“Listen to what I share, then bring my boy back to me.”
And Elizabeth did listen, intently, even as she quietly turned her and Annabelle’s plan over in her mind. Finch was less protected than assumed; he kept but one man at his side, meaning Annabelle’s retrieval of a few choice ingredients from Mr. Harris’s larder might just do the trick.
Her sister had learned a thing or two on her journey to Gretna which should prove useful to them now. At least, Elizabeth prayed it would.
Hours later, however, she was not thinking of their plan, Elizabeth was contemplating wringing her father’s neck.
“Lizzie.” Annabelle shot her a warning glance. “Do not berate Papa so. It is Mr. Finch who deserves our wrath, not Father.”
They were sitting in their father’s drawing room, visiting with him, only Elizabeth had failed, again, to temper her anger—anger which felt more justified than ever. Her husband’s very life was threatened, for God’s sake, while Papa remained insufferably unaffected by anything but his own blasted concerns. Cook had reported she’d heard him weeping nights, the recent upset with the house too much for him to bear. Not Annabelle’s kidnapping to Gretna, mind. Not the Baron’s disappearance. The man’s blastedhouse.
Or perhaps Father worried his debt to Finch would not get settled now that Milton was missing? Well he ought to worry. He ought to?—
Papa dramatically dabbed a kerchief to his brow. “If your dear, sweet mothers could only see the two of you, married.” He loudly blew his nose.
“You leave our mothers out of this,” Elizabeth’s ire only increased. “For you to invoke their names, after such shabby treatment of both?—”
“Lizzie,” Annabelle hissed. “We did not come to rile Papa, but to show him we are well, to ensure he is well, and to get on with our lives, forgiving and forgetting.” She pinned Elizabeth with her gaze. “We mustn’t letotherfrustrations affect current feelings.”
Elizabeth slowed her breathing. Annabelle was right, of course. Fear was getting the better of her. She yearned forher husband’s firm presence—and even firmer hand. His palm on her backside would have helped clear her head. A quick spanking, absurd as that thought was, had curative properties she desperately now craved.
“Forgive me, Father. My nerves are overwrought.” She inhaled a breath. “And you are right, Bella, the past matters little anymore. In fact, we shall stay the night, for old times’ sake, and join you for dinner. What say you, Papa?
Winthrop looked from one daughter to the next. “’Tis true I am so lonesome of late I don’t know what to do with myself. The house is much too quiet with the two of you now gone. Do you think Iought to marry again? I hear one is never too old to take a wife. After all, a kind and loving widow with means may just put my heart to ease again.”
Elizabeth resisted the overwhelming urge to throttle him. Instead, she placed a hand on his arm. “I should like nothing better than to discuss the idea over dinner, Papa. I’ll have Cook set the table for three. Bella, why don’t you peek at Father’s accounts before we dine. To make sure all is in order.”
No doubt he was up to his tricks. Again.
Once the house fell silent, they slipped out, Elizabeth in half-blind state led by Bartholomew Brown’s steadying arm. She’d stashed her spectacles in her skirt pocket rather than risk being found out, for she could see enough to get by; the world would simply blur.
Annabelle had given Elizabeth a dress gaudy enough to look the part. She’d also dusted off an old powdered wig to hide Elizabeth’s black hair, turning her into a paintedcatin de larévolutionnamed Babette. Bette would hang on Bart’s arm—both trollop and good luck piece to his card sharp.
Elizabeth prayed their ruse would hold, for tonight all childhood playacting skills would be put to test. Annabelle, at least, was a good actress.
She gripped her sister’s hand inside the hansom Bart had hailed. “Bella, I must thank you for coming to Milton’s aid. I did not think I’d grow to care for him, yet?—”
“You have,” Bella finished. “And he for you, Lizzie. My day spent shopping with your husband proved he cares for you a great deal. You could have done worse than marry Baron of Milton.”
“Like marry Arthur Harris?”
“Well, t’ be sure, he’s less catch than yer fine Baron.” Bella slipped into character. “Though you’re a sweet skirt, Bette.” Bart coughed his voice lower. “I may just marry you meself!”
“Ooh, Monsieur Brown.” Elizabeth played coy with an affected French accent. “You win well enough at zee tables, sir, and I may just accept.”
“You’ll bed me first, Bette.” Bella’s words shocked. “For only if y’ please me twixt th’ sheets will I?—”
“Annabelle.” Elizabeth fast dropped her act. “Wherever did you learn such coarse language?”
“Why, from my husband, sister. You should hear Arthur speak. More tricks up that man’s sleeve than?—”
“Bella.” Elizabeth grew serious. “Have you developed feelings for Mr. Harris? Because the way you?—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Bella’s voice hardened once more into Bart’s. “He’s naught t’ me but a means to an end, as is th’ game we play t’night.”
Elizabeth did not believe her.
“We must focus on finding Milton, Lizzie. On getting him out. I shan’t allow distraction to cloud my mind, and neither should you.”
