Barbara Metzger (24 page)

"So I am a prisoner here?"

"Don't be getting dramatic on me, Rosellen. I am—"

"I know, only acting in my best interests. What about Vauxhall?"

"What about it? Surely you don't think we'll be attending the pleasure gardens this week with an assassin on the prowl. With all its dark paths and isolated grottoes, we'd never be able to guarantee your safety."

"But it sounds like the perfect place to set a trap. You and your men could be hiding in those dark places, waiting for him to approach me."

"Unless he uses a rifle this time. You could be in his sights long before we have the dastard in ours. Even a pistol gives him the advantage of not having to come so close. It is much too dangerous, kitten. You've used up enough of your nine lives."

"I do not think he'll suddenly use a pistol, though, when he hasn't ever before. A gun is too loud and too messy for the niminy-piminy fellow. I think my going to Vauxhall is an excellent plan."

"No, and don't argue."

"You promised you'd take me to see the fireworks."

"They will be there after we capture Merrihew."

But Rosellen might not be. She couldn't bear for Wynn to start treating her like another recalcitrant little sister again. She'd go back to her uncle's, where her heart wouldn't shatter a little more every time she saw him.

First she would go to Vauxhall.

Escaping from Stanford House was pitifully easy. Rosellen would have to inform the viscount that he was not getting his money's worth from the guards he'd hired. Of course, she acknowledged, they were stationed around the perimeter of the house to watch for anyone going in, not for someone coming out. Especially not a maid in a dreary gray gown and drooping mobcap going out to walk the dog. Rosellen's old uniform was shapeless enough that a pretty pink frock fit right under it. No one noticed her at all, in their efforts to give Buck a wide berth.

She told the family that she was going to bed early and no one wondered, with all the upset. With a disgusted look for her son, Lady Stanford noted that she herself would never have made it through the trying week without her dear Theo's comforting presence. Susan nodded, clutching Stubbing's arm.

Rosellen told the staff that she did not want to be disturbed until morning, and they were too well trained, and too nervous of the big dog who now shared her bedroom, to disobey.

She told Buck not to bark as she climbed down the back stairs and out the service entrance without seeing anyone.

Rosellen felt terribly guilty, lying to everybody who had been so kind to her. But she also felt guilty over making them captives in their own home and for placing them in danger, so she knew she was doing the right thing. And she did leave a laboriously written note for Wynn propped on her pillow. If she did not return, one of the maids would see that he got it in the morning.

Not a total gudgeon, Rosellen knew she could not handle Merrihew on her own, so she had made arrangements. Wynn wouldn't help, but the Heatherstone twins were ripe for the adventure, of course. They were waiting for her at the corner in a hired coach, pistols primed, hats pulled over their brows like desperate brigands—or boys playing at pirates. They had ropes and whistles and riding whips and a cricket bat. Duly impressed, Rosellen expressed her admiration for their foresight and enthusiasm, wondering to herself how her two redheaded white knights thought they would bring their arsenal into Baron Haverhill's private supper box. The pistols fit in their pockets, at least.

Wynn was worried. He was also
de trop
in his own drawing room. Susan and Stubbing had their heads together at the pianoforte; his mother and Lord Hume were playing at cards at the other end of the room. Neither couple invited him to join them. Hell, neither couple acted as if he existed. But that wasn't what had him pacing from one end of the room to the other.

No, as soon as this other mess was settled, he'd see his womenfolk settled. It was high time his mother and Hume formalized their longstanding understanding, making sure no scandal could be attached to their past. And if Susan wanted Stubbing, well, it was not the best of matches, but Wynn was beginning to understand that there were more important things than aligning noble families with notable fortunes. The lieutenant was a dreadful secretary but an honest man, and Wynn knew he could get the cub a decent posting to Vienna or a seat in the Commons. He'd do.

But what would Wynn do if he couldn't keep Rosellen safe? He'd brought the young woman to London to restore her health and to appease his own conscience. She was miserable there, in constant danger outside the house, her virtue in constant danger inside. He could not have left her in Brighton. Now, it seemed, he could not leave her alone. Not only did the poor puss have to deal with a homicidal cleric but a lascivious host to boot.

Never in his life had Viscount Stanford acted so boorishly, almost tumbling an innocent female on the floor of his studio, for Heaven's sake. Lud, the female had a knack for making him feel small! And he'd never apologized for the episode in his workroom either. Heaven only knew what Rosellen was thinking of his intentions. Hell, Wynn wasn't clear about his intentions himself. He knew only that the impossible Miss Lockharte had wormed her way beneath his skin, straight to the tenderest part of him that he hadn't known existed. Now he ached because she was unhappy.

She was a regular trouper, his wild Rose, none braver or more full of pluck, but the worry and uncertainty were draining even her indomitable spirit, he knew. Wynn had to talk to her, to reassure her. He had to explain his own unfamiliar feelings, too. Perhaps speaking them out loud would clarify the muddled emotions for him as well. Wynn hoped so, for his nerves were tied in half hitches.

The evening was still young and he wasn't the least tired, so Wynn decided to approach Rosellen, in the hope that they could both get a decent night's rest. Calling at a young lady's bedchamber was entirely unacceptable, but Hell, he reasoned, he'd already kissed the chit twice. A man could be hanged only once. Besides, they were not likely to be interrupted, not with his mother and sister so besotted with their own beaux.

If Rosellen was asleep, Wynn did not wish to disturb her, so he scratched lightly at her door, then pushed it open, shielding his candle with his hand. The sitting room was empty. “Rosellen? Miss Lockharte?” He went through to the bedroom. The covers were turned down, but no one had been in the bed. Then he saw the note propped on the pillow and his heart sank to his toes, which made sense, for his stomach was in his throat. The fool had gone off to find Merrihew herself; he knew it without having to read the message. And she'd gone to Vauxhall, which was no place for a lady at the best of times.

Hellfire and thunderation, he should not have trusted the chit to be reasonable, to wait for events to unfold. She never had before. Why had he supposed she'd start developing patience and prudence now? If ever there was a filly who needed a firm hand at the reins, it was the preposterous penmanship instructor.

Wynn held the folded page closer to his candle. As expected, the message was addressed to him, in none-too-steady letters. As if she'd known what his reaction would be to her disappearance, Rosellen had written:
My lord. In case something unfortunate happens, I want you to know that you are still overbearing and arrogant. And I love you.

Something unfortunate would happen, all right. He'd find the chit and then keep her in chains for the rest of her life. Right after he wiped at the tear that threatened to fall on the letter. He finally understood Lord Hume's attachment to his hat and what it held. Wynn would never willingly part with this token of Rosellen's affections either. He might wish to cut the first sentence off and save the rest, but half-cocked was typical of his little love. Wynn refolded the note and placed it in his breast pocket, then he set about rousing the neighborhood with his shouted orders for men, horses, and pistols.

Hume had to stay behind to comfort the dowager, but a grim-faced Stubbing was at Wynn's side in a flash, buckling on his sword. Yes, he'd do. Then they were off, tearing through the streets of London as if the hounds of Hell were nipping at their heels. Or Buck.

Knowing that her aunt and uncle were attending the fete at Vauxhall had helped Rosellen decide on her course. In their presence, she would not damage her reputation further by traipsing around the pleasure gardens unchaperoned, so Lord Stanford might not be so furious with her. He might just strangle her, instead of boiling her in oil.

The Haverhill ménage would be at Vauxhall, she knew, because Clarice had boasted of her new gown, her new hairstyle, and her new beau, an émigré French count. The gown was shot silver, the coiffeur was shorn curls, and the suitor was just shy of sixty.

"Not alone with those two rattles, are you?” Baron Haverhill asked his niece when she appeared at his private box. He didn't know about the attempts on her life; he simply still had hopes for Stanford.

Rosellen gestured vaguely behind her. “The rest of the party wandered off down the Dark Walks. I had heard it was not entirely
convenable,
so I stayed behind, knowing I could stop with you until they returned."

"Quite right, not at all the thing for young chits to be going off in the night."

But Clarice made an unladylike sound. “When are you going to stop acting like a such a green goose, Rosellen? Everyone comes to Vauxhall for some harmless flirtation. Isn't that so,
monsieur?"
She tapped the count's arm with her chicken-skin fan.

The Frenchman seemed more interested in getting up a flirtation with Aunt Beatrice than Clarice, until he discovered that Rosellen could speak French adequately enough to converse intelligently.

The Heatherstones distracted a furious Clarice with the latest gossip. Uncle Townsend took a nap after a surfeit of shaved ham and arrack punch, and Lady Haverhill chatted with the ladies at the next table. Buck foraged below the raised box for scraps.

Rosellen was beginning to think her plans were for naught. Another twenty minutes of listening to the count's heavy-handed compliments, Clarice's biting comments on everyone who walked past, and her uncle's snores, and she might die of boredom, saving Merrihew the effort. Just when she was about to suggest to the twins that they should go find their own party, a message was delivered, surreptitiously dropped into Rosellen's lap by one of the waiters as he passed. While the count poured out more punch, Rosellen unfolded the note.

There are words that can be spoken only in private,
she read.
Come to the Temple of Venus as soon as you can.
The note was signed:
Stanford.

Now if there was anything Rosellen Lockharte knew, it was handwriting. She had seen enough of his lordship's these last days in his house to know that this was not Wynn's script. The style was his, terse and commanding, but the viscount's writing was bolder, less slanted. Besides, this paper was of poor quality and had no crest. Success!

She could have made an excuse about finding her companions, but Rosellen was not entirely comfortable with leaving the Heatherstones in charge of her rescue, especially since they would not give her one of their pistols, remembering how she had shot the blue bottle. There was someone else, though, someone who would be a perfect decoy, someone who would have crawled through broken glass for a private coze with Wynn. So Rosellen waited until no one was watching and slipped the note under Clarice's reticule, which was next to hers on the table.

In a short while, Clarice asked to be excused to visit the ladies’ retiring room. “You might as well accompany me,” she sniped at Rosellen while the count draped her domino over her shoulders. “Your hair is a mess."

Her cousin would abandon her at the rest room, Rosellen knew, but that suited her perfectly. She made her apologies to her aunt and the count, gestured to the Heatherstones, hoping they understood that they were to follow her, and left in her beautiful cousin's wake.

Sure enough, Clarice was not waiting for Rosellen outside the ladies’ chamber, but Tim and Tom were, with Buck.

"Do you know the way to the Temple of Venus?” Rosellen asked.

They didn't, and the first people they asked were two scantily dressed women, who wanted only to accompany the twins down the dark paths. “And your skinny friend can come, too,” they offered. “But not the dog."

The brothers were in high gig, but Rosellen was feeling remorse at having sent her own cousin into danger. What if Merrihew had another knife and threw it first, without looking carefully at his victim? But no, any number of ladies and ladybirds were wandering around. He would have to make sure before assaulting anyone. Still, she hurried the twins down the paths, wishing she had a domino herself, to avoid the rude stares and crude remarks.

As they neared the small pavilion hidden behind some trees, lit only by the moon and the stars, they could hear Clarice's shrill voice: “What do you mean, what am I doing here? What are
you
doing here? You're not Stanford! And take your hands off me, you toad. You've already crushed my dress."

"It's a good thing for you I didn't crush your skull!” Merrihew snarled, tossing aside the rock in his hand. “Damn, where is your cousin?"

"I am sick and tired of everyone wanting my wretched cousin, by Heaven. You and Stanford and Rafton and now
le comte
Mercineaux. Why, even the featherheaded Heatherstones prefer her company, and she is poor!"

"I say,” Tim called. “That's no way to speak about your cousin."

Merrihew spun around. When he saw Rosellen, he bent for the rock again, but Tom had his pistol in his hand. Merrihew grabbed for Clarice, to use as a shield. She screamed.

"Shoot ‘em both,” Tim advised, but Rosellen cried, “No!"

No
was the word Buck heard most often in life. Thinking his mistress was calling him, the huge dog came barreling through the bushes, knocking down Merrihew and his captive to get to her. Tim handed his pistol to Rosellen and leaped on the reverend. So did Tom, but he landed on Clarice instead, who hadn't stopped screaming yet. Buck jumped up on Rosellen to lick her face and the gun went off. The statue of Venus atop the columned pavilion was blown to smithereens, spewing white powder over them all. A trysting pair inside the temple staggered out, half dressed and more than half castway. “Ghosts!” the female shrieked, adding to the din.