He looked stricken. Agony was etched across his face. “We found her body the next day,” he said bleakly. “Broken neck. I hope it was quick, I never wanted her to suffer.”

  “It…it was you who found her?” Anne was not sure how she found the breath to speak.

  Timothy nodded. “At the edge of the park, by the gate. She must have tried to jump it, and in the dark… Well. Her horse was still there, her trunk on the ground and…”

  His voice broke, and it took him a moment to regain control before he continued.

  “And Frances in her arms.”

  For the second time in their altercation, Anne sank onto the bed. “No.”

  Timothy nodded.

  Anne tried not to imagine the scene, it was all too horrible, but the thoughts invaded her mind, making it impossible to ignore.

  Louise, lying dead on the ground, with Frances in her arms––only two years old.

  “She…she was trying to take her?”

  Timothy nodded. “I was not her father, I suppose that was her thinking, and perhaps she was reuniting Frances with her true father. God knows how the child survived that night, but she did. I do not believe she has any memory of it.”

  “I do not have a mother, you know.”

  Anne swallowed. She may not recall that precise night, but there was no doubt in her mind that the child felt the loss of her mother.

  “And then here you are,” said Timothy, his voice hard. “Out of nowhere, ready to be Frances’s governess and my countess. You knew Louise had been here, didn’t you?”

  Anne shook her head, still numb after hearing what had happened to Louise. Oh God, someone would have to tell her mother.

  “You knew. Did she write to you?”

  “No,” said Anne. “No, I had no idea. I had lost touch with her, she had lost touch with all of us. We did not know what had become of her.”

  “You want me to believe it is all a coincidence?”

  Anne’s temper rose. “It was you who selected me at the Bureau,” she pointed out.

  “For all I know,” he shot back, “you had some dirty deal with your Miss Clarke. Was the entire place full of Gilberts that day?”

  Laughter was the only recourse for her battered soul. This was all so ridiculous! Timothy had been duped by her cousin, and Louise should never have done it; but for the entire saga to end in death…was there any chance her end had been reached not by a misjudged horse jump, but by his hand?

  “You must have been angry when she betrayed you,” said Anne quietly. “Wanted to leave you.”

  Timothy chuckled darkly. “Very angry. But not murderous.”

  Everything within her battled to decide whether she believed him. Timothy, the father. Timothy, the lover. Timothy, the husband to her cousin––her cousin who had died in mysterious circumstances, whose very existence had been hushed up.

  She had to think, and she could never do that with Timothy in the room. Her body still ached for him, while her mind ached to be free of his hold, if only to think clearly.

  “Please leave me,” she said. “I…I need some time to think about all you have told me.”

  Was that anxiety in his expression as Timothy rose?

  “I know this is all confusing,” he said awkwardly. “I know I have told you much that you did not know, some of which will be upsetting for you. But you have to believe me, I am no murderer.” [he was just accusing her of being in league with Louise and Mrs. Clark; his concern that she trust him already feels bipolar]

  Anne smiled weakly as she rose. “I am not sure what you want from me––to leave, to believe you, to stay as your governess, to stay as your mistress, to stay as your…”

  How could she finish that sentence? She could not bring herself to say wife as she stood mere feet away.

  His gaze met hers, and a frisson of tension rippled between them. Timothy moved forward and tried to press a kiss upon her mouth––but Anne stepped back. [see above note]

  “I need time to think,” she reiterated, unwilling to meet his gaze. “And sleep. I…I will see you in the morning.”

  Timothy looked as though he wished to more, but he stepped outside her room. “Good night.”

  Anne did not reply but shut the door behind him before looking around her bedchamber.

  She had much to do if she was to away before dawn.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  8 December 1812

  “My goodness,” said Dewey with a faint smile. “What did the kipper ever do to you?”

  Timothy looked up through irritable eyes. Little sleep and bad dreams when finally entering slumber had done him no favors that morning. The kipper on his plate had been torn apart rather than genteelly sliced.

  “Hmmmph,” he said in reply.

  The butler raised an eyebrow as he poured another cup of tea, but said nothing. The breakfast room was otherwise empty. No one else to see him in this roaring temper.

  His jaw tightened. Well, his manners had always been maintained no matter what had occurred, even when Louise had left. Perhaps it was time his manners descended into madness.

  “Will that be all, my lord?”

  Timothy waved a hand irascibly, and the servant left him alone.

  Alone. Christ alive, he had never felt more alone than last night.

  “Admit it, Anne, in some ways we are nothing but strangers to each other.”

  “I have served you. I have performed a great favor for you, been trotted out as your wife, and you have taken me to your bed. We are strangers to each other?”

  Timothy shut his eyes. God’s teeth, he had said some things last night…

  As he thought over the back and forth he had endured [interesting word choice. Does he only see himself as a victim?] last night, his stomach churned.

  Timothy placed his fork on his plate. He could not eat another bite, not with his mind whirring and his concentration on his talk with Anne. His argument with Anne.

  “You must have been angry when she betrayed you. Wanted to leave you.”

  Head dropping into his hands, Timothy could no longer ignore the fact he had been utterly unreasonable at times in their conversation.

  “Very angry. But not murderous.”

  How had it all gone so wrong? He had only sought her out because he wished to see her, and then with Frances missing…or at least, what he thought was missing.

  How could such desire transform into bitterness? Why did he speak to her like that, when he cared so about her? Was this his nature, to lash out at those who mattered the most?

  What prevented him from being close to those he cared about?

  “How can Frances be safe if the one person who is responsible for her doesn’t know where she is?”

  Fear rushed back through his soul, reminding him just how terrifying it had been, not knowing where Frances was. The idea that she was somewhere alone, hurt…

  Timothy shivered. It was a dreadful thought. His desperation to find her, fear clouding his judgement, had tipped him back into the habits he had sworn to leave behind.

  He had accused Anne.

  Raising his head from his hands, he looked out across the lawn, frosted and icy in the morning sun. Anne, of all people! What had he been thinking? That Anne, a woman he had only ever seen act kindly and moderately, would harm a child?

  It was Louise. She had broken his ability to trust, had seemed to enter this house again through her cousin.

  His discovery that they were related… ice had entered his heart, and only now did he see the consequences. Instead of a rational, calm conversation with the woman he was falling in love with, what had he done?

  Timothy shook his head. Hurled accusations at her.

  What had first appeared to be a trick of the light was now proven family resemblance, and though it should have calmed him, given him the reason for mistaking her for the woman who had so injured him, all it had done was tie the two together in his mind.

  How one’s betrayal could seep into the nature of the other.

  Timothy swallowed. For all his efforts to leave behind the memory of the woman who had been first his obsession and then his burden, he had not succeeded.

  Louise still had a hold of him, all these years later. He was not free. If he had been, he would not have looked at Anne and wondered if she was truly a person to be trusted.

  “It was you who selected me at the Bureau.”

  Timothy’s heart twisted. God, he could see how his love for her––for it was love, he knew that now––had been warped by Louise’s very memory.

  Yet she did not trust him.

  He had seen in her eyes. Despite his protestations, despite his certainty in his own innocence, that had not been enough for Anne. The way her eyes had flickered, the way she had stepped back…she believed there was a chance he had killed Louise. [he’s been fully fleshed out and believable until now. Self-aware and complicated and likeable. None of this is fitting into that character. This is petulant and victim-y and still bi-polar]

  “Why couldn’t the damn woman trust me!” Timothy found to his surprise he had spoken aloud, a fist slammed onto the table.

  “Did you say something, my lord?”

  Holt, he thought it was, had entered the breakfast room with that sycophantic smile Timothy hated. He was an earl, not a prince. Still, the poor man probably couldn’t help it.

  “No, thank you, Holt,” he muttered. “Leave me.”

  The footman bowed his head but for a moment, their gazes met.

  Timothy gasped. There was loathing there, vicious hatred, like he had never seen. [this made me gasp right along with Timothy! Very exciting]

  And then it was gone. Was it a trick of the light?

  “As you wish, my lord,” said Holt as he backed out of the room and closed the door behind him, leaving his master in solitude.

  The hackles on the back of his neck were raised, and the fist he had banged on the table was still clenched.

  By God, that was strange. Holt! He had probably spoken no more than two dozen words to him. He was on edge and who could blame him? The woman he loved, though he had never expressed that emotion, believed he was capable of a most heinous act…

  Though you gave her cause, whispered a bitter voice at the back of his mind.

  Timothy sighed. Probably far too much. He had shouted, lied, kept the truth from her. Even when he had discovered she had a right to know what had happened, he had lied.

  Besides, it was not like he could have done anything with those fiery emotions. His body may crave her, his mind may adore her, but Anne was a governess. He could no sooner marry her than…

  Now he thought about it in the cool light of day, Timothy found he was unable to find many reasons to prevent his marriage to Anne.

  The whole world believed her to be his countess already, after all. Would it not be a natural continuation of their scheme if she was simply to…well. Take on the role permanently?

  The door opened. Timothy turned to snarl at the intruder, but restrained himself.

  “Ah, I thought you would be finished in here, my lord,” said Dewey. “My apologies.”

  “No, no, you may as well come in and start clearing up if you wish,” Timothy said heavily. “One of us should do our duty, at least.”

  It was impossible to keep the bitterness from his voice.

  “If you do not mind my saying,” said the butler gently, “you do not sound content.”

  Timothy barked a dry laugh. Content. When was he last content?

  No, that was not true. A shimmering memory of Anne in his arms in the center of the ballroom, all eyes on him but his eyes only for her. The softness of her hands, the warmth of her arm as it curled around his neck…

  He cleared his throat. “I thank you for your concern, Dewey.”

  The man nodded. “And what will you be doing today?”

  “In all honesty, I am not sure,” admitted Timothy, stretching under the table.

  He knew what he should do: speak to Anne. He longed to be close to her, and yet was unsure just how welcome his presence would be.

  Had he burnt all his bridges? Had she taken irrevocably against him? She would be within her right. She had little cause to believe he respected her, and he must put that right.

  “With your permission,” said Dewey delicately, “I would remind you that you agreed to speak with Mr. Erskine today, about the mining. I believe there is also a review of staff salaries that need to be performed, and––”

  “Oh, spare me,” said Timothy heavily. “Forgive me, Dewey, I did not mean to be rude. But not today.”

  There must have been something in his tone for the man’s face softened as he nodded.

  “Of course, my lord. Not today.” The butler left.

  God’s teeth, he could not stay here. Timothy rose and left the breakfast room at such a pace that he almost walked straight into Holt.

  “My apologies, my lord,” said the footman quickly.

  “Don’t worry about it, Holt. I am still deciding what to do, my mind is elsewhere.”

  Holt raised his eyes to his master. “If I was you, my lord, I would not lose the second woman who loved you.”

  He had disappeared into a servant’s door before Timothy could speak.

  The damned cheek of it! So their argument had been overheard then––very little was ever secret in this place. But to think it was appropriate to bring up with his master…

  Well, that man had a lot to learn.

  Holt. He had been with the family what, ten years? He’s been barely a man when he joined as an under footman. One of the servants most affected by Louise’s death, from memory.

  Louise. Unsure why, his feet started to take him along the path he had not trodden for two years. The route to Louise’s private boudoir.

  It did not take long before he was standing before the portrait. Louise smiled at him, head slightly tilted, that knowing smile dancing across those lips he knew so well.

  He had loved her so much––or at least, what he believed was love. He had thought her perfect, yet the woman the world had seen and the one he had known had been so different.

  Though they were related, she could not be more different to the woman who was now a part of his life, a part of his household. Anne.

  Whenever he was with her, warmth overwhelmed him. He had forgotten himself, his irritability, his desire for solitude, his bitterness…

  All had washed away.

  Timothy swallowed. This old room was nothing but a mausoleum to the memories of a woman he had believed would make him happy. But had she?

  Perhaps for a time. It was Anne who made him feel whole, made him return to himself. After such bitterness, such pain, she was the one who had healed him.

  He had wished for a governess of great discretion because he had so much to conceal. He had gained a woman by his side who was discreet, elegant, loyal. Beautiful.

  Timothy sank onto the bed, eyes still on Louise’s portrait. All the reasons he had concocted in his mind to forbid him from offering marriage to Anne…they faded away in the certain knowledge that not only did he loved her, but she made him a better person by her love.

  There was no reason they could not be together.

  It was a heady thought, one that dazed him. There was nothing stopping them being together, not once they had resolved this foolish misunderstanding.

  For that was all it was, a misunderstanding. All she had to do was consent, and a certainty rose in his stomach searing his heart. She loved him, she had admitted as much. She had willingly allowed him to take her to his bed.

  Besides, who would deny an earl? She had tasted briefly the joys of being a countess, his countess moreover. His countess.

  He would speak with her, apologize for the misunderstanding last night, and offer her his hand. It would all be resolved. They would be a family: himself, Anne, and Frances.

  Frances. A tinge of pain seared his happiness. He had not seen her that morning.

  From Louise’s boudoir, it was only a few minutes’ walk to Frances’s nursery if one took the backstairs. To Timothy’s relief, he encountered no one and opened the door quietly.

  There was no one there.

  An all too familiar rose in his chest. Timothy looked around hastily––could he have missed her? No. She was not here.

  No matter, he told himself, holding back the rush of fear threatening to overwhelm him. Perhaps she is still in her bedchamber.

  It was with relief that Timothy found his daughter in her bedchamber by the window, soldiers in hand, still in her nightclothes. It was late, to be sure, but perhaps Anne had not slept well. He certainly had not.

  “Good morning, Frances,” he said with a smile.

  Frances turned away. To see his daughter turn away, to refuse to acknowledge his presence nor reply to his greeting…it tore at the very fabric of who he was.

  “Ah, I see you are playing with the soldiers,” he said into the silence, stepping towards her. “We shall have to find you some girl toys to play with, these are for boys.”

  That gained a reaction. Frances glared, blonde hair tangled down her back.

  “How do you know they are boy toys?” asked Frances, evidently unaware her Papa had once been small just like her. “You never play with me.”

  It was such a searing criticism of his fatherhood that Timothy sat beside her, legs unable to hold him.

  Bloody hell. She was right. He had ignored her for too long; first because she was so like Louise, then because he was unsure whether he had the right to care about her as a father.

  He had to show her that he was her father.

  “I know,” he said softly. “But that is going to change.”

  Frances still refused to meet his eye, gaze focused instead of the little men which would do her bidding.

  “Frances,” said Timothy quietly. “Tell me what is wrong.”

  Tears suddenly appeared in the corners of the child’s eyes, and she said in a halting voice, “I…I don’t want you to be angry with me.”

  Sweet relief rushed over Timothy. If that was her primary concern, perhaps not all was lost. There was time to repair the damage he had wrought by keeping her at a distance.