When She Was Wicked

Chapter Twenty-three

Needle: (1) A sharply pointed, slender instrument used for passing thread through cloth. (2) To prod or tease, as in: The insensitive heiress needled the seamstress about her dowdy clothing.

Wake up.” Olivia’s voice held a note of urgency that made the hairs on the back of Anabelle’s neck stand on end.

Prying open her eyes, she groped for her spectacles on the bedside table. After sliding them onto her nose, she glanced at the clock. Barely seven in the morning—very early for Olivia. “Is something wrong?”

“I can’t find Rose.”

Anabelle threw back the covers and reached for her robe. “Did she sleep in your room last night?”

“I don’t think so. She wasn’t there when I woke, so I checked the other bedchamber.” Anabelle followed as Olivia walked into that room and gestured to the madeup bed. “No one’s slept here. I have an awful feeling, Anabelle.”

So did she, but she pasted on what she hoped was a reassuring smile, wrapped an arm around Olivia, and gave her a squeeze. “I’m sure she hasn’t gone far. Perhaps she woke up hungry and wandered downstairs for breakfast. Or decided she needed some fresh air.”

“No, that can’t be it.” Olivia pulled Anabelle by the hand into her bedchamber. “Look, her robe and slippers are missing.”

“Maybe she changed in the other room.” But a quick check of the armoire disproved the theory. Each of the two dozen gowns Rose brought to the house party hung there, just as they had the night before. Where on earth could she have gone in her nightgown? “Have you ever known Rose to roam the house in her sleep?”

“Never.” Olivia bit her lip. “We need to wake Owen. He’ll know what to do.” She started toward the door, but Anabelle grabbed her wrist.

“Not yet. Let’s change quickly and check a few rooms. If we haven’t found her in the next quarter hour, we’ll alert your brother.”

Each of the women threw on a morning gown and some slippers, then dashed out of their suite without bothering to pin up their braids. They took the back stairs to the breakfast room, nearly bumping into an upstairs maid carrying a pitcher of water.

“Did you pass Lady Rose this morning?”

“No, ma’am,” the maid said. “But some early risers are already in the breakfast room.”

“Thank you.” Anabelle waited for the maid to scurry off and then whispered to Olivia, “You see? Rose probably borrowed one of your dresses and went downstairs.”

Olivia’s eyes lit with hope. When they reached the breakfast room, however, its lone occupant was Mr. Averill, who sat reading the newspaper, a cup of steaming coffee before him. Olivia flushed bright red. “Good morning, James,” she said. “Was Rose just here, by any chance?”

He stood and although his eyes widened slightly at their state of dishabille, bowed politely. “I haven’t had the pleasure of her company. I hope you’ll join me, though.”

Olivia took a step toward him. “That would be—”

“I’m sorry, but we’re just passing through,” Anabelle said, nudging Olivia out into the hallway.

“We must have appeared rude,” Olivia fretted. “If Rose is playing some sort of trick, I shall not be amused.”

“I don’t think she’d do that.”

Olivia turned remorseful. “Neither do I. Let’s go find Owen.”

Anabelle’s stomach flip-flopped. “I suppose we must.”

As they hurried back upstairs, she looked in every open doorway and around every corner, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rose’s auburn hair or white nightgown. Each time, she was disappointed.

Upon reaching the door to Owen’s bedchamber, Olivia knocked and turned to Anabelle. “Allow me to do the talking.”

She nodded, more than happy to defer.

Owen opened the door a crack and peered out. His eyes were glazed with sleep and his hair was more disheveled than usual. “Olivia? Belle—er, Miss Honeycote?”

Too preoccupied with the news she had to deliver to notice his slip, Olivia blurted, “Rose is missing.”

“What? Damn it. Wait there.” He slammed the door. Thumps and muffled curses sounded on the other side before he opened it once more. With his shirt untucked and cravat absent, he strode down the hallway firing questions. Olivia answered as best she could; he found none of the answers satisfactory.

When they reached the first-floor landing, he gazed directly at Anabelle, his fear for Rose flashing in his green eyes. “How could you let this happen? I trusted you to watch over her. And you’re telling me she’s gone?”

She closed her eyes and choked back a sob. She’d asked herself the same questions ever since she woke this morning.


Owen pressed his palms to his temples. He had to think.

Rose had seemed perfectly fine last evening. Happy even. It was completely out of character for her to run off and not tell anyone where she was going. Olivia was the impulsive one, with the outspoken nature and radical ideas about servants. Wasn’t she?

He put a hand on Olivia’s shoulder. “Where did you last see her?”

“She was reading beside me in bed last evening. She was dressed for bed.”

“What were you talking about?”

Olivia worried the end of her long brown braid. “I don’t remember.”

“Egypt.” Anabelle stepped forward. “We were saying it might be nice to learn more about ancient Egypt.”

Olivia’s mouth formed an “O.” “That’s right—we were.”

He started walking again. “Let’s check the library.” It seemed a benign place, but what if Rose reached for a book and a shelf collapsed, or something fell on her? He walked faster, and Olivia and Anabelle scurried to keep pace with him.

He rounded a corner and pushed open the heavy, paneled door of the library, half-afraid Rose would be there, half-afraid she wouldn’t. At first glance, everything appeared to be in order. The long rows of books were undisturbed; no furniture was toppled. Instead of feeling relief, however, he fought a wave of panic. Where the hell could she be?

“Look at this.” Anabelle stooped beside a shelf to the left of the room’s large window. He went and crouched next to her. “This is where Lord Harsby houses his volumes on ancient civilizations.” She pointed to a couple of gaps in the otherwise neat row of books.

“She was here,” Owen said. He looked into Anabelle’s somber face and knew she was hurting, probably as much as he was. “We’ll find her. I was a boor earlier. This isn’t your fault.”

She nodded, but doubt clouded her eyes. He’d make her understand, later. After he’d found Rose.

Olivia examined the spines of books on a shelf on the opposite wall, pulled a volume from a set, and flipped through it. “This is the poetry book she was reading last night. I’m sure of it.”

Owen walked across the room to inspect the book, and—

Crunch.

The rug was soft beneath his feet, and yet the sole of his shoe ground something into it. He stopped, knelt in front of an armchair, and found a small shard of glass—several, once he looked more closely—glinting in the sunlight.

The color pattern of the rug caught his eye. Though the yarn was mostly cream and blue, crimson spots dotted the rug near the chair. He swallowed past the huge lump clogging his throat.

Please, God, no.

On his hands and knees, Owen searched for more glass, prayed he’d find no more blood. He didn’t.

But under the chair were a pair of women’s slippers. When he held them up, Olivia gasped. No need to ask if they were Rose’s.

“I found a few pieces of glass on the carpet.” He refrained from mentioning the blood. “I need James’s help.”

“We saw him in the breakfast room, not long ago,” Olivia said. “Shall I get him?”

“Please. But don’t alert anyone else yet.” James was the only one here whom he trusted completely. Somebody in the household knew what had happened to Rose last night. And if that person had hurt her, he’d pay with his life.

Olivia hurried from the room, leaving him alone with Anabelle.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

He wanted to haul her into his arms and tell her everything would be all right. But he wasn’t sure that was true. “Let’s search the room for anything else we may have missed.”

Anabelle nodded, went to the window, and swept aside the heavy drapes. “The glass panes are intact, and the window is locked. I don’t think anyone left through here.”

Something silver flashed near her feet, barely visible below the curtains. He walked over and picked up a lantern off the floor. The glass casing was cracked and jagged shards jutted from the base.

“Oh my,” Anabelle breathed. “Why would anyone want to hurt Rose?”

“I don’t know.” But this had been Owen’s fear ever since his sister had withdrawn into her shell. Her silence not only made her an object of curiosity, but also an easy victim.

“Owen,” Anabelle said softly, “there’s something I—”

Olivia and James rushed into the room; whatever Anabelle had been about to say died on her lips.

After conferring with James, Owen decided they should split up, search all the public areas in the house, and note anything that looked suspicious. Olivia and James would take the west wing; Anabelle and he would take the east. They’d meet back in the library in a half hour. If they hadn’t found Rose by then, they’d notify their host, enlist the help of other guests, and form search parties.

James and Olivia left; eager to begin his search as well, Owen turned toward Anabelle. She was kneeling on the carpet near the crimson spots.

“This is blood, isn’t it?”

He nodded, and the color drained from her face. The terror he saw there mirrored his own.

They moved toward each other with the force of waves crashing on the shore. He folded her into his arms, savoring the feel of her head on his chest and the rightness of them, together. Although she must have been as frightened as he was, she lifted her chin and gazed directly into his eyes. “We’ll find her,” she said.

He believed they would. But hoped they wouldn’t be too late. “Let’s go.”


Anabelle grabbed Owen’s wrist as he started to walk away. “I know something.”

He faced her, clearly puzzled.

“About Rose.”

“What?”

She flinched at his imperious tone. “It’s not that simple.” She’d made a promise to keep Lord Winthrope’s secret, and she’d accepted payment in return. Telling the secret was tantamount to stealing, but if the information could help them find Rose, the choice was simple. She had to reveal what she knew. It was an awful thing to have to tell a person, and it should have been done gently. But there wasn’t time. As if she needed reminding, Owen paced the bloodstained carpet.

Clearing her throat, she forged ahead. “Two and a half years ago, at your parents’ last house party, I think Rose saw something that caused her to run away. It may be the cause of her drastic personality change.”

Owen grabbed her upper arm, pulled her to the settee, and sat beside her. “Tell me.”

“One day at Mrs. Smallwood’s, I overheard Lord Winthrope’s mistress talking about their affair.”

“What does this have to do with Rose?”

Anabelle swallowed. There was no way to sugarcoat the truth. “The earl was also seeing your mother.”

Owen grunted. “It’s no secret that my mother was unfaithful to my father. I never sought to discover the identities of her lovers—I’m sure there were several. I don’t much care whom she consorted with, although this knowledge lowers my opinion of Winthrope considerably. He was a supposed friend of my father’s.”

“I’m sorry,” said Anabelle. “According to the earl’s mistress, someone walked in on Lord Winthrope and her during the house party and caught them in bed together.”

Understanding sharpened his gaze. “You think that was Rose?”

“Yes. Though I can’t be certain.”

“You’re acting as though you have more to tell me.”

“I do.” She could feel heat creeping up her neck and wished she could spare him this. “On that day, when Rose walked into the bedchamber, the earl and his mistress weren’t alone. Your mother was with them.”

Owen stared straight ahead, his face devoid of emotion. “Rose was only a girl.”

Anabelle’s heart broke for him. “I know.”

He stood and paced again as he wrestled with her revelation. “She was so horrified that she ran away.”

“I think so.”

“Her silence is a protection of sorts.” He rubbed his forehead, working through the facts. “It prevents her from having to discuss that day… from having to admit what she saw.”

“That’s why she was so agitated when she learned Lord Winthrope was a guest here,” Anabelle said. “She’d been trying to forget the past, but each time she saw the earl, there was no escaping it.”

He turned to her and pointed accusingly. “You knew about this, and you kept it from me.”

Anabelle’s nose stung. “I had to. I’d… I’d made a promise.”

“To whom exactly?” The force of the question made her step backward.

“Lord Winthrope.”

Owen blinked and shook his head. When he spoke, the anger was gone. In its place was disbelief and devastation. “You extorted money from the earl. You lied.”

“Yes.” Such a small word, barely audible. And yet, it threatened to topple the tentative trust they’d built.

“Why? You could have told me the truth.”

“If I’d told you about my previous extortion schemes—”

He snorted. “Just how many were there, Anabelle?”

“Three. Don’t you see? I knew you’d ask more questions. As ironic as it might seem to you, I had a code of conduct, and that code prevented me from saying—”

“That’s horse shit.” His voice was low and even, but his eyes simmered with anger. “You had a choice. Your damned pride was more important to you than my sister. It was more important to you than us.”

“That’s not true,” she choked out. “I adore Rose. And I… I care deeply for you. But I’d made a promise.” It sounded hollow, even to her own ears. “And I did tell you, just now.”

“You told me.” He gave a disgusted sigh and flicked his eyes at the crimson spots on the rug. “But you waited too long.”

Before she could respond, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. Anabelle trailed behind. There must be something she could do, some way to repair the damage.

“Averill!” Owen yelled.

Mr. Averill and Olivia hurried down the corridor, breathless. “Did you find something else?” he asked.

“No,” snapped Owen. “But I need to speak to Winthrope. Have you seen him?”

“The breakfast room. He’s there with Lord Harsby.”

“Olivia and Anabelle, you will remain here.” If anyone besides Anabelle noticed the use of her given name, they didn’t remark on it. To Mr. Averill, he said, “Come with me.”

Anabelle watched helplessly as the men marched in the direction of the breakfast room. Olivia planted her hands on her hips. “Why would he command us to stay here? I’ve no intention of twiddling my fingers while my sister is missing.” She bolted down the corridor, and Anabelle followed. When they drew nearer to the breakfast room, Olivia turned to Anabelle and lifted a finger to her lips. They remained in the hallway, listening intently.

“Good morning, Duke,” Lord Harsby said.

“Fine morning, indeed,” the earl commented cheerfully.

“No,” Owen said. “No, it is not.”

“Pray tell, what’s the matter?” asked the earl, all concern.

“Where is my sister?”

“Good Lord, man,” Lord Winthrope blustered. “I have no idea. Which sister are you speaking of?”

A cacophony of silverware clattering and china breaking made Olivia and Anabelle jump; they peeked around the doorjamb and saw that Owen, whose back was to them, had reached across the table, grabbed the earl by the lapels, and hauled him onto the breakfast table. Eggs and jelly smeared the front of his waistcoat, and his face turned a ghastly shade of purple.

The earl wriggled futilely in Owen’s grasp. “How dare you. Release me at once.”

Lord Harsby stood and held up his palms. “Look here, Huntford, whatever the problem, why don’t we discuss it like gentlemen?”

Owen ignored both requests and opted to shake Lord Winthrope, rattling a few more plates and shattering several glasses. “What happened in the library last night?”

The earl licked his lips; his sloping forehead was slick with sweat. “Nothing, really. A bit of a misunderstanding. But no harm was done, I assure you.”

“I suggest you tell me what happened,” Owen said, “before I pry it out of you with that candelabrum.”

“Fine, fine,” gasped the earl. “I’ll tell you. I wandered into the library late last evening and found your sister, Lady Rose, there, sitting and reading. I tried to make a bit of small talk, just being polite, but it’s not as though she can hold up her end of a conversation—”

Owen twisted the older man’s lapels until he was coughing and sputtering for air. “Watch it, Winthrope. What happened next?”

“Nothing. It was clear she didn’t want my company, so I left her in the library.”

“Where’d you get the nasty cut above your ear?”

“Oh, that.” The earl laughed nervously. “It was in the stable yesterday. I leaned over to check my saddle and whacked the side of my head as I stood up. Bloody clumsy of me.”

“Liar.” Owen’s fury was barely contained. His face was mere inches from the earl’s, and every muscle in his body tensed as though eager to attack. “There was an altercation in the library.”

“Is that true, Winthrope?” Lord Harsby walked around the table to stand beside Owen. His gaze flicked to Anabelle and Olivia, but he didn’t shoo them away.

The earl closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them he sighed and said, “Yes, yes. It’s true. But I was the one who was injured. She swung a lantern at my head. The blow knocked me out. When I came to, she was gone. I assumed she’d returned to her room.”

“My sister is not prone to violence. I will find out what you did to provoke her, and you will meet me on the dueling field.”

Without warning, Owen dropped the man. His face smacked into a plate of kippers.

He deserved worse.

Not that Anabelle could throw stones. If she’d told Owen the truth earlier, he would have confronted Lord Winthrope and the earl would have kept his distance from Rose.

Before, Owen had ignored her; now she’d given him cause to hate her. The very idea made her stomach clench, her hands tremble. She had to help him find Rose and pray that she was uninjured.

After that, Anabelle would pack up her sewing basket and say good-bye to Owen and his sisters forever. She’d caused them too much pain already.