“Actions are of greater import than words.” She snorted. “At least your mother doesn’t mince with either. I’d rather know where I stand in a person’s regard than bear false faces.”
Because there wasn’t a single thing false about Annabeth Greene. True to herself to the point of self-detriment.
“I’m not sure I can survive two weeks here,” she said, her tone and expression—for once—open.
She used to always be that way with him: open, unguarded, freedom incarnate. “I would much rather be in London myself, seeing to my affairs,” he said, the tension in his chest squeezing tighter. “But if we leave now, there will be a far greater mess to clean up upon our return.”
Her expression closed. “You said you would help me find Will.”
He closed off his heart as well. They were not children or confidants any longer. He was a man with a career, with secrets that he was duty-bound to keep. Much as he longed for the past, he could not return to it.
“I sent a missive to the man I know last night. He already has a lead he is following up on.” Roberts would have the latest file from the runners by now too.
“He’s found something?” Her hands fisted in her skirts, as if preparing to hike up the layers and run for the city to check the validity of the lead herself. “What is it? Does he have a name?”
He lightly loosened her fingers from her dress. “There is nothing but a vague direction to investigate as of now.” He gave a quick squeeze of her hand before he let go, not wishing to feel her pull away first. “As soon as I hear anything, so will you.”
The tension eased out of her shoulders.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Jackson said, unable to help himself. “I can see you were spoiling to march through the London streets, pistols at the ready.” He knew the feeling.
She didn’t deny the charge. “I don’t know what to do with myself. Will is out there, somewhere, and I’m here.” She gave a disdainful glance at the house behind them. “Eating dry eggs.”
They both knew her sour mood had nothing to do with the poultry and everything to do with the frustration of inactivity.
It was a bad habit they both shared.
“Don’t try to comfort me,” she warned.
“Let me do this, at least,” he said, holding back his grin. “I promise you, come hell or high water... I’ll speak to Cook about the eggs.”
Her face was a chalkboard freshly wiped. “You do that, Duke.” She gave him her back, in clear dismissal. “If you can manage.”
He internally crowed at her retreating form because that last barb had had no sting behind it.
Annabeth Greene appeared to be warming up to him, after all.
Chapter Eleven
Anna had beenstuck in this over-frescoed mausoleum for twelve days. Twelve days of questions over flower bouquets, seating arrangements, and menu items. Of incessantrain. Not even the vainglorious dowager duchess had done her a favor and taken over the tasks. Oh, the lady had certainly given her opinion, loudly and with the poised disdain of a queen giving court to vermin, but after the duke’s scolding—a magnificent lecture, if Anna were being honest—the lady couldn’t even be of use to engage Anna’s temper for distraction.
Jackson’s friend must have uncovered something else about William by now. How she longed to track her intended down and cross mental swords with him again—foolishness!
She sighed and leaned against the bench in the covered gazebo—the rain at last finished, leaving the air heavy with moisture—and the book in her lap open and unread. Only a fool would forget the circumstances that had prompted her to leave Grandfellow Hall six years ago, of the words he’d said to her. But words had never been hard for them. Even now, with so much pain between them, her mind came alive at his antagonism, his wit.
She’d be a bigger fool to go to him, to give into the temptation to verbally spar. If she was to maintain the distance, to keep him at arm’s length, then physical distance was her best option.
But the quiet was driving her mad!
Not even the Mary Shelley novel with her story of a monster come to life could hold her attention.
There must have beensomeword of William. Her gaze went to the house beyond the gardens, to the second floor where the ducal chambers were, a mere locked door away from her own bedroom. Had she not passed the last few nights staring at the polished wood, wondering if his shadow would appear through the gap at the bottom of the door? Had she not sought refuge as far from the house this morning as possible to be free of wondering?
She scowled at her own dwelling thoughts. This whole charade was far easier to digest when the plan had demanded but a short few days. Now, she’d been stuck here nearly two weeks while her brother was still missing.
Guilt ate at her insides. Instead of holding mental vigil over concerns for her brother’s welfare, she’d been picking between lace and linens and growing a small sisterly regard for Lord Figaro.
Soon, she’d be one of them.
