Couldn’t her parents see that if justice was served, she would be able to let go of her unmerited guilt? No. No they could not.
Which was why when her father announced his intention to take her mother on an extended holiday to “get her mind off of things,” Annabelle had mentally begun making her plans. She’d set off as soon as the opportunity presented itself. She had until her parents’ return to put things right.
“Here we are,” Lord Randall said, stopping before a glass-paned door on which were painted the wordsTelegraph Office.
“Do whatever it is you need to do. I’ll be back in a moment to settle up,Lady Woodville,” he finished dryly.
She hesitated before entering the dingy office, a small part of her suddenly worried he meant to leave her after all. She’d had such tricks played on her. “Where are you going?”
He glanced across the street, his gaze locking on a marquee.
“Biggom’s Beer Room?” Her tone, she hoped, left him in no doubt of what she thought of him frequenting a drinking establishment in the middle of the afternoon.
His sardonic grin told her he’d noted her censure and didn’t much care. “You know how we rustics like our ale.”
With a huff, she entered the office, then turned, intending to ask him how long he’d be, only to find the door closing very firmly in her face.
Odious man. She sniffed, inhaling an unpleasant mélange of dust and hot metal. On the verge of sneezing, she shifted ‘round to face the office’s narrow interior.
A long, high counter took up a large portion of the space. It stood unmanned at the present, though a bell atop the wooden surface indicated a means to summon the clerk.
Perfect. She needed a moment to reflect. She had important decisions to make, and very little time to do so.
She hurried to the sloping writing shelf on which sat a wooden tray, filled with message forms, several inkwells, and stumpy pens. Plucking up one of the pens, she tapped her chin with it, and contemplated what to write—and to whom.
Her Aunt Josephine had been tasked with staying with her during her parents’ absence. The woman had departed recently for the country where she’d been invited for a weekend sojourn with friends. Her aunt had, of course, intended for Annabelle to join her, but Annabelle had begged off, implying a previous engagement that had something to do with an impending courtship.
In actuality, Aunt Josephine’s exodus from the city had been the opportunity for which Annabelle had been waiting. She’d anticipated her adventure taking two days at the most, putting her back in London well before her aunt’s return. Thanks to the weather, the robbers, Lucy’s disappearance, and Lord Randall’s resistance, that timeline had come and gone.
What message ought she send Aunt Josephine that would appease her and, more importantly, not arouse suspicion? Above all, she mustn’t risk her alerting Annabelle’s parents to bring them home early.
As it stood now, she had less than a month’s time remaining to achieve her end. Where could she claim to have gone, and with whom?
Abruptly, the answer came to her—and solved the conundrum of who might be called upon to chaperone her when the time came to leave, as well. For her plan to work, she’d need to send two telegrams but that wouldn’t be an issue.
Grinning at her genius, she dipped the nib in the inkwell and penned her succinct messages.
After re-reading both, she approached the counter and rang the bell. A moment later, a sleepy looking clerk appeared from behind a curtain that, evidently, functioned as a partition to a back-office where he had slipped off for an afternoon nap.
She sent the man her most brilliant smile.
His expression turned gratifyingly dazed. She wouldn’t have minded Lord Randall seeingthat.
“My good man, my name is Lady Woodville, and I wish to send two telegrams. One today, the second in, say, one week’s time?”
***
Sitting at a scarred table in the darkened corner of Biggom’s Beer Room, Sterling sipped the foam-topped tankard he’d ordered and surreptitiously studied the barroom’s occupants. An irritating voice inside him asked on repeat what the devil he thought he was doing here, and once again, he insisted he was here on an information gathering mission.
He had a responsibility to the people who lived and worked on the island. Learning all that he could about potential threats, which included conniving robbers lurking at the juncture of the mainland and the flats, was his duty as the area’s primary landowner. It was only natural he would want to question the guide who’d agreed to aid Annabelle, then abandoned her in the middle of a bloody squall.
To that end, he was almost positive he’d spotted his quarry. The man seated at the bar with the short-cropped hair matched the basic description the innkeeper’s wife had provided him.
When the man’s compatriot departed after making a general announcement he was “off to the bog,” Sterling tested his theory.He sidled up to the bar, pint in hand. “Good afternoon. Might you be Jack Blackwell?"
The man slanted him a glance. By his glassy-eyed appearance, Sterling guessed he was not finishing his first pint of the day.
“I might be. Depends on who’s asking,” he answered, tossing a grin at the barman who flicked a glance up from the glass he dried but otherwise ignored him.
