She had evidently lost the thread of what he was saying. "What obstacle?
"
she asked.
"Dalmar himself. I think he
'
s lost confidence. He
'
s not the same person. Do you know what I think?
"
"No, what?
"
"I think—and this is only conjecture, mind you—I think that he suffers from a terrible foreboding that he might turn out to be just like my father.
"
"But that
'
s preposterous. Why would you even think so?
"
A ghost of a smile, faintly self-mocking, touched Falconer
'
s lips. "I harbor the same secret dread with respect to myself.
"
Chapter Twenty-two
I
n Gilcomston, his country seat in Hampshire, the Earl of Dalmar had shut himself away in his study, and was ostensibly hard at work on estate accounts. At that moment he was sprawled inelegantly in a well-worn leather armchair, his feet propped on a great oak desk, and staring disinterestedly at the long windows on the far wall. With the pencil in his hand, he drummed an idle tattoo against one booted foot.
The door handle rattled. Dalmar
'
s feet dropped to the floor, and he adopted an air of concentration as he bent over his ledgers.
"Still at it, I see,
"
said John Falconer pleasantly as he sailed into the room. In his hand he held two letters. "These just arrived by post. One for you,
"
he tossed one letter on the desk, "and one for me. From Annabelle, if I
'
m not mistaken. I wonder what that tear-away is up to now?
"
He draped himself over a commodious armchair which hugged the hearth and became involved in opening and reading the one-page epistle. From time to time he chuckled softly. For the Earl he spared not a glance.
Dalmar picked up the letter his brother had tossed to him. He weighed it carefully in one hand. He turned it over. He examined it from all angles. He sliced a look at his younger brother
'
s carefully averted profile. At length he emitted a soft sigh and deftly pried it apart with a jewel-encrusted silver letter opener which lay at his hand.
He wasn
'
t sure what to expect. It was a full month since he
had last seen her at Ransome
'
s wedding. She
'
d been very cold with him then, not that he blamed her. He did not wish for any converse with the lady—not even a letter. Just yesterday, he had actually been surprised into laughter. Genuine laughter, not the mechanical grimace of bared teeth and a forced bark, but the real thing. He was making progress. He was sure that he could tear her from his heart and mind, given time—say, a hundred years or so. He carefully smoothed out the single sheet and began to read.
It was a bread-and-butter letter thanking him for his timely rescue from Lord Temple. In passing, she mentioned his good offices during the riot at the Palais Royal and also at Lewes on Guy Fawkes
'
Night. He didn
'
t like the tone of the letter. It was too serious, too polite, too formal, and just the sort of thing he would expect Annabelle to write to a perfect stranger. Only at the end was there a flash of something which captured Annabelle
'
s flair for irony—or was it sarcasm?
"I always thought,
"
he read, "that angels were robed in white and possessed a magnificent set of wings. So now I know.
"
Now what was he to gather from that? Did she imply that he was an angel? He reread the letter several times. No, that could not be right. Perhaps she referred to herself. To his surprise he discovered that he was grinning. He considered the phenomenon and concluded that he felt decidedly lighter of heart. It was too much to say that Annabelle had forgiven him for his vicious conduct on the day she had been dragged to Bow Street, nor had she mentioned that episode in her letter. But there was just a hint that she no longer regarded him so completely beyond reproach.
He looked up and caught his brother
'
s curious eye upon him. The smile faded from his face.
"A thank-you note for my part in her rescue from
Temple,
"
he said. If his brother had any thought of a reconciliation between himself and Annabelle, he wanted to nip that hope in the bud. He was grateful for this lessening of hostility on Annabelle
'
s part, but it would never do to let himself be persuaded that he could trust himself in any volatile situation with Annabelle. And with her, it went without saying, there
were bound to be many of those.
He looked pointedly at the letter in Falconer
'
s hand. "And yours?
"
he asked, studiously casual.
"Oh.
"
Falconer waved the page negligently in the air. "She spent a week in York with her father. It seems that she
'
s brought the old boy back to town with her. I say, David, d
'
you think you could spare me for a week or so?
"
"You
'
ve only just got here!
"
exclaimed the Earl in a slightly aggrieved tone.
"Yes, I know. But Annabelle
'
s giving a welcoming party for her father. Well, you know what Annabelle
'
s parties are like. Anything can happen. I wouldn
'
t want to miss it for the world.
"
A dark tide of color rose in Dalmar
'
s neck. He turned away and observed mildly, "I thought you detested town life.
"
"Did I say that?
"
Falconer seemed to give the notion some thought. "By Jove, you
'
re right,
"
he said. "I believe I did, once upon a time. Well, I
'
ve had a change of heart,
'
tis all.
"
Dalmar pinned his brother with a penetrating stare. "Is Lady Jocelyn to be in town?
"
Falconer
'
s brows shot up. "Not to my knowledge. Last time I heard, she and Sir Charles were holidaying in Paris. Why do you ask?
"
"No reason. Then there
'
s nothing more to be said except 'Don
'
t do anything I wouldn
'
t do!
'
"
"Good God!
"
exclaimed Falconer, laughing. "What a boring fate! I hope to do a hell of a lot more than you
'
ve been up to of late, dear brother.
"
He quickly ducked as a missile came flying toward him, missing his head by inches. The candle bounced off the wall and rolled under a chair.
"You can always come with me,
"
suggested Falconer hopefully.
"I wasn
'
t invited.
"
"But Annabelle never invites people to her parties. Like bad pennies, they just turn up. You should know that better than anyone. Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn
'
t mean…"
"Forget it. No, really
…
there
'
s quite enough here to occupy me for months to come.
"
"And all of it pressing,
"
said Falconer sardonically. "Have it your own way. I
'
ll keep you posted on my direction.
"
To his brother
'
s arched brow, he responded, "Well, with Annabelle, who knows where we might end up? Last time Paris, next time, Berlin, for all I know.
"
Dalmar
'
s look was thoughtful as his younger sibling sauntered from the room.
"
I
t was a lovely party,
"
said the vicar to his daughter, his eyes thoughtful as they rested on the top of her head.
"Yes, wasn
'
t it?
"
she replied.
Annabelle sat on the hearth, arms clasped around her knees, her spine resting against the front of her father
'
s chair. His hand was on her shoulder. It was a comforting position, she thought, and one which reminded her forcefully of childhood days. They would often sit thus, talking over the day
'
s events or merely absorbed in private reflection.
"Who was that woman?
"
asked the vicar at length.
"The one who disrobed in front of everyone?
"
"Yes, that
'
s the one.
"
"She said she was an artist
'
s model and had mistaken the house. And when no one stopped her entering the premises, she was sure she had the right address. D
'
you think she was telling the truth, Papa?
"
"Oh, I think so,
"
answered the vicar with a small, private smile.
"It had occurred to me,
"
said Annabelle, "that it were more prudent to send out cards for my parties. Then the porter could turn away interlopers at the door.
"
"Is that the custom in London—to send out cards?
"
"Papa, that
'
s the custom everywhere.
"
"Strange,
"
said the vicar, "I
'
ve never followed it.
"
"No
, and neither have I. Still…
"
"My dear, you refine too much upon it. To have the porter turn away str
angers at the door! It seems so…
un-Christian! And really, no one was offended by the lady.
"
"True,
"
agreed Annabelle.
"And she seemed to enjoy herself, once she was persuaded
to put her clothes back on.
"
"You don
'
t think she ruined my party?
"
"Good heavens, no! Quite the reverse, I should say. Your young man, Dalmar—he was not present, I think someone told me.
"
There was a long pause as Annabelle slowly assimilated the unwelcome turn in the conversation. She became involved in tracing a path with her fingers through the thick pile of the rug. "I did not expect him,
"
she said in a small voice.
The vicar regarded her bowed head with a sapient eye. "Am I to take it, then, that the marriage is put off altogether?
"
"I shall never marry,
"
said Annabelle with ringing finality, then ruined the effect she wished to achieve by emitting a pathetic little sniff and several hiccups in quick succession.
Wordlessly the vicar dangled a pristine white handkerchief in front of her face. Annabelle accepted it with an incoherent expression of gratitude and blew her nose.
"There
'
s a good girl,
"
said the vicar consolingly. "Now why don
'
t you begin at the beginning and tell Papa all about it?
"
The words were so achingly familiar, thought Annabelle, though it was years since she had last heard them. She half turned her head and regarded her father through the wet spikes of her lashes. He was still a fine figure of a man, she thought, in spite of a bald pate and a slight stoop to his shoulders. He was a man who laughed a lot, to which the fine lines around his eyes and the deep slashes in his cheeks amply attested. She
'
d once told him, half in earnest, that she thought that on Judgment Day he would plead on behalf of the devil himself. There was not much that shocked the reverend Jonathan Summers.
Still, she was his daughter…
"Can
'
t you tell me?
"
he softly encouraged.
And then the whole damning story, suitably expurgated, came pouring out of her.
"Oh Papa,
"
she cried, "if you had only seen me that day when he came to Bailey
'
s with the constables to take the diaries away from me, you would not have recognized your own daughter! Such language! Such wild, uncontrollable behavior! Do you know, I slapped him twice? And I knew the consequences would be severe. But I was past caring. I was
beside myself, like some deranged bedlamite. And after everything he had done for me! And he—he was only trying to protect me, as future events were to prove. I knew it even then. But a wicked humor had taken possession of me. I did not even recognize myself,
"
and she buried her nose in her sire
'
s damp handkerchief, and proceeded to dampen it some more.
"You don
'
t think,
"
pointed out the vicar reasonably, "that the provocation was great? That perhaps the youn
g man has much to answer for, th
at his methods are, forgive me, my dear, a trifle ruthless?
"
"Very ruthless,
"
agreed Annabelle readily, "as was to be expected.
"
To her father
'
s look of surprise, she responded, "It
'
s almost frightening, this obsession he has about protecting me at all costs, yes, even from myself.
"