Cheeks burning, heat pooling low in her belly, Anne tried to compose herself with a sip of tea. Yet the liquid was too hot, and she burned her tongue. Everything, it seemed, burned her.
She spent the remainder of the morning in correspondence. As she sat at an escritoire in the opulently furnished drawing room, no noise in the chamber but for the scratching of her pen across the foolscap and the pop of the fire, Anne thought she heard a rustling, and the sound of a footstep just behind her. Startled, she dropped her pen, spattering ink across the paper.
She turned in her seat, expecting to see either Meg or one of the servants. No one. The chamber had one occupant: her.
Instinctively, she looked toward the mounted sconces, but the candles were unlit. There was nothing to extinguish.
Chiding herself, Anne sprinkled sand onto the paper in the hopes of salvaging it. The contents of her letter were not irreplaceable, but she was too used to frugal living to readily lose a sheet of foolscap. Paper was dear.
Now she could afford as much foolscap as she desired, and in
her letters she would not have to cross her lines anymore as a means of using less paper.
Anne sighed. The letter was beyond repair, and her thoughts too scattered to attempt anything resembling coherent correspondence. Checking the hour, she saw that she was well within polite boundaries for paying calls. She may as well begin crossing names off Leos list. No sense in delaying.
Lord Newstead seemed the best candidate with which to begin. Lady Newstead was close in age to Anne, and married only a year. She and Anne might find elements of parallel over which they might form, if not friendship, then a better sense of acquaintanceship. Keeping this strategy in mind, Anne donned her hat and, with Meg in tow, stepped outside.
The sky was mottled, gray clouds streaking the cold blue sky, and an air of hushed waiting hung over the street.
Mr. Bailey has taken the carriage. The footman waiting in attendance by the door seemed apologetic, as if having only one carriage seemed a breach of decorum. Annes family had to share their carriage with two other families, which kept impromptu journeys to a minimum. I can summon a hack for you, madam.
It seemed a dreadful expense, when a sedan chair would suit the same purpose, but she had to remind herself that expense little mattered anymore. She glanced down the street. I do not see any hackneys. In truth, almost no one was out, apart from a sweep with his brushes.
Two streets over, theres loads of traffic. Ill just run over. Back in a moment, madam.
You may have an admirer, Meg, Anne said once the footman had run off. He seemed most eager to show himself at an advantage.
The maid sniffed. As if a ladys maid would ever hold truck with a footman. It takes more than a fine pair of calves to turn my head. Yet Meg cast lingering glances in the direction which the footman had disappeared.
An icy wind spun down the street. Anne shivered.
This weather is changeable. Meg gazed critically toward the sky. Shall I fetch a shawl for you, madam?
At Annes nod, the maid hurried up the stairs and then into the house. Anne stood by herself, rubbing her hands on her arms. The sweep had turned the corner. No one else occupied the street. She was alone.
Mrs. Bailey.
Anne spun around.
Not five feet from her stood a tall, brown-haired man, his clothing fine but verging on threadbare. His brilliant blue eyes shone with intelligence, and though he never took his gaze from her, he seemed acutely aware of his surroundings, as if sensing enemies all around. At his side was a young woman of exotic origin, her skin dusky, her eyes as black as her hair. Like the man, the exotic girl had an air of wariness about her. They had the guarded manner of fugitives.
Though Anne did not recognize the girl, she knew the man by reputation alone.
Her voice came out little more than a croak. Lord Whitney.
Chapter 6
Its you we want to speak with, said the young woman. Large golden hoops hung from her ears, necklaces draped around her neck, and rings adorned her fingers. Anne had never been this close to a Gypsy in her life, though she had seen them at Bartholomew Fair doing trick riding and telling fortunes.
Time is in short supply. Lord Whitney stepped closer, and Anne took an instinctive step back.
Time for what?
To warn you.
Unease crawled up Annes neck. Truly, perhaps you should return when Leo is home.
Leo is the one you should be afraid of.
Anne did not like the alert tension in Lord Whitneys stance, nor the way the Gypsy woman kept glancing around the street. Perhaps the Gypsy was ill, for her body gave off a tremendous amount of heat. Perhaps both the woman and Lord Whitney were both ill, for they had a kind of fever in their eyes.
He has been nothing but kind to me, Anne said.
Lord Whitney and the Gypsy exchanged speaking glances. She doesnt know, said the Gypsy.
Know what? Annes anxiety gave edge to her temper. These riddles you speak are tiresome.