The Raven Prince (Princes #1)(87)

Anna stared.

Felicity truly thought she was a timid little mouse, one who would crumple in a heap of fear at threats by her late husband’s lover. And wasn’t she? She was running from the man she loved. The man who cared for her and wanted to marry her. Running because of a filthy blackmail note. Anna felt ashamed. No wonder Felicity thought she could tread all over her!

Anna whipped out a hand and caught the other woman by the shoulder. Felicity almost went over in the inn yard muck.

“What—?”

“Oh, you have made yourself clear,” Anna purred as she backed the taller woman into the wall. “But you’ve made one slight miscalculation: that I’d give two farthings for your threats. You see, if I don’t care what you say about me, well then you have nothing to hold over me, now, do you, Mrs. Clearwater?”

“But, you—”

Anna nodded as if Felicity had said something profound. “That’s right. But I, on the other hand, have something quite substantial about you. The fact that you tupped my husband.”

“I-I—”

“And if memory serves me right”—Anna touched a finger to her cheek in mock amazement—“why it was just about the time your younger daughter was conceived. The one with red hair like Peter’s.”

Felicity slumped against the wall and looked at her as if she’d grown a third eye right in the middle of her forehead.

“Now what do you think the squire would say about that?” Anna asked sweetly.

The other woman tried a recovery. “Now see here—”

Anna stabbed a finger in her face. “No. You see here. If you ever try to threaten me or anyone I love again, I’ll tell all the inhabitants of Little Battleford that you were bedding my husband. I’ll have leaflets printed up and delivered to every house, cottage, and hovel in Essex. In fact, I’ll tell the whole country. You may very well have to leave England.”

“You wouldn’t,” Felicity breathed.

“No?” Anna smiled, not at all nicely. “Try me.”

“That’s—”

“Blackmail. Yes. And you should know.”

Felicity’s face blanched.

“Oh, and one more thing. I need a ride to London. Immediately. I’m taking your carriage.” Anna wheeled and started for the carriage, grabbing Fanny, who was gawking beside the inn door, as she went past.

“But how am I to return to Little Battleford?” Felicity wailed behind her.

Anna didn’t bother to look back. “You are welcome to my seat on the coach.”

HE SAT IN A CRACKED leather armchair in the town house library because he could not bear the memories in his bedroom.

There was one bookcase to lend the room its name. Dusty religious volumes filled the shelves, lined in rows like tombstones in a graveyard, untouched for generations. The only window was draped in blue velvet, pulled to one side by a tarnished gilt rope. He could see the phantom roofline of the next building over. Earlier, the festering red sun had silhouetted the multiple chimneys on the roof as it set. Now it was near dark outside.

The room was cold because the fire had died.

A maid had come some time back—he wasn’t sure when—to rebuild the fire, but he’d ordered her out. No one had bothered him since. Now and then, he heard murmured voices outside in the hall, but he ignored them.

He didn’t read.

He didn’t write.

He didn’t drink.

He simply sat, holding the book on his lap, and thought and stared at nothing as the night entombed him. Jock nudged his hand once or twice, but he ignored that contact as well, until the dog gave up and lay down by his side.

Was it the pox scars? Or his temper? Hadn’t she enjoyed his lovemaking? Was he too enthralled with his work? Or did she simply not love him?

That only. So small and yet everything.

If his title, his wealth, his—God!—his love had not mattered to her, he had nothing. What had driven her away? It was a question he couldn’t answer. A question he couldn’t let go. It engulfed him, consumed him, became the only thing that counted at all. Because without her, there was nothing. His life stretched before him in gray, ghostly tones.

Alone.

He was without anyone to touch his soul as Anna had, without the completeness she had provided. He hadn’t even noticed until she was gone: there was a great, gaping hole in his being without her.

Could a man live with such a void inside of him?

SOMETIME LATER, EDWARD vaguely noticed a flurry of raised voices in the hall drawing nearer. The library door opened, revealing Iddesleigh.

“Oh, this is a pretty sight.” The viscount closed the door behind him. He set the single candle he carried on a table and threw his cape and hat on a chair. “A strong, intelligent man brought low by a woman.”

“Simon. Go away.” Edward didn’t move, didn’t even turn his head at the intrusion.

“I would, old boy, if I hadn’t a conscience.” Iddesleigh’s voice echoed eerily about the room. “But I find I have. A conscience, that is. Damned inconvenient.” The viscount knelt at the cold fireplace and began assembling a pile of tinder.

Edward frowned a little. “Who sent for you?”

“Your strange elderly man.” Iddesleigh reached for the coal scuttle. “Davis, I think? He was concerned for Mrs. Wren. He seems to have taken a liking to her, rather like a pullet imprinting on a swan. He may have been worried about you as well, but it was hard to tell. I can’t think why you keep the creature on.”