Anna smiled thinly and climbed into her mother’s carriage.
Her mother crowed to her friend about Lucy’s prospects for a match with Lockhart all the way home, having forgotten in all the excitement, it seemed, her vow to see Anna wed before Lucy.
Anna wondered how very surprised her parents would be when Drake spoke of his desire to wed her, and not Lucy. She wished she would be anywhere but Whittington House when Father and Lucy returned later this evening.
Once they arrived home, and a footman had delivered her two trunks to her rooms, Anna sent her maid away with the excuse of a blinding headache and locked the door behind her. She peeled off her gloves and tossed them aside, and walked to a large oak wardrobe in her room. Hands on hips, she glared at it, debating. Then, in a moment of frustration, she threw open the doors and looked up at the ugly gargoyle sitting atop the highest shelf. “Bloody wretched creature!” she said aloud. “What trouble you’ve caused!” She whirled away from it, stalked across the room, and threw herself, facedown, onto the bed in a flood of tears.
She must have cried herself to sleep, for the next thing she knew it was early morning. She wearily stripped off her clothes and crawled beneath the linens and bed coverings wearing her chemise.
Later that morning, she awoke with a headache. She rose, washed and dressed, and went down to the breakfast room.
Her father was within, frowning down at his breakfast on the table before him.
“Father? Is everything all right?” She obviously startled him; his eyes went wide, and Anna stopped mid-stride. “What is it, Father? Has something upset you?”
“Oh no,” he said. “No, no, nothing has happened, darling,” he repeated, and began to fold his napkin, carefully smoothing each fold. “And what have you planned for the day, Anna?” he asked loudly, looking up with a forced smile.
“I…I thought I would call on a friend,” Anna said, walking to the sideboard and helping herself to toast. “Perhaps make a day of it.”
“Splendid idea. Splendid,” Father muttered, and pulled his timepiece from his waistcoat and squinted. “Nine o’clock, is it? I should go on with it and walk down to the club, do you suppose?” he asked, coming quickly to his feet just as Anna reached the table.
“Father… what’s wrong?”
He looked at her then, his lips working but no sound coming forth, until he blurted out, “Frankly, darling…there’s nothing wrong!” he said, and shook his head as if to clear it. “Everything is very fine. But I suppose there are times when life hands you a bit of a dilemma, aren’t there? Not anything that can’t be overcome, I should think, yet…” He suddenly walked to her and kissed her on top of her head. “I rather think this an excellent day for calling on friends. Be abroad as long as you like.”
“Thank you,” she said, looking at him curiously. Father tried to smile, but was not completely successful, and walked out of the breakfast room, his head down.
All right, there it was. She’d never seen her father quite so agitated and surely he might have mentioned his meeting with Lockhart had everything gone as he’d hoped. And if Drake had offered for her, wouldn’t her father be happy to present it to her? It was all starting to feel very odd—Anna couldn’t make heads or tails of it, and honestly, she thought, wrinkling her nose at her toast, she would have no appetite until the deed was done.
As there was no avoiding it, she really ought to go on and do it. No matter how badly she preferred not to.
While Anna was bathing and dreading handing over the gargoyle, Drake was meeting with Garfield, who had come with some very interesting news. “It seems, sir,” he was saying, “that Lord Ardencaple does not exist. He’s a fraud.”
The news was not altogether unexpected, but nevertheless it hit Drake squarely in the jaw. “What do you mean, he does not exist?”
“That particular title was consumed by the duke of Argyll decades ago. Ardencaple, as it were, no longer exists. Nor is it possible that Argyll granted the title to anyone; it was abolished by the duke.”
Something snapped in Drake’s head, and he put a hand to his temple to rub it. “But to what end does he perpetrate this fraud?” he demanded of Garfield. “What could possibly possess him to come to London and parade about as some Scottish earl?”
“I can only imagine his intent is to defraud further.”
“But what of the house on Cavendish? How did he manage that?”
“It belongs to Lady Dalkeith, who is in France, presently. When I inquired, a cook or some such servant showed me the letter of introduction that gave Lord Ardencaple leave to use the house for a time.”
“Is it authentic?”