Page 62 of The Duke's Stolen Heart
Chapter 22
Anthony Lowe was an overgrown infant, Antonia complained inwardly. He was supposed to be strong, but the heavy satchel of money made his back ache and his neck cramp. No one was going to offer her— him, whatever she was now—assistance, either. Not that she would accept it if someone did.
“Get up this hill, you coward,” she grumbled to herself, huffing each word under her breath. The money clanked as she shifted the rough bag. With a bank draft tucked safely in the stays she had altered to flatten instead of support her breasts, she was in possession of more coin than she knew what to do with.
Time for Anthony Lowe to make his appearance. One final break with Antonia Lowry’s past before she subsumed herself into a new persona.
Yet there was one errand she could no longer put off.
Miss Edith Webber, whose body Antonia had unceremoniously flung into a river just two weeks ago, deserved to be reunited with her family. Just because she couldn’t reconcile with her own mother didn’t mean the woman whose body she had treated with such unfeeling disdain had to suffer permanent separation too. For the hundredth time in the past two days, she lifted the locket from her pocket and read the inscription.
Edith Webber. B. 1806, Idless, Cornwall.
Edith’s grave needed a headstone, and Anthony Lowe was determined to give them one. Or at least, hand off a bag full of money and a locket with a clip from a broadside for the family to make the connection. It was not up to her what they did with her spoils.
It was her—his—first act as the new, decent person she intended to become. Anthony Lowe was on his way up in the world. He had enough to establish himself. Buy a business. Blend in. Be…
Boring.
Antonia’s toes pinched in her slightly-too-small men’s boots. The unfamiliar friction of fabric between her thighs brought to mind the rough scrape of wool against her softest skin. As though memories of Malcolm were ever far from her mind.
The hill hadn’t been particularly steep but Antonia had been hauling this heavy bag for the better part of an hour. It was with considerable relief she spied the Webber’s tumbledown cottage. A small woman with a round belly swept the front step.
“Good day,” Antonia called out. Her voice sounded too feminine to her own ears. Embarrassed, she cleared her throat and tried again. “Is this the Webber residence?”
The woman arched her back and adjusted a heavy wool shawl. “It is. My husband isn’t here.”
“Are you Mrs. Webber?” Antonia asked in her best imitation of a man’s voice. It was the same one she had used with her fence, but where he responded with careful neutrality this woman’s expression screwed into a suspicious glare.
“Mrs. Leakes, now. I was a Webber until my marriage.” She gestured to her stomach, as if to say,youdummy.
“Do you have a sister named Edith?” asked Antonia. Mrs. Leakes’ face rearranged itself into wary hope.
“I do. Run off to London to seek her fortune on the stage, more’s the pity. Haven’t heard from her in months. Do you have news of her?”
Antonia slung the bag of money down from her shoulder and shuffled up the walkway. Her palms bore blisters from where the leather handles had creased the leather of her gloves and rubbed with each step. “I was asked to deliver this to you.”
She dropped the bag on the steps.
“What is it?” As though there could be any doubt.
“Miss Webber’s personal effects. I was asked to deliver them to the family.”
“Where is she?”
Antonia hesitated. “Edith is dead. These were found among her personal effects by the theater manager.”
Lies. More lies. She had sworn to start her new life as a man without them, but how could she when she was fabricating her very identity?
This was not the way forward. Antonia swallowed. “I only know your sister’s body was fished out of the river and buried anonymously. There is a notice in the bag with the coordinates, if you wish to have a headstone made. It’s not up to me what you do with the money.”
Mentioning the resurrectionist seemed unnecessarily cruel, so Antonia didn’t. Another falsehood. They weighed her down just as that bag had done. Each coin an untruth. A piece of her soul sold for a few moments of freedom. Each stolen minute a chain holding her back.
But one inescapable fact seared through her as she deposited the bulk at this small woman’s feet. She could not become Anthony Lowe. He was and would remain a convenient fiction to be trotted out when she needed him. That was all.
Antonia was done living lies.
Edith Webber’s sister stared at the dropped sack. Tears filled her eyes. “We never expected her to come back. We hoped, of course. That was why we bought her the locket before Edith left.”
