When She Was Wicked

Chapter Two

Pardon, Your Grace.”

Owen Sherbourne, the Duke of Huntford, glanced up from the ledger he’d been scrutinizing for the past two hours. Something in his books was off, and he’d correct it if it took him all night. Which it likely would. His butler stood in the doorway of the study, his bushy white brows drawn together like two damned caterpillars mating. If caterpillars even did. Good God. “What is it, Dennison?”

The butler presented a silver salver with an annoying flourish. “This letter was just delivered for you. The messenger said it was urgent.”

“Who’s it from?”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

“Well then,” Owen said, summoning patience, “I suggest you remedy that.”

The butler’s jowls swayed as he shook his head. “I can’t. The messenger ran off after he handed me the letter.”

Owen set his pen in the center of the ledger and rubbed his eyelids to erase the numbers burned onto the backs of them. “A mysterious messenger.” He poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Let the sarcasm fester for a while. “I thought you knew everyone, Dennison. Every bloody footman, maid, and butler for miles around. Here, I’ll take it.” He waved the butler in and held out his palm.

Dennison inched his way to the desk as if he were entering Medusa’s cave. Everyone knew what had happened there, and although three years had passed since Owen’s father’s suicide, the staff still drew straws to see who had to dust the bookshelves. Owen didn’t blame them.

He took the letter and placed it on the corner of his desk. The butler made a quick getaway. Determined to return to work, Owen picked up his pen and scanned the columns of numbers to find his place. Urgent, indeed. Probably another damned ball invitation. He looked at it out of the corner of his eye. Ordinary parchment, a puddle of green wax, a seal he didn’t recognize.

Infinitely more interesting than a page of numbers.

Cursing, he grabbed the letter, slipped his finger under the seal, and unfolded it.


My Lord Duke of Huntford,

There is no way to pleasantly state this, so I shall be blunt. I have learned that your sister, Lady Olivia Sherbourne, is romantically involved with a servant in your household. They have met, unchaperoned, on more than one occasion. In addition, she has some rather unconventional views regarding relationships between servants and members of the aristocracy.

I regret to inform you of this news, as I’m sure you find it exceedingly troubling. I further regret to inform you that this information will be made public in the next issue of The London Tattler unless you precisely follow the instructions given below.

First, you must wrap 40 gold sovereign coins in a handkerchief and secure it with a string.

Second, tomorrow night, after dusk, have a servant take the coins to the stone footbridge that spans the north end of the Serpent River in Hyde Park. He must place the coins just under the east side of the bridge on the flat rock next to the riverbank.

Third, neither you nor your servant may lie in wait or attempt to discover my identity. If I detect anyone in the vicinity of the bridge, I will not attempt to retrieve the coins but will instead deliver a letter containing news of your sister’s activities directly to The Tattler’s offices.

Rest assured, however, that if you do as I’ve instructed, I will never reveal your sister’s secret, nor will I trouble you in the future. I give you my word on this.

Sincerely yours,

A Necessarily Resourceful Citizen


Rage, pure and hot, coursed through Owen’s veins and settled in his temples, pounding steadily. He skimmed the contents of the letter once more, searching for evidence that it was an idiotic prank. Though bizarre, it seemed authentic.

A threat to his sister. Nothing could infuriate him more. However, his curiosity had been piqued.

What, pray tell, had Olivia been doing?

He shoved his chair back, rounded his desk, and strode past the bell pull out into the hallway. “Dennison!”

The butler scampered around the corner and attempted a dignified bow.

Owen glared at him. Dennison was a dandy, in his own way. Some of the maids tittered around him. What if—Owen could not even finish the thought. The butler was thrice Olivia’s age and nearly a head shorter.

Owen sneered at the man for good measure. “Tell Lady Olivia to meet me in the drawing room. At once.”

The butler blinked and was off.

With brittle control, Owen folded the letter and placed it inside his jacket pocket. He marched down the corridor and considered plowing his fist into the plaster wall, but thought better of it. At times, his newly acquired restraint was damned inconvenient.

In the three years since he’d become the duke, he’d faced challenges: enormous debt, corruption among his staff, understandably disgruntled tenants, and social and political obligations that had been ignored for decades. He’d conquered each problem the same way: with a logical plan, hard work, and the sheer determination to right things. He would deal with this letter—this misguided attempt to extort money by ruining his sister—the same way.

And the miscreant responsible would rue the day he’d set pen to paper.

Owen stalked into the drawing room, but its elegant furnishings and refined wall coverings did nothing to quell the savagery inside him. He paced in front of the windows so ferociously that the velvet drapes recoiled. Questions bombarded his mind, but he couldn’t begin to answer them until he spoke to Olivia.

“Good evening.” Olivia flitted toward him, the picture of innocence in a white dressing gown that covered her from neck to toes. Rose, who entered the room on Olivia’s heels, was similarly dressed. Both girls had braided their hair and looked utterly incapable of a wayward thought, much less the shocking behavior described in the extortion note. His heart squeezed at the sight of them.

They were much younger than he, and ever since they’d been born, he’d adored them. Olivia was headstrong, honest, and impulsive, a baby bird eager to test her wings, oblivious to hawks who’d devour her without remorse. Rose was quiet and keen. Well, she hadn’t always been quiet, but she was now. Deep as the woods and wise as the hills. And unless they changed, neither of his sisters had a chance in hell of being embraced by the ton.

“What are you doing here, Rose?” he said sharply. “I need to speak to Olivia.” Rose’s face fell.

“Goodness, Owen,” exclaimed Olivia. “You needn’t be such a beast. We were in my room reading poetry. When you summoned me, it seemed the perfect opportunity for a cozy family visit. You’re usually so busy.” She plunked herself on the sofa, tucked her feet beneath her, and patted the cushion beside her. “Come sit, Rose darling.”

Owen ran a hand over his chin and glowered at Olivia. No one else would dream of speaking to him so flippantly, but he’d made allowances for his sisters ever since their parents had deserted them. He was a poor excuse for a guardian, but he was doing the best he could. He wished to God his best were better. “I have a grave matter to discuss with you. It doesn’t concern Rose.”

Olivia’s brown eyes grew round. “Grave? What’s wrong, Owen? If there’s a problem, I think it best that we face it together. As a trio.”

He pondered this. Although it galled him to admit it, Olivia might be right. At seventeen, Rose was no longer a child, and smarter than most of his acquaintances. He missed their talks.

“Fine.” He closed the door and sat in the chair across from them. “Someone has informed me that you”—he nodded at Olivia—“are romantically involved with a member of our staff.”

Rose fumbled with the book on her lap, but he would not be distracted. He studied Olivia’s face intently. There was no flash of guilt, as he’d expected—just distress and mild confusion.

At length she asked, “Who told you this?”

“I can’t say.” He wouldn’t distress them with the truth; he was distressed enough for all three of them.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t.”

“I see.” Her face alight, she leaned forward. “Whom, precisely, am I rumored to be… involved with?”

“A servant. I wasn’t given a name.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flattered.”

“Being the subject of gossip is quite an improvement over being ignored. But I can honestly say I have no idea what could have sparked such talk.” She tilted her head to one side as though a thought had just occurred to her. “I did give Newton a pair of gloves last Christmas—his old ones were in tatters. Perhaps someone misconstrued the gesture?”

“Newton? Our half-deaf footman?”

“Yes,” said Olivia. “It must be him.”

Owen stood and raked a hand through his hair. “No, no. We’re missing something.” He remembered another detail from the letter. “What are your views on relationships between servants and members of the aristocracy?”

Olivia exchanged a quick, panicked look with Rose. So. There was something to the accusations after all.

“I think,” Olivia said carefully, “that as long as both parties observe social strictures, a friendship is possible.”

“A friendship?” How naïve she was. “Olivia, a servant is not your social equal. That kind of friendship jeopardizes your reputation.”

She shrugged as though her reputation was a trifling thing, something that could be sent out for repairs if the need arose.

Owen placed his hands on his hips. “Tell me who he is.”

Olivia again looked to Rose; the latter gave a slight but firm shake of her head. “Why do you want to know?”

“So I can sack him.”

Olivia clapped a hand to her mouth. Rose’s chin puckered like a strawberry.

“Tell me his name.”

With too much vehemence, Olivia said, “I have no idea whom you’re talking about. And I must say, I’m surprised that you’d give credence to idle gossip.”

“Olivia.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong, and you won’t badger me into thinking otherwise.”

“I’m trying to protect you, and the two of you are shutting me out.” Owen lowered his voice from thundercloud to gray mist. “What happened to our trio?”

Olivia stood and placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “It’s intact, my dear brother. But it’s a fragile thing. You need to respect us, trust us.”

“I do.” He did respect them. Trust was harder. “I try.”

“The world is very black and white to you, isn’t it? Right and wrong. Truth and lies. Master and servant. But it’s really much more complicated than that.” Olivia turned to Rose and extended a hand. “Come. It’s late, and I don’t want to have puffy eyes at Lady Hopewell’s ball tomorrow evening.” She smiled wistfully at Owen. “Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

Rose stood and gave him a brief, fervent hug before following Olivia out of the room, leaving him alone.

Damn. The gossip obviously held a kernel of truth, and yet, he had no more information than before. Olivia had appeared so dumbfounded by the accusation that he doubted she was guilty. But what was that nonsense she’d spouted about black and white? It was times like these that he almost wished he had a wife—someone who could help him understand his sisters and love them as fiercely as he did.

Exhausted, he sank onto the sofa and withdrew the extortion note from his pocket. He tried his best to analyze it objectively.

Forty pounds was a paltry sum for a man of his wealth. Why hadn’t the degenerate demanded more? How had he heard the gossip concerning Olivia, and was he bluffing about going to The Tattler?

No answers would be forthcoming tonight. Tomorrow, however, was another matter.

Owen trudged back to his study and picked up his pen from the center of his ledger. Just before dawn, he found the culprit: a nine that resembled a bloody zero.

He corrected the error and, two minutes later, was slumped over his desk, snoring blissfully.


The time between delivering the note and retrieving the coins was always the most excruciating.

Anabelle had fretted all day Friday. She’d demanded money from four wealthy aristocrats before the duke, but he was altogether different. More austere, menacing… and sinfully attractive. Sleep had eluded her that night; no matter—it was a comfort she didn’t deserve. She needed to leave the townhouse two hours early that Saturday morning so she could walk through the park, pick up the coins before the sun rose, and get to the dress shop on time.

Now that it was time to go, she was relieved to have something to do. Action was infinitely preferable to waiting.

Although the weather was mild, Anabelle draped a dark shawl over her head and shoulders. A few industrious souls populated the sidewalks of Oxford Street, but they were too concerned with their own errands to notice her. Shops and businesses were still closed up tightly; only the bakery showed signs of life. She passed Bond Street, where she normally turned to go to the dress shop, and her skin prickled. No longer could she delude herself into thinking she was simply on her way to work and not about to commit a heinous crime.

As she approached the pebbled footpath that wound through the north side of Hyde Park, her pulse skittered. The bridge she’d chosen as the drop-off location was on the opposite side of the river from Rotten Row, so she didn’t have to contend with raucous gentlemen out for a drunken ride. This end of the park was almost deserted.

A haggard woman with a cane hobbled toward her on the path. Anabelle’s heart pounded so hard she was certain the woman would be able to hear it, but she merely passed with a smile and a nod.

She had just managed to catch her breath when the bridge came into view. She paused to scan the entire area. The reeds along the banks of the river were too sparse to hide anyone, and the trees were spaced too far apart for anyone to be lurking there. The dim light of the pre-dawn hour made it impossible to be certain that she was alone, but at least it extended some protection to her as well. She attuned her ears to the sounds of the park: the rustling of squirrels, the caw of birds, the gentle lapping of the river, but otherwise, silence.

Her mouth dry as the pebbles beneath her feet, she followed the path up the slight incline to the bridge. After one last sweeping glance behind her, she stepped across the grass that sloped down to the riverbank. Staying close to the stones that formed the base of the bridge, she reached blindly into the damp air underneath. She wanted nothing more than to feel the weight of the coins, slip them in her bag, and flee to the safety—and the blessed drudgery—of the dress shop.

At last, she located the flat rock, its surface cool and rough to the touch. Farther underneath the bridge she stretched, until she brushed against something lumpy and heavy. She grabbed at it and heard the beautiful, unmistakable clinking of gold against gold.

Thank God.

She crouched and opened her satchel so that she could slide the coin-filled handkerchief directly into it. But as she reached for the bundle again, a hand closed around her arm.

Anabelle cried out in surprise and tried to yank away, but her captor squeezed her wrist so tightly that her skin burned.

She couldn’t budge.

Despair, cold and raw, seeped into her bones. How could she have let this happen? She’d failed Mama and Daphne. She’d probably hang, or perhaps be deported to America.

Her life was over.

The man yanked her closer, so forcefully that her spectacles toppled off her nose.

She was face to face with him under the bridge. In that instant, even in the shadows, she knew.

She’d been caught, red-handed, by the Duke of Huntford.