood of hopefuls, but quite another when a swarm of courtiers beat a path to her door for the privilege of kissing one of those same hands now delicately encased in fine kid leather. When Annabelle took to flaunting paint and powder—gilding the lily, as Lady Jocelyn derided it—Sir Charles was prevailed upon to lay down the law, a task which he evidently found little to his taste.
His first mistake was in appealing to Annabelle
'
s sense of what was fitting as Edgar
'
s wife. Finding that tack fruitless, he compounded his error by threatening to tighten the purse strings. By this time, however, Annabelle had a source of income which gave her a fair degree of independence. She
'
d fallen heir to a half share in Bailey
'
s Press by the terms of the
will of some distant relative on her mother
'
s side. It provided the impetus she needed to strike out on her own. At the time, it seemed as if she were taking an awful chance. A husband
'
s authority over a wife was far reaching. Whether or not Edgar ever got wind of what she was up to was never made clear. Shortly afterward, he was mortally wounded at Badajoz; and he died a few days later.
She
'
d been twenty-seven years old when she
'
d set up her own establishment on Greek Street. The house, just off Soho Square, suited her by virtue of its being close enough to Mayfair to be deemed fashionable, yet far enough distant to command only a moderate rent. Moreover, her comings and goings could not be so closely monitored by that close-knit, almost incestuous community which was quick to pounce on anything out of the way in a neighbor
'
s conduct, especially if that neighbor happened to be a lady.
"
The Worldly Widow,
"
they called her behind her back, and, some few, to her face. Much she cared! On the contrary, the soubriquet rather gratified her vanity.
Better that handle by far than "
The Dowdy Drab,
"
which was what she had been fast sinking to as unpaid drudge in her sister-in-law
'
s household. Though, to be scrupulously fair to Henrietta, Annabelle had been no more drudge than any other unmarried or widowed lady of her acquaintance who was a pensioner in a benefactor
'
s home. It was simply the way of the world. In some corner of her mind, she was aware that by making herself over and striking out on her own, she was engaging in an act of bravado. But whether she wished to thumb her nose at the world in general, or at her late husband in particular, was not clear to her. She scarcely gave it a thought.
Truth to tell, she had scarcely given her late husband a thought in the last number of years. It could not be otherwise. She had known him for all of three months before he had left England with the expedition to Portugal. She had not seen him in seven long years, and of those, she had been a widow for four. It was Dalmar who kept bringing Edgar to mind. She wondered why. Oh yes, something to do with the
grand passion,
the great love of her life. Not to be compared, of course, to the love she felt for her son. She would love Ricardo—Richard
now—till she drew her last breath.
Dalmar was right. Love between the sexes was a transitory thing at best, here today, gone tomorrow. Which led her to ponder why she had taken such offense when he had done nothing more than voice her own sentiments. The answer came to her in that estate which falls somewhere between wakefulness and slumber. It was true that Edgar had been the only love of her life, the man to whom she had surrendered her virginity, but it was Dalmar who had demanded and claimed her passion. How strange, she thought, that he, a man who professed not to love her, should be the one to bring her body to heights she had never suspected were possible for a woman. She was sure that there was an insult implicit in such a state of affairs. Her last coherent thought before sleep claimed her was that the man had such conceit that he probably thought he had done her a favor.
Chapter Seven
A
nnabelle
'
s ears picked up the soft tread of footsteps as they made a stealthy approach to the door of her chamber. She quickly drew on her robe and scrambled beneath the covers of her unmade bed. The door opened, and she braced herself for the expected attack. A small body launched itself upon her. She fought back in a flurry of feather pillows and bedclothes.
"I
'
m the king of the castle, and you
'
re the dirty rascal,
"
a shrill voice sounded in her ear. "Yield or die!
"
She let him have it full blast with her pillow. "Take that and that, you villain,
"
she grunted. "I
'
ll teach you to beard the dragon in his den,
"
and she rolled, pulling her attacker beneath the full press of her weight. His struggles were unequal to her superior strength.
Her young son looked up at her with dark, shining eyes. Undaunted, he panted, "Yield, dragon, and I
'
ll spare your life. Fight me, and I
'
ll slay you with my knife.
"
"Not on your life, St. George! You yield, or I
'
ll burn you to a cinder with my fiery breath.
"
And she bared her small white teeth in a ferocious snarl.
"But Mama, that
'
s not how the story goes,
"
said the voice, turning petulant. "St. George always slays the dragon. Everybody knows that!
"
"What I want to know,
"
said Annabelle, throwing up her hands in the accepted mode of surrender, "is when it
'
s my turn to be St. George. Or even better, why can
'
t we change the story? What
'
s to stop us letting the poor dragon win the
contest now and again? Wouldn
'
t that be fun?
"
The small body wriggled from beneath her weight. "It might be,
"
said the child, considering her suggestion. After a moment
'
s reflection, he concluded, "But it wouldn
'
t be the same.
"
Annabelle sat on the edge of the bed as her son, a child of five summers or so, climbed onto her back in what was evidently a well-loved ritual. "Richard,
"
she said, adjusting the small hands which clung tenaciously to her throat, "as always, your logic is impeccable.
"
"Is that good?
"
he asked, tightening his knees against his mother
'
s sides.
"It
'
s better than good,
"
she answered, and was rewarded with sparkling eyes and a brilliant smile.
"
En avant,
Barcephalus,
"
he urged, and put his imaginary spurs to the flanks of his equally imaginary horse.
Annabelle obligingly made a few turns around the room with her precious burden on her back and finally collapsed in laughter on the bed in a tangle of flying arms and knees.
From the open doorway, Mrs. Bertie Pendleton surveyed the domestic scene with something like wistfulness in her expression. When she spoke, however, her voice was crisp and cheerful.
"Annabelle, I must protest. 'Barcephalus
'
was not the name of St. George
'
s horse.
"
"Oh we know
that,
"
said Annabelle, exchanging a who
'
s-
your-daft-friend look with her son. "But until we discover what it was, we
'
ve decided to name him for Alexander
'
s famous steed.
"
"I like the name 'Barcephalus,
'
"
said Richard, making a game of rearranging the sundry pots and dishes on top of his mother
'
s dressing table.
"Really? Why?
"
asked Bertie.
"Because James can
'
t say it and I can.
"
The thought of besting his cousin, a boy who was older than he by a good twelvemonth, brought dimples flashing to his cheeks.
"Did you dress yourself this morning?
"
asked Annabelle, eyeing askance the mismatched buttons and buttonholes on her son
'
s waist-length green velvet jacket.
"Why do you ask?
"
There was the look of something in her son
'
s eyes which stirred Annabelle
'
s most tender feelings. "Because, imp,
"
she said, twitching his nose, "you
'
re not wearing your sash. Now go and put it on, and be downstairs for breakfast in five minutes. Hurry, or we
'
ll be late for church.
"
Across the space of the small chamber, the two ladies took silent stock of each other. Annabelle
'
s look was wary. In Mrs. Pendleton
'
s eyes there was the glint of unabashed curiosity. Annabelle took note of that look, and for the first time in the two years since she
'
d taken Bertie as her companion, began to regret that she had always encouraged an easy converse between them.
From the moment they had met, there had been an instant attraction. Their acquaintances wondered at their friendship, for where Annabelle looked and acted the part of a dasher, Bertie was every inch the lady. Her carriage was graceful, her figure slender, and for one of such fair hair and complexion, her most distinguishing feature was a pair of startlingly brown eyes which observed the world with something like imperturbable patience. Many a man who had overstepped what was proper (and there were several of that breed hovering around Annabelle) had faltered before that stare.
It had been Sir Charles
'
s fond hope, when Mrs. Pendleton first took up residence in Greek Street, that her influence would work a salutary change in his sister-in-law. In point of fact, appearances to the contrary, the two ladies were not so very dissimilar. Each had a history which left much to be desired. In some sense, each felt abused by the male of the species. But whilst Annabelle
'
s mode was to strike out and dare the world to do its worst, Bertie, by temperament, was inclined to withdraw into her shell. It would have shocked Sir Cha
r
les to learn that, in Mrs. Pendleton
'
s estimation, it was his scapegrace sister-in-law who had worked a salutary change in her.
By tacit agreement, Annabelle and her companion rarely discussed their respective late husbands. Each was content to draw a veil over what had evidently been an unhappy period in her life. It was otherwise with current events, hence
Annabelle
'
s look of wariness and Bertie
'
s frank curiosity.
Mrs. Pendleton advanced upon her friend. "Here, let me help you,
"
she said as Annabelle made to slip out of her silk robe. Annabelle, clothed in her underthings, flashed a challenging look at her companion. Bertie eyed Annabelle
'
s petticoats with marked favor. "There wouldn
'
t be pantalettes hiding under those petticoats by any chance, would there?'* she quizzed.
Annabelle, quickly lowering her lashes, signified that there were.
"May I ask what has brought about this change of heart?
"
"Fashions change, Bertie,
"
said Annabelle, and quickly thrust her arms into a dark blue dimity which her companion held for her. The bodice of the frock covered her from throat to wrist.
Mrs. Pendleton gave an unladylike snort. "But not betwixt Saturday night and Sunday morning. This is
Dalmar
'
s
doing
or my name isn
'
t Beatrice Pendleton. Annabelle, I
'
m expiring with curiosity. Who is the man? How do you come to know him? Why does he have such a proprietary interest in you?
"
Annabelle seated herself at her dressing table and began hunting for the pot of blacking her son had newly displaced. Her fingers were very steady as she applied the brush to her gold eyebrows and lashes. "He is the Earl of Dalmar. I met him in Paris. He was the man who saved my life in that melee I told you about in the Palais Royal. Because I was unchaperoned, and he fou
nd me in such a place and…
well
…
everything else,
"
she added vaguely, "he mistook me for a lady of easy virtue.
"
"I warned you that something of the kind might happen,
"
said Bertie, appalled. "It was sheer foolishness to travel to Paris without me to chaperone you.
"
"There
'
s no sense crying over spilt milk,
"
said Annabelle, trying for an air which would depress further questions. "Someone had to remain behind with Richard. It was imperative that I be in Paris. I had my maids as chaperones and Lord Temple as an escort.
"
Annabelle chanced a quick look at her companion, and just as quickly looked away. "I don
'
t see what more I could have
done,
"
she added.
"You were very fortunate to come out of that little escapade with no harm done.
"
"Yes, wasn
'
t I?
"
agreed Annabelle, studiously applying a dab of Denmark lotion across her cheekbones.
Mrs. Pendleton studied Annabelle
'
s ingenuous and slightly abstracted expression in the reflection of the mirror. After a moment she observed, "Lord Dalmar must know by now that you
'
re a respectable lady of quality.
"
"Certainly. But I
'
m a widow. To men of his kidney, that makes me fair game.
"
"The bounder!
"
"Yes! Which is why I was very disappointed when you left me to his mercies yesterday evening. Well, you
'
re a widow too. You know how some men, I won
'
t say 'gentlemen,
'
think that that circumstance gives them license to treat us as if we were lightskirts.
"
"Annabelle
…
he didn
'
t
…
you didn
'
t?
"
"Oh yes he did, and of course I didn
'
t!
"
"How awful! And to think I liked him on sight! Well, I
'
m sure that you sent him about his business with a flea in his ear.
"
"I tried to,
"
said Annabelle, savagely drawing a comb through her tangled locks. "I might as well have tried to beat my fist against a brick wall. He won
'
t take no for an answer.
"
Mrs. Pendleton took the comb from Annabelle
'
s fingers and deftly wound the curtain of hair into a loose knot. Her eyes met Annabelle
'
s in the mirror. Suppressing a smirk, she said, "I did not even think to hear you admit that there was a man you could not manage.
"
"There isn
'
t!
"
said Annabelle, her teeth clamping together. Bertie smiled but said nothing, and Annabelle burst out, "Anyone would think that you were hoping to see me get my just desserts.
"
Without haste, Bertie affixed several hair pins to the smooth chignon at Annabelle
'
s neck. She surveyed her handiwork with a critical eye. "Fustian,
"
she said at length. "You know better than that. But there is something about Dalmar which invites confidence, yes, even in a misanthrope such as myself. Why don
'
t you give him a chance?
"
"I don
'
t believe my ears! You have no more reason to trust men than I do. You
'
ve never before displayed such partiality to any of the gentlemen of our acquaintance.
"
"No, and with good cause. You surround yourself with milksops and manikins. Dalmar is the first real man who
'
s come close to you in an age. How did he manage it, I wonder?
"