Page 5 of His Wife, the Spy
“Is everyone settled?” Jasper asked.
“Their things are in their rooms, and the maids and valets are unpacking now.”
“You trust them?”
“As much as we can trust village lads and lasses we hired a week ago.” Kit glanced in his direction. “Your new butler is Stapleton, not Starnes.”
“Stapleton.” Jasper nodded. The man at the door was tall, straight, and fitter than Jasper would have expected of a man his age. “Where did you find him?”
“He’s a retired regimental. Good with his fists and a saber. With a gun, too, if we need it.” Kit snorted a laugh. “Just get his name right from now on.” He, too, kept his eyes on the door. “Who is with Miss Spencer?”
“Annabel Pearce, Baron Chilworth’s eldest daughter.” Jasper scratched his chin. “I had hoped Spencer would hire some dotty old matron for his daughter’s companion.”
“Someone who sleeps in the corner and focuses on her knitting?” Kit teased. “Is she going to be a problem?”
An astute guardian would keep Miss Spencer on her best behavior. There would be little chance to baffle her with charm and too much punch and learn more about her father’s movements in London.
For years, Jasper had watched the men of Society embark on daring reform, either through legislation or direct action, only to return to stillness and the status quo, their gazes searching the shadows as they spoke. They acted differently. They spoke differently. Their courage died.
After one too many incidents, he began looking where they looked, seeing what they saw. Whom they saw.
Sir Reginald Spencer.
Jasper wanted Spencer off the chessboard. Annabel Pearce was too attentive to let him accomplish it easily.
“Most definitely.”
Chapter Two
It is goingto be a long month.
Annabel strolled through the hedge maze that had likely once been the pride of Kennet Hall’s garden. Now, its outer shape was a model of smooth respectability, but its paths were bisected with clumps of weeds. The inner walls were marred with tendrils and sprouts that waved in the breeze like hair escaping its pins.
Despite that, it was the perfect refuge. Its circular shape reminded her of the labyrinth in the courtyard of her village church. Many times she’d walked the worn stones in thought, searching for peace of mind.
Something she desperately needed today.
Sitting in Sir Reginald’s library, agreeing to his scheme had seemed the simplest path. Now that she was here, the task he’d set for her seemed enormous. The house was a sprawling mass of staircases and hallways, full of guests and servants. Of which she was neither.
Not for the first time since her father’s bankruptcy, Annabel thought it would be easier to be a maid. The work would be difficult, certainly, but she’d be able to leaf through Lord Ramsbury’s papers without notice. She’d also have a place far from those who had known her in her past life.
Which made it sound like she had died—faded away with the loss of her dowry.
“I’m still shocked to see Annabel Pearce here—in gray, no less. It’s such an unbecoming color on a young lady. She looks as though death will be knocking any moment.”
The voice, with its nasal pitch, soaked through the green wall of the maze. It belonged to Belinda Wallace, who had come out the year after Annabel. In a ballroom, clad in silks and lace, butter wouldn’t melt in Belinda’s mouth. But they weren’t in a ballroom, and it was easy to imagine the sly, sharp smile she wore everywhere else.
“Though the gray is at least this year’s style,” said Charlotte Bainbridge. “Last Season her gowns were all from the year before, if not older.” Her hushed tone made it sound as though previously worn dresses were the eighth deadly sin. “It’s no wonder that she didn’t catch a beau.”
“Dresses had nothing to do with it,” Belinda said. “She’s as poor as a church mouse. Father says Baron Chilworth risked everything in a scheme that came to nothing. They’ve rented or sold as much as they could. Father’s talking of making an offer for their library, though Mother can’t understand what he wants with piles of old books.”
Despite the warm sun and the spring breeze, a chill went through Annabel. Her family’s library would belong to someone else, or to several someones if an auction was required. Thetonwould dismember and distribute it without respect to the family who had curated it with a reverence others reserved for horses.
“Miss Pearce loves her library,” Elizabeth said. “She speaks of it often. It will pain her greatly to lose it.”
The sadness in the girl’s words, her proper use ofMiss Pearce, gave Annabel’s spirit a lift. They would never be true friends, but perhaps she was making an impact on her young charge.
“Aren’t you worried about having a companion not much older than you?” Charlotte asked. “I can’t imagine why your father chose her.”
