When She Was Wicked

Chapter Twenty-four

Lord Harsby clasped Owen’s shoulder. “My staff is at your disposal. Just tell me what you need, and you shall have it.”

Owen wiped his palms on the front of his jacket. After throttling Winthrope, he felt the need to scrub his hands clean. Jerking his chin toward the earl, writhing on the table, Owen said, “Have someone escort him to his room and see that he stays there.”

“Allow me,” Averill said wryly. Let Winthrope try to resist. Averill was itching for an excuse to punch the depraved bastard in the face.

“Anyone who’s available to help search for Rose should meet in the drawing room in ten minutes,” Owen announced.

“Of course,” Harsby said. He shot Winthrope a loathing glance and quickly walked into the corridor to confer with his butler.

Owen did some quick calculations in his head. If the search teams left soon, they’d have twelve hours of daylight. God, he hoped they found Rose before nightfall. When he thought of Winthrope attacking her and how terrified she must have been, blood pounded in his ears.

Damn Winthrope, and damn his mother, who was as much to blame as the depraved earl.

“We can help, Owen.” He turned, surprised to see Olivia behind him. Anabelle stood at her side, pale yet defiant, daring him to send her to her room.

He wouldn’t.

Oh, he was furious with her. After all they’d shared, she’d kept a secret from him. An insidious thing that had slowly poisoned his family. He’d never forgive her for that, no matter how contrite she professed to be.

But he understood her need to do something, to contribute in some way. He’d go insane if he had to stand by idly while someone he cared for was in trouble. Besides, he needed every set of eyes, ears, and hands. “Fine,” he said. “Help gather guests and servants in the drawing room.”

Anabelle’s shoulders sagged in relief. “We think Rose is still wearing her nightgown and robe. Since her slippers were in the library, she’s probably barefoot too. I’ll fetch a blanket and a pair of shoes to take along when we search.”

He nodded. Warmth, shoes—men didn’t think of such things. At least, he didn’t.

“She could be hiding somewhere in the house,” Olivia said skeptically.

God, he hoped so. “I’ll have a group check every room and crevice.” But his gut told him Rose had fled—that she’d wanted to put as much distance between her and the lecherous earl as she could.

As he strode to the drawing room, a plan formed in his mind. The women could search every room in the house, the gardens, and the grounds nearby. The men would pair up and head out in different directions on horseback. Harsby’s estate was vast; there was an enormous amount of ground to cover.

Without slippers and proper clothes, Rose couldn’t have gotten very far. But she wouldn’t have had much protection from the elements, either. He clenched a fist and walked faster. Hold on, Rose. I’m coming.


Anabelle sat beside Olivia in the drawing room, listening carefully to the instructions Owen issued to the concerned guests. The older women tsked and murmured to one another, while Miss Starling and Lord Winthrope’s daughter, Margaret, raised their brows haughtily. Of course, Margaret had no idea that her father was implicated in Rose’s disappearance. If she had, she might have at least feigned concern. The men wore grave expressions but did seem rather excited at the opportunity to be the hero—the one who discovered fair Rose’s whereabouts. Or perhaps they were just grateful for an excuse to avoid grouse hunting for the third straight day.

For her part, Anabelle couldn’t abide much more talk. She resisted the urge to run out of the house and frantically search for Rose behind every bush, tree, or statuary. Olivia’s leg bounced rhythmically as though she, too, were eager to begin doing something. Thankfully, she wasn’t the type to become hysterical. Panicking wouldn’t help matters.

On her lap Anabelle held a bundle—she’d wrapped a pair of Rose’s boots in a lightweight blanket and tied it with twine. When at last everyone had their orders, Anabelle stood. The other women formed groups and divided up the various floors and wings of the house, but she hung back with Olivia. “There are plenty of women to handle the house. I want to search outside.”

“I do, too.” Olivia had wound her braid around her head and quickly pinned it up. Anabelle knotted a light shawl around her shoulders. “Unfortunately, I never learned how to ride. I’ll have to set out on foot.”

“You could share a horse with me,” Olivia said.

“No.” Owen’s declaration, in a tone that brooked no argument, startled them.

“Fine,” Olivia said, stiffly. “Anabelle and I will walk together.”

However, when they would have departed, Owen blocked their way. “You”—Owen pointed to Olivia—“will take your mare and ride with James. You can show him the paths where you and Rose have ridden and walked. You”—he inclined his head toward Anabelle—“will ride with me. Come.” He strode from the room without waiting for her, clearly expecting her to follow. What choice did she have? Tucking the bundle under her arm, she hurried after him.

They left the house through a side door and headed toward the stables. The gray sky hung so low that the trees seemed to hold it up. A pair of dogs bounded up to Owen, nipping at his heels and clamoring for a pat on the head. He walked on, oblivious to both the hounds and the raindrops plunking onto their heads and faces.

Owen shouted to the stable boy, who led out a massive black horse, already saddled.

Now that Anabelle saw the animal up close, she doubted her ability to balance on top of it. Her hesitation had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that her back would be pressed against Owen’s chest.

“Are you coming?”

She looked up, surprised to see him already astride, holding his hand out impatiently.

Swallowing, she moved nearer to the horse, which pranced and behaved rather uncooperatively. She tentatively reached up to Owen, and, in one swoop, he hoisted her off her feet and planted her in the saddle before him.

“Have you ever ridden?”

“No.”

“Hold on.”

He wrapped one arm firmly around her middle, shouted, and kicked his horse into motion; Anabelle clung to the saddle horn with both hands.

“We’re taking the northern section of the estate. We can move quickly across the meadows. If Rose is here, she’ll be easy to spot. Once we reach the woods, we’ll have to slow down and search more carefully.”

Anabelle nodded. The ride jarred her teeth at first, but once she relaxed, her body rocked in rhythm with the horse’s movements. Perhaps she wouldn’t topple off and be trampled. The rain diminished to a mere mist; the wind blew softly in her ears. Since she rode sidesaddle, her shoulder rested against Owen’s chest—a warm, hard wall of muscle. She squinted toward the west, searching the horizon for any sign of Rose; Owen looked east where the sun struggled to break through stubborn clouds.

After a half hour, they approached the edge of a forest. Owen slowed the horse to a trot and guided it along the tree line, first in one direction, then in another. Anabelle removed her spectacles, and with the sleeve of her gown, wiped tiny beads of water from the lenses.

“Damn.”

Anabelle’s heart sank, and she shoved her spectacles back on her nose. “What is it?”

“These woods are so thick and deep, I’d need a dozen men to properly search them.”

He was right; the trees were so dense sunlight barely penetrated the canopy of the forest. “If anyone can find Rose, you can.”

He grunted, unconvinced. “I barely know her. We haven’t had a real conversation in years.”

“That’s not fair. You know her better than you realize.” She looked up at him, even though gazing into his intense green eyes was disarming. “Why did you decide to search this direction?”

He shrugged. “It seemed logical. If Winthrope’s story is true, Rose would have fled the library and house as quickly as possible. The nearest exit would have been the French doors in the drawing room leading to the terrace. If she ran from the house and continued in a fairly straight line, she’d have gone in this general direction. But there are acres and acres of forest. The foliage is so thick I can’t see more than a few yards ahead.”

Anabelle couldn’t let him despair. She placed her palm on his chest, and he jerked his gaze to hers.

“Rose was in trouble,” she said. “Where would she feel safe?”

“She loves nature—surrounding herself with plants and animals would comfort her. But if she were barefoot, she’d have looked for some semblance of a path. I spotted a few places along the edge of the woods where the underbrush looks trampled. The boughs hang too low to ride into the forest, so we’ll dismount and walk in, looking for clues.”

He deftly swung himself off the horse, grasped her around the waist, and helped her to the ground. His casual touch made her whole body tingle.

“There’s a trail,” he said, pointing into the woods. “We can start there.” After tethering the horse to a tree, Owen led the way.

Although they worked as a team, Anabelle realized it was merely for Rose’s sake. A great chasm gaped between them, and she had no hope of mending it. He behaved indifferently, as though they shared no history—no visits with her family, no nights of pleasure, no trading of secrets.

Owen might have forgiven her for extortion, but he’d never forgive her for lying to him. Not when she’d endangered Rose.

Anabelle doubted she’d ever forgive herself.

They wandered deeper into the woods. Dappled light danced on the forest floor, and the air hung moist and verdant. Though the rain had ceased, Anabelle’s boots sunk into the soft ground. She kept to the primitive trail, as Owen instructed, looking for signs Rose had gone there earlier. They shouted her name into the otherwise peaceful forest, but their voices bounced back, unheard by anyone, save a few startled birds. Owen occasionally veered off the path to investigate, but returned looking grim, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

After a few hours on the trail, Owen shook his head. “We’re on the wrong path. Let’s return to the edge of the woods and try another.” Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Anabelle. “Is the pace too grueling?”

“Not at all. I just want Rose to be all right.”

He stared at her long enough to make her cheeks hot. “As do I. Come, Miss Honeycote.”

Anabelle swallowed. So, she was back to being Miss Honeycote, even when the only creatures within earshot were squirrels. Not surprising, but it stung.

They backtracked to the edge of the woods and Owen rummaged through a bag tied to his horse. He withdrew a canteen, unscrewed the lid, and held it out to her. “Drink some water.”

She sipped, savoring each cool, refreshing swallow. Owen shared some nuts and bread too—not much, but enough to take the edge off their hunger.

Owen selected another path, and they followed it as it sloped into a valley where a stream trickled over mossy rocks. Here, where the trees were less dense, thick shafts of sunlight penetrated the foliage. As Anabelle glanced up to admire the sight, the glinting sun momentarily blinded her. She raised an arm to shield her eyes and teetered on the heels of her boots but could not quite regain her balance.

Splat.

She landed hard on her bottom. Humiliating enough; however, she proceeded to slip and slide down the muddy hill, barreling into Owen’s legs and taking him down with her.

They tumbled several yards before he grasped the trunk of a sapling and halted their plummet down the embankment.

Momentarily, anyway.

The sapling popped out of the ground—roots and all—and they slid again, all the way to the edge of the stream before stopping.

Heavens. With Owen’s help, she sat up, none too gracefully.

He cupped her chin in his hand, undoubtedly smearing mud on her face. Not that she minded. “Are you hurt?” Though she was perfectly fine, the concern in his eyes made her throat constrict. She shook her head.

After exhaling loudly, he looked down at his clothes. “Christ.” His jacket and breeches, blue and buff colored this morning, had turned brown. His hands and one cheek were also covered with mud. Anabelle was similarly afflicted. Her spectacles still clung to her face, thankfully, but her new yellow dress was plastered with muck, and the end of her braid looked like a rope dragged through a cow field.

Owen helped her to her feet, then leaned over the stream and cleaned his hands as best he could in the thin ribbon of water. She did the same, but all they succeeded in accomplishing was smearing the dirt around. Owen looked fierce, a warrior ready for battle; Anabelle was certain that she resembled a street urchin.

Planting his hands on his hips, he surveyed the area around them. “Rose isn’t here. Let’s go back up the hill and take a different path.”

He turned to go, but Anabelle stayed. That spot, with the cheerful gurgle of water at her feet and the birds fluttering overhead, seemed precisely the sort of spot Rose would be drawn to explore. “Wait.”

Facing her, he raised a brow. “What’s wrong?”

“We should stay on this path for a little longer.”

“It ends at the stream, Miss Honeycote,” he said dryly.

“True. But Rose could have crossed it. I think she’d like this place.”

Owen gave her a ducal look only mildly compromised by the clump of dirt in his hair. “Another half hour at the most,” he said. “Then we turn back.”

Anabelle led the way this time, easily hopping the stream at its narrowest point. She kept a brisk pace, propelled by an odd certainty they were on the right track.

They trudged up a hill, taking care to avoid mud this time. Soon, she became winded; Owen became frustrated. “The sun’s already sinking in the sky. We can’t waste any more time,” he said.

“Please. A few minutes more.” She couldn’t explain why she felt they should keep going. She just knew they should. Attempting to distract Owen as they hiked, she said, “Mr. Averill and Olivia—or one of the other search parties—could have already found Rose. At this very moment, she could be safe and sound in her bedchamber sipping a cup of hot tea.”

He didn’t respond, but his bleak expression told her he didn’t believe Rose was at the house any more than she did.

Was she a fool to follow her intuition? If she led Owen on a wild-goose chase, he’d have one more reason to resent her. Defeated, she said, “I suppose you’re right. Let’s turn back.”

“Wait.” He sprinted ahead of her and crouched beside a fallen log. Over his shoulder he called, “Come look at this.”

Anabelle hurried toward him. “What is it?”

He held a scrap of white fabric, torn at the edges. “It was stuck to this log. Could it be from Rose’s nightgown?”

“Yes,” she said, her relief at finding the small remnant so great she might cry. “It looks like the hem. She must have rested here, and when she left, her nightrail snagged on the bark. She can’t be far.”

Owen stood and scanned the woods with renewed purpose. From their higher vantage point, they saw much of the surrounding landscape. Anabelle’s gaze roved over the leaf-covered ground, seeking glimpses of white, but when Owen touched her arm, she froze. He pointed at a patch of sky peeking between the tops of the trees where dusk had muted the bright blue to a purplish gray.

Squinting, she held her spectacles slightly away from her face till white puffs came into focus. “Smoke?”

“If we find the source, we may find Rose.”

He shot off ahead of Anabelle, trampling through the underbrush. As she swiped a sleeve across her moist forehead and breathed in gulps of air, she called, “Do you see anything?”

Nodding, he pointed to a hill in the distance. A tiny cottage with a thatched roof sat in a clearing, a wisp of smoke curling from its stone chimney. “It’s probably a woodcutter’s cottage. Maybe Rose took refuge there.”

Anabelle desperately hoped so.

“Wait here,” he ordered. “I’ll go see.”