Anne Barbour Read Free

beneath Sir Barnaby’s thumb.
    Well, so be it, thought Hester. She was happy here in her snug cottage, with her books and her friends, of whom she numbered some of the foremost intellectuals of the day. And there was Larkie. God bless the day she had accrued enough money to rescue her former nurse from her dismal flat in one of London’s seamier neighborhoods.
    Hester smiled, but almost immediately afterward her lips turned downward. There was one minor cloud on her horizon. Well, perhaps not so minor. Her bequest from an indulgent aunt and the money she earned from her writings and lectures paid for most of the necessities of her life but there were other expenses that were a constant worry. The cottage mortgage, for example. The payments were not heavy, but every month she found that in order to meet them, other problems were ignored. The roof had been extensively patched and now it had become evident that a new one was needed. The chimney was in desperate need of cleaning—and Larkie needed new spectacles.
    She sighed. Perhaps she should have embarked on another novel instead of a work of pure philosophy. The novels, of which she had published three, had proved unexpectedly successful, and while yet another tome on the plight of women in England would garner a substantial readership, it would not be nearly so profitable. It was not too late to abandon this work, entitled Women as an Underclass, in favor of another novel, but Hester felt compelled to produce something more serious at this point.
    Hester leaned back on her heels, brushing the earth from her stained fingers. She remained so for a moment, her thoughts still on her financial difficulties. She had promised her publisher to finish Women as an Underclass in record time so that she could start on another novel, one that was to be much more Gothic in nature and would, he assured her, make them both a staggering amount of money. As a rule, she abhorred the Gothic genre, but—”
    “You, there! Girl! Run inside and fetch your mistress!”
    In her abstraction, Hester had not heard the rattle of horse and carriage, but she jumped at the peremptory insistence of the masculine voice. Good God, was he speaking to her?
    “I said, you there! I wish to speak to the mistress of the house.”
    Fire building in her eyes, Hester turned to behold a very large, extremely angry man bearing down on her.
     
     

 

 

Chapter Two
     
    The stranger, having descended from an exceedingly dashing sporting vehicle, pushed through the gate, banging it against the post. As Hester rose to face the intruder, she became aware that she had been mistaken in one of her assumptions. Though he was tall, the man was not extraordinarily large. It was his barely controlled fury that made it seem as though he were looming over her. Actually, if it were not for his expression of disdainful wrath, he would have been considered handsome. He was dressed in the height of fashion, from the top of his curly-brimmed beaver to the soles of his blindingly polished Hessian boots. His hair, dark as midnight, waved lightly over his collar and his brows were slashes of jet over eyes that were also of a pure, flinty black. At the moment, they fairly glittered in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun.
    The stranger paused to stand directly before Hester. “Did you not hear me?” he demanded. “I am in a hurry, girl. I wish to speak to your mistress.”
    Taking a deep breath, Hester spoke pleasantly. “Well, I am in no hurry at all. In addition, I am not a girl, sir, and I am mistress here. Now, what can I do for you?”
    The gentleman took a step back. “You?” He snorted. “That is impossible. I am looking for Miss Hester Blayne.”
    “Present,” said Hester.
    The gentleman’s expression grew insultingly incredulous. “Hester Blayne, the, er, the feminist?”
    “One and the same,” replied Hester, still in a voice of controlled calm that would have boded ill for anyone who knew her well.
    “If