She rang for a servant, knowing full well that Cousin Hattie would shriek like one of her birds if she knew Annabelle was entertaining a gentleman caller. Annabelle didn’t care; she had a reckless desire to take her time discovering why Lord Radcliffe had called.
“Thank you,” the earl said as he took a chair. “I was out of England for a considerable period of time and had not realized there was a new Viscount Kingsley.”
They exchanged commonplaces until tea and cakes arrived, with Annabelle covertly studying her visitor, intrigued by his general resemblance to Alex. There was similarity in height and coloring, and a certain vivid energy, but the features were quite different, and Radcliffe’s voice was lighter in tone and quicker in its speech rhythms. While her brother was very good looking, she rather thought that the earl surpassed him. But what was the man doing here?
Anticipating her question, the earl said, “I must apologize for calling when we have never been introduced, but I wish to discuss your former maid. You knew her as Christine Bohnet.”
Annabelle hoped she didn’t look as startled as she felt. What could this fashionable gentleman care about someone else’s servant? “Christa was in my employ, but she is no longer. I am not sure it would be proper to discuss her with a stranger.”
Charles smiled. It was a smile that had tamed the most ferocious of dowagers, and the effect on a romantic young female was mesmerizing. “But I am not a stranger. I’m her brother.”
Annabelle stared blankly. Grasping at the first objection to such an absurd statement, she said, “But . . . you are English, and she is French.”
“I should have said that I am her half brother,” Charles said. He knew that he should explain the situation succinctly, but Miss Kingsley confused was a delightful creature, her blue eyes earnest and transparently readable.
Annabelle gazed at him in bafflement. Then with sudden shock she realized that the smoky quartz eyes regarding her were identical in color and shape to those of her former maid. She had never seen any other eyes like them, until today.
“Your eyes!” she gasped in sudden recognition. “It must be true.” She now found that the gray eyes sparked with amusement exactly like Christa’s.
“In other words, Christa is . . .” Annabelle hesitated, seeking the most discreet possible term for “illegitimate.” If Christa were the bastard daughter of an English lord, it would explain both her gentility and her reticence about her antecedents.
“Born the wrong side of the blanket?” Charles supplied helpfully. “Not in the least. We share a mother, not a father. When my mother married the Comte d’Estelle, it was a grand occasion with dozens of high born friends as witnesses. I was in the ceremony myself because Mother didn’t want me to feel neglected.”
In a world turning upside down, one stunning fact stood out. Annabelle said faintly, “Her father was a count?”
The earl nodded. Mentally reviewing what she knew of the French system of succession, Annabelle had the same nightmare feeling as when she dreamed of being caught in public wearing only a shift. “You mean that Christa is a countess?”
“Yes, her full name and style is Marie-Christine Madeline Louise d’Estelle, Comtesse d’Estelle, Baronne Bretenne et Baronne Valognes.”
Annabelle covered her face with her hands and gave a low moan of horror. “She used to darn my stockings!”
Charles erupted into laughter. Annabelle removed her hands from her face and glared, but after a few moments his humor proved contagious and her lips started twitching. Finally she had to laugh with him.
Eventually Charles said, “I’m sorry, that was most unkind of me. I can imagine the shock if I found that my valet was a duke or some such. But if you could have seen your face . . .”
He hastily suppressed a new surge of hilarity. “If she darned your stockings, I trust she did them well.”
“Most certainly,” Annabelle said, still slightly dazed. “She was good at everything that a maid does, and everything that a lady does, too.”
There was a long, long pause while she collected her scattered thoughts, then she said hesitantly, “It is . . . humbling to think how I simply accepted her as a servant. She was so well-read, much more so than I am. And she was very knowledgeable about society and manners. My brother said she was more a lady than half the ton, and he was absolutely right.” She shook her head, then went on, “Yet because she was a maid, I overlooked how remarkable she was.”
Annabelle stopped, staring into her teacup, then said, “I’m not explaining this very well. I am ashamed that, because she was apparently from an inferior station in life, I . . . it never occurred to me to really look at her as she was, rather than as I expected her to be. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes, I do. But don’t be too hard on yourself,” Charles said consolingly. “The minx was always a dab hand at theatricals, and she probably acted the part better than a real abigail. Christa is a bit of a revolutionary, you know—she doesn’t just say that all people are inherently equal, she actually believes it, which is one of the reasons she could be a convincing servant. Plus, she told me that she had convinced herself that her old life was entirely behind her and she must build a new future without feeling sorry for herself.”
Christa had sometimes succumbed to self-pity? Annabelle had rather thought that was her own specialty. She gave herself a mental shake and asked, “What do you wish to discuss with me? Are you seeking to find your sister?”
“No, she is safe in my home. I should explain that my mother and I were missing and thought dead in France. Christa managed to escape, but there was a . . . serious misunderstanding with my heir, and she felt compelled to leave his protection and strike out on her own. When we returned to England several weeks ago, I found her just after she left your household. Which brings me to why I have called on you today.”
Annabelle was round eyed at the earl’s casual references to high adventure, but regretfully decided that she had best stick to the business at hand. “I had heard your story but forgot that the earl involved was named Radcliffe,” she admitted. “Your adventures were a nine days’ wonder. What do you wish to know about Christa?”
Charles said slowly, “My sister seems unhappy—she has lost much of her high spiritedness. Not that she is moping, but I am concerned for her. Is there anything you know that might give a clue?” At Annabelle’s silence he added, “Anaffaire de coeurseems the most likely.”
Annabelle had a lively suspicion that it might have something to do with Alex, but was wrestling her conscience about whether to speak. Her brother had asked her to bury the whole subject. But if there was any chance that she might help him pull out of his despair . . .
Coming to a decision, she said, “Perhaps I shouldn’t speak of this, but my brother wished to marry her.”
Charles gave a nearly soundless whistle. “Even thinking she was a servant?” At Annabelle’s nod, he mused, “That is quite a tribute to my sister’s charms. Did she turn him down?”
