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The prince’s gaze sharpened. “You are a self-made man, I hear. Pulled yourself up from nothing. Men like you are the backbone of England. You own and run the factories and the mills, you are never too fine to get your hands dirty. I like that, Appleby, indeed I do. There are far too many gentlemen about with lots to say and little to show for it.”
“I consider myself very lucky to have been given this opportunity to serve my country, and you, sir.”
Perhaps he’d gone a bit too far there, because Prince Albert gave him a long, steady look, as if he was trying to see into Appleby’s mind. There had been that little upset when rumors about Antoinette and him got about, but now she was gone they had settled down nicely. When the wedding was announced, no one would be surprised, and even if she did protest, no one would listen.
A woman who was foolish enough to lose her reputation should know what was required of her. Marriage, and as soon as possible!
The way Appleby saw it, this was his way out of trouble. His continued success and solvency were more important than Antoinette and her sister. Antoinette must be made to see that her only option was obeying him.
And if she didn’t?
Appleby paused to tip his hat to a passing acquaintance.
If she didn’t, then it would be so mu
ch the worse for her. This wasn’t the first time he’d come close to financial ruin and escaped by the skin of his teeth.
And his superior intelligence.
The memory made him uncomfortable, and he pushed it aside. There was no time for sentimentality in business; he’d learned that from a young age. When he was a child he’d gone hungry and suffered the back of his father’s hand whenever he complained. He’d promised himself then that he’d escape from the cruel world he’d been born into, and so he had.
There was no possibility he would ever go back there, to the dirt and the filth and the unbearable misery. The London blue bloods might laugh at him and his pretensions and his love of fine things, but they didn’t understand what it was like to go without. In his heart Appleby knew that he would fight to the death before he went under.
In such circumstances everyone and everything was expendable.
Chapter 14
Someone was following her. The familiar feeling had been building ever since she left the house and entered the woods. She found herself glancing over her shoulder, carefully observing her dark and creepy surroundings, even pausing to listen intently for footsteps. Despite her precautions she’d seen nothing to suggest she was under surveillance, although that didn’t stop her from experiencing an increasing anxiety.
Of course it was possible that the Wonicots were spying on her again. They were Lord Appleby’s creatures, after all, and they’d shown her from the beginning what they thought of her. Coombe might not be quite as bad—she still had hopes of bringing him over to her side—but neither did she trust him. Not yet.
As she wandered deeper into the thick woods, Antoinette came to the conclusion that if the Wonicots were watching her they were cleverer than she’d thought. She had not spotted them once. And she could not really see Mrs. Wonicot darting behind tree trunks, or Wonicot shuffling through the undergrowth with a spyglass.
No, whoever it was, was far cleverer than the Wonicots. For a moment she considered turning back, but she needed to do something.
Once again she paused, glancing about her, listening to the wind, the rattle and clack of the branches, the rustle of leaves, the sway of the treetops. Eerie. The woods were much thicker and far darker than she’d expected, full of shadows and noises that preyed upon her imagination.
After last night Antoinette had determined to find the source of the light she’d seen, and which she suspected belonged to the highwayman, and despite the blustery, unwelcoming day and her growing unease, she meant to complete the task she’d set herself. It made sense that the highwayman was in hiding. The attitude of the servants had hinted at a man who kept to the shadows, whom they were protecting.
She’d been thinking he was Appleby’s man, bought body and soul, and sent to retrieve the letter. Perhaps he really was an outlaw, but she no longer believed he was Appleby’s creature. This man had a mind and heart of his own, and that was what made him so dangerous to her. If she found his dwelling in the woods, it might give her a clue to his identity.
Something with his name on it, perhaps.
Something she could show to Sir James Trevalen, or use to threaten the highwayman with disclosure. He’d have to leave then, and she would be safe from his kisses and caresses, and her increasing attraction to him and the delights to be found in his arms. Safe, before she lost her wits completely and failed herself and Cecilia.
Antoinette liked to think she was stronger minded than to fall for his charms, but the truth was she was in serious trouble. And the only way to get out of it was to run away—she was working on that—or to get the source of her trouble removed.
The path she was following through the woods was barely discernible, and now and again she would stop to make certain she hadn’t strayed from it. As she walked her long skirts trailed through the leaves and debris littering the ground, and try as she might to hold them up, there was always something attaching itself to the hem that she then had to shake free. The latest fashion in skirts was for length—they were meant to trail. Irritably Antoinette wondered, as she pulled her skirts free yet again, whether those who set the fashion for what women should wear had ever tried traipsing through a dense wood.
She looked up at the sky, or what she could see of it through the crisscrossing leaves and branches, and decided it was growing gloomier by the minute. There was a feeling of dampness, too, as if a great deal of rain was coming, and wryly she wondered how she’d cope with her long, trailing skirts if they were soaking wet.
A moment later, to her surprise, she stepped out of the woods and into a clearing, and there before her stood a cottage.
It looked like something from a fairy tale, the sort of fairy tale where the wicked witch was lurking in her cottage and waiting to trap unwary children. Old and dilapidated, the two-story building had an unhealthy slant to its slate roof, while overgrown shrubs formed a hedge about the perimeter. Blank black windows stared out at her from the ground story, while those at the top were either broken or boarded up. No smoke drifted from the chimney. The overall effect was one of desolation.
Perhaps she had the wrong house? Perhaps there was another one about somewhere, because she certainly had not imagined the light glowing in the middle of the woods.
Antoinette hesitated, not anxious to go any nearer, but she supposed that now she was here, she should take a closer look. She was not normally a coward, but something about the silent and gloomy sky, the woods, and the house in the clearing, made her edgy.
