Anne Barbour Read Free Page B

cage.
    “And the fine woolen shawl?” Branford asked casually.
    “N-no,” Martha stammered. “It was stolen from me in the very first inn where I worked.”
    Bran noted the tears that glistened briefly in her eyes. A nice touch that, he noted sourly. Stolen, indeed. Lord, there was certainly very little to indicate that she was anything but an enterprising bookshop owner from York. Bah! If it were up to him, he would send her packing, along with her false pretensions and her pretty, wistful manner. Unfortunately, it was not his decision. He stood.
    “Very well, Mrs. Finch. Lord Canby wishes very much to see you, and you have told me nothing so far to prevent me bringing you to him. He will meet with you this evening.”
    Martha almost cried out in her relief. Instead, she nodded serenely. She came to her feet, as well, holding her hand out to the earl. For a moment, he stared blankly at the extended hand.
    “You are left-handed,” he said colorlessly.
    Martha knew a moment of panic. Oh, Lord, she had not thought of that. Had she ruined everything?
    “Felicity was left-handed,” the earl continued, still in that toneless voice.
    Martha sagged in relief. She cast her thoughts briefly to Mary. Dear Lord, her acquaintance with the child had been too brief to notice such a detail.
    “I shall leave now,” Lord Branford said coldly, “and return at six o’clock this evening. We will take an early supper here at the hotel before setting off for Canby House. Will that be acceptable?”
    Martha nodded. “Of course. But—” she added quickly, “my locket!”
    The earl frowned as though she were a street beggar who had just importuned him for a coin. “It will be returned to you after the marquess has had an opportunity to examine it. In addition,” he continued in a slightly softer tone, “on my way here this afternoon I heard two maids gossiping in the corridor about jewel thefts that have apparently occurred here in the hotel. Your locket will be safer in my keeping.”
    He bowed slightly to her and to Mrs. Coppersmith. He snatched up his hat, gloves, and walking stick and left the room.
    To Martha, it seemed as though the room expanded at his departure, and grew somehow dimmer, though the sun still streamed through the tall windows of the sitting room. She sank back into her chair, exhausted.
    “There now!” exclaimed Mrs. Coppersmith. “Was that not a comfortable coze? Such a charming young man, do you not agree?”
    Martha could have laughed. Charming? To her, the man seemed part ogre, part jungle predator, and part immovable object. The unexpected attraction she felt for him was threatening, for he was dangerous and hostile, and posed a threat to her immediate future. She could only pray she would have better luck with the old marquess.
    Mrs. Coppersmith rose. “I am so anxious for us to talk together, as well, for I very much wish us to be friends, but I shall let you rest now.”
    Rising, she led Martha into an elegant little dressing room, from which could be seen an airy bedchamber.
    “When you wake, ring for Peters and she will help you with your preparations. You have plenty of time for a nice long nap.”
    She hesitated for a moment, then pressed a soft kiss on Martha’s cheek before hurrying from the room. Martha, unfastening the muslin gown, moved into the bedchamber.
    Never had she been surrounded by such luxury. She pulled off her serviceable shoes and lisle stockings and padded barefoot toward the bed. Her toes curled in the thick softness of the carpet and her gaze traveled over furnishings of heretofore unimagined elegance. Besides the bed, the chamber contained a dressing table, a Grecian reclining couch, and several scroll-backed chairs.
    Sighing, she lay down and stared up at the richly designed bed canopy. If all went well, this sort of luxury would form her milieu for the rest of her life. She would be done with pinching pennies, days with only a scrap of bread for dinner. She closed