He gritted his teeth, angry at himself for caring. “Thank you, no,” he said, leaving the tavern before anyone else could tempt him in with a drink. One drink would turn into five, which would turn into many more, and the rest of the day would be lost. He’d stumble home drunk at dawn and face a headache the next day.
Once, he would have welcomed it, but he had some idea in his head of being—well, he didn’t fully know. The person his father had never thought hecouldbe. Taking revenge on people who were dead and would never see the fruits of his work seemed shortsighted and a distinct waste of effort.
Thus, when he was home, he would wipe off whatever blood was on his person, and he would channel his remaining frustration into taking charge of the estate. The fight had taken the edge off, though he still itched with restless energy.
Seeing Annabelle had disturbed him more than he wanted to admit. After sending her the book of sonnets, he hadn’t expected to see her for a few days, so he would have time to come to terms with just how foolish that impulse had been.
He was not Cecil. No matter how many books he sent her, he wouldneverbe good enough to suit her. And he didn’t want to be. What he wanted was for the engagement to be over so he could go back to his life without thinking about the ways in which his decisions would affect her. He wanted to be able to go to sleep without wanting her.
He wanted to not see the wistful expression on her face when she thought about his brother and what he had to offer. History was playing out again and Cecil wasn’t evenhereto control the narrative.
Jacob rolled his shoulders, wishing he knew a better, more effective way of burning off the energy that still roiled inside him.
Although it was still raining mistily, he opted to walk, strolling past all London had to offer as he moved west into the more salubrious areas thetonchose to inhabit. Hopefully Louisa had taken Annabelle home in a hackney at the very least.
No, he needed to stop thinking about her.
By the time he arrived home, he was wet to the bone, and he had just divested himself of his sodden coat when Smythe said, “You have a visitor, my lord.” His tone implied the visitor was not at all to his taste. Jacob ran through who it could be. A debtor come to collect? Unlikely; he hadn’t even, to his knowledge, received any threatening notes.
Villiers? No doubt Smythe would disapprove. But he would have given the gentleman’s name immediately.
“Well?” he asked, unbuttoning his waistcoat as he moved to the stairs. His visitor could wait until he had changed at least. “Who is it?”
“I’m not entirely sure, sir,” Smythe said stiffly. “She wouldn’t give her name.”
She? That stopped Jacob in his tracks. “Is she alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where is she?”
“In the receiving room, my lord.”
The receiving room was a small room beside the door tradespeople usually waited in if they wished to speak directly to the family. Not a place for a well-bred lady, but if a lady had come here alone, no doubt she wasn’t well-bred.
He had no outstanding debts with brothels. Truth be told, he hadn’t visited for months.
Annabelle. Her face flashed in his mind and he went cold all over. If she had risked coming here, something dreadful must have happened. It was one thing to follow Louisa after him, but entirely another to come to his house alone.
“Take me to her,” he said.
Chapter Twenty
Annabelle paced around the small, plain room, wishing she had never come. Several times, she eyed the door, wondering if she ought to make a break for it. Coming here had been risky, both for her reputation and her reception. Jacob hadn’t been pleased to see her at the tavern and his boxing ring, and she doubted he would be happy to see her here, either. At his house.
Maybe she should just go home and save the apology for another time. Lady Bolton had promised to cover for her; she could leave and tell Theo she’d been with Lady Bolton and no one would be any the wiser.
Before she could bolt, the door opened and Jacob walked in, his waistcoat half open and his shirt damp. He closed the door behind him and came to stand in front of her in two strides. “What is it?” he asked, his dark eyes searching her face. “Is someone hurt? Did someone see you at the tavern?”
Unable to speak, she shook her head. Her face flamed.
“Annabelle.” Jacob’s hands cupped her face, bringing her gaze back to his. His hands were shockingly warm, though still wet from the rain, and he was frowning. “Tell me. What is it? I thought after learning about Madeline you—” He broke off, throat working, and she reached up to brush her fingertips against the hand that was still against her cheek. So gentle, he could be so gentle with these same hands she had seen break a man’s ribs.
Her breath caught.
“What you told me about Madeline wasn’t the full story,” she whispered. “I want to know—everything.”
“That’s the reason you came here? To hear me talk about a woman long dead?”
