Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (20 page)

That she would run away with him. That she didn’t mind leaving everything she knew and loved as long as she was with him. That she would become a fallen woman, shunned by all decent society, as long as she could fall into his arms.

And, terrifyingly, it would all be true. At this insane moment she felt all of that. Of course, she would regret it later, but threat of future pain would not bar her from present ecstasy if that were the only price.

It wasn’t though.

She could tear herself from home, life, and reputation, and perhaps consider it all well lost for love. She could not tear herself from duty.

Her duty to Digby and Wenscote.

She sighed. Could she tell him the whole truth and trust that he would understand, that he would make the sacrifice with her?

It was tempting, for her trust in his promises ran ocean deep. She couldn’t be sure, however, that he’d see things as she did. Perhaps he’d think it more important to claim his child than to save a small estate in Yorkshire. Perhaps—he’d hinted at it in the wilder night—he’d use scandal to trap her.

She couldn’t afford the risk.

Tears making her mask clammy on her face, she eased herself from under his arm. He muttered, but didn’t wake. She drew the blanket over him, put on her shift, then slipped quietly from the room. She’d laid out a simple brown traveling gown in her old bedroom, one that she could dress in by herself. Millie was remaining at Arradale during this risky enterprise. Once decent, she crept down to the kitchen, praying that no one was up yet. She’d cut it close with that indulgent spell of what-ifs.

In the kitchen, all was quiet, the hearth still cold. As quietly as possible, she found some cold meat and bread, and the blackberry cordial she’d asked Jessie to prepare the night before, adding brandy and some extra spices to the recipe.

She tipped the potion in the jug, stirred it, then sipped the tiniest amount. It was rich and delicious, and anything extra was covered by the strong flavors.

She hated to do this to him, though.

Pushing aside her qualms, she went upstairs and found him half-awake, tousled, prone, with his chin on his hands. “You are an early bird, aren’t you?”

“It’s nearly dawn,” she pointed out, struggling to hide a fierce pang of longing and sorrow. “You set that as the end.”

“What idiot said that it is always darkest just before the dawn?”

There was no point to that. “I’ve brought you some breakfast. Just simple things. The servants aren’t up yet.”

He stirred to sit up and she took the tray to him.

“Aren’t you eating?”

“I had something,” she lied. Food would choke her.

He bit into the bread and chewed, looking at her. “I would like to see more of your face.”

“I know.” The growing light was dangerous. He might see the edge of the scar that the mask no longer quite covered.

He shrugged and took another bite. “So,” he said, when he’d swallowed it, “what now?”

He hadn’t touched the glass.

“My carriage will take you to Thirsk.”

Another mouthful and a shrewd, thoughtful look. “Won’t that make it easy for me to guess where I’ve been? I warn you, I have quite a good sense of direction.”

“You’ll be blindfolded,” she lied.

He shook his head, clearly seeing how little point there was to that. If only he’d drink! Diana would have the coach at the front any time now. Heavens, she needed to get him dressed, before he passed out. If he ever drank anything.

“That’s blackberry punch,” she said. “I … I had it made especially for you.”

He smiled, a little sadly, but picked up the glass and took a sip. “’Struth, sweetheart, but that’s likely to knock me out again. It’s hardly a breakfast drink.”

Though she hated the manipulation, Rosamunde tried to look hurt. “I thought … since there was no pie.”

He laughed and took a deeper draft. “I suppose if I don’t have to ride, it’ll do no harm.”

Fighting tears, she brought his clothes over and he climbed out of bed to begin to dress. “Don’t stand there like a nervous servant,” he said rather shortly. She felt short, too, furious at fate.

She sat on the bed, watching him fasten his shirt.

“So,” he asked, “when do we say our fond farewells?”

“Soon.”

“You’re not coming with me?”

“I can’t. I must get home.”

“To your husband.” He took another bite of bread, then shrugged into his waistcoat and jacket, leaving them both unbuttoned. “He doesn’t deserve you, you know.”

“Don’t.”

When he picked up the glass and took another deep drink, Rosamunde knew he was drowning anger. Suddenly he turned the vessel and offered it to her. “Come, it’s the closest we have to a loving cup. Drink in recognition of the night, and vow to me that at least you will never forget.”

Rosamunde looked into his angry eyes, wondering frantically if he suspected. She saw only grief and longing, and her will trembled. Dear Lord, she couldn’t do this!

But she already had. He’d already swallowed half the brew.

Abruptly, it seemed right that she drink, too, that she take a little of the betrayal she’d served to him. She covered his warm hand on the glass, drew it to her, and sipped from the rim still moist from his mouth.

Then, deliberately, she drank deeper.

She pushed it back to him. “You finish it. I promise, I will never forget.”

She watched as he drained the drink, eyes on hers, but then she made herself slide off the bed. “I must check on the coach. I’ll be back soon.”

She left the room without a backward glance and didn’t allow herself to falter. This had never had anything to do with her needs or feelings.

She didn’t have to check on anything, but she should say good-bye to Jessie, and leave vails for her and the Yockenthwaits for their service. She also had the note she’d written for Digby, telling him she was going to Richmond with Diana for a couple of days. She collected coins from her room and removed the mangled mask, stuffing it in her pocket for disposal later. As she left the room, she searched herself for some effect of the drug.

Nothing. What were they going to do if it failed to work? Or took too long.

But as she started down the stairs, her balance almost failed her and she clutched the banister. Lud, how horrible! What was she going to do if it got worse than this? Diana would be cross over her quixotic sharing of the potion.

She concentrated as she went downstairs, hand tight on the rail, having to think about each step.

Jessie was building the kitchen fire, still rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Milady! I thought you’d spent the night at the big house?”

“I did.” Rosamunde hoped her words didn’t sound as tangled as they felt. “But Lady Arradale and I have decided to see our unwanted guest as far as Richmond.”

The maid rubbed ashy fingers on her skirt. “Is there anything you want me to do, milady?”

“Just make sure this note is sent to Wenscote.” She placed it on the table. “I’ve taken him some breakfast, and the coach will be here at any moment. I wanted to thank you for your help with him.” She gave the girl a shilling, and put a crown on the table for the Yockenthwaits.

When the maid had thanked her, she made her way carefully into the front hall to wait for the coach, feeling horribly as if she were drunk, but more than drunk. No sense could be relied on. The early light shimmered, and when the coach appeared, it seemed to be surrounded by a multicolored mist.

As the coach drew up, Diana leaped down anxiously. “Did it work?”

“I think so.” Rosamunde had her hand on the porch pillar for contact with reality. “I had to drink some myself. I feel rather strange.”

Diana grabbed her arm. “You idiot! Why did you do that?”

“Never mind.” Rosamunde looked beyond, and saw Tom—a rather wiggly Tom—who was doubtless even more convinced of her insanity.

“I brought a groom from the Arradale stables, too,” Diana said, indicating another stalwart young man. “He’ll keep his mouth shut. Anyone from these parts will do anything to avoid having the Cotterites here.”

Rosamunde had to accept the fact that quite a few people suspected what she’d been up to, and would know for sure if she started to swell with a child. Thank heavens dalesfolk didn’t give out much to strangers.

Focusing carefully, and wishing her feet weren’t so far from her head, she led Diana and the grooms upstairs and opened the bedroom door.

He lacked only his boots, but toward the end, he’d guessed. She knew, because he’d staggered to the bed and torn all the covers off. He’d probably intended to rip the sheet still tangled in his hands.

She gently extricated him, determined not to cry. It was better like this. Now, he’d never want to see her again.

“No need to put his boots on,” she said, hearing her own voice strangely calm.

Diana brushed his tangled hair off his face with a murmur of approval. Rosamunde wanted to slap her hands away, but she stood back as Diana had the two grooms lift him and carry him out.

“Oh, do be careful!” she gasped as one of his feet knocked against the door. Her sudden movement dizzied her, and she tipped heavily into a chair.

“What a tangle!” Diana said, hands on hips. “Never mind, love. I’ll take care of it. When you’re recovered, you can go on home—”

But Rosamunde staggered to her feet. “No! I’m coming.”

“Why?”

Because I have to make sure he’s properly taken care of
, Rosamunde thought. Diana might decide to dump him in the middle of nowhere. He might come close to death again. She could sense a chill in herself, a deep, unnerving shiver. Even without rain, he might die of exposure.

“I just have to,” she stated, knowing she sounded like a truculent child.

Focusing on Diana’s face, she saw exasperation, but worry, too. “Heaven knows, in your present state, it’s probably better to keep you under my eye. There’s no knowing what you might do or say! Sit.”

Rosamunde obeyed. She felt dangerously close to sleep, and this was the effect of only a couple of mouthfuls. Had she given him too much?

“Mistress Naisby,” she said, finding it hard to shape the words, and watching as if down a flashing tunnel as Diana stripped the sheets off the bed.

“Yes? What?” Diana bundled them up and tossed them aside. She’d brought fresh ones. No, not fresh.

“Where did those sheets come from?”

“They’re mine. They’ll look as if they’ve been slept in for a few days, but nothing more.”

Rosamunde watched the Countess of Arradale make a very untidy bed. She’d probably never done it before. She’d been meaning to ask something. Something important.

“Mistress Naisby …”

“Yes?” Diana turned, the bundle of soiled sheets in her arm and shook her head. “Faith, but you’re in a state, love.” She put her other arm around Rosamunde and hoisted her to her feet. “Come on. You can sleep it off in the coach. If all goes well, we can be back here tonight, and you can be home tomorrow. Sober.”

“Not drunk,” Rosamunde insisted.

“I know, love.” Diana steered her toward the doorway.

“Mistress Naisby.”

“What about the old witch?”

“How much did she say to use?”

“All of it to be sure to render a strong man unconscious for a considerable amount of time.”

“Oh good,” said Rosamunde miserably.

Diana held her closer as they worked their way down the stairs. “At least by this time tomorrow, it will all be done with. Except,” she added in a whisper, “for the consequences, we hope.”

Safe in the hall, Rosamunde put her hand over her belly, as if there might already be something there to feel.

“All done,” she echoed. “Except for the consequences.”

Chapter 13

S
he woke with a violent headache and a very tangled mind. Where was she? And why was the world bouncing around so painfully?

“At last.”

Rosamunde forced her eyes open, turning her head toward her cousin’s voice by her side, hissing with the pain. Poor Diana looked as bad as she felt.

In fact, Diana looked extremely peculiar.

“Are you spotty?”

Diana touched her blotched face. “Does it work? I thought it such a clever idea.”

Rosamunde closed her eyes. She must be in a drugged dream. Diana would never be happy about pimples. Nor would she ever wear such a dull, plain outfit, and a mob-cap.

Her face was tapped gently. “Rosa! Stay awake. We have to fix you.”

“Don’t do that. Please.” Rosamunde opened her eyes again and found that Diana was still spotty. All over her face. She had a particularly revolting pimple on her left cheekbone. Inflamed red with a pus-filled center. “Are you real?”

Merriment sparkled in this strange Diana’s eyes. “Only in a manner of speaking. I’m your maid.”

“What a peculiar dream.”

Diana thrust the spots closer. “It’s not a dream, Rosa. It’s a disguise. Pay attention. We can’t leave Brand Malloren somewhere and be seen in the same area. It’s too easy a link. So I stopped off in Richmond—you were dead to the world—and sought a little help from a friend of mine. An actress. She found me these clothes, and painted my face. I don’t think anyone will recognize the Countess of Arradale, will they?”

Rosamunde focused on the enormous pimple. “No. Especially as it will never cross their minds.”

“Quite. No one who matters notices servants. We’re approaching Thirsk, however, so we have to do you.”

Rosamunde raised her hand to guard her face. “No spots!”

“No, no. Just a lot of ordinary face paint.”

“I don’t want face paint either!”

“Well, you must have it.” Diana lifted a wooden box onto her lap and opened it. “You’re my mistress. The sort of high-born lady who wears a great deal of
maquillage.”

Rosamunde had the sinking feeling that this was all too real. “I don’t like face paint. It looks horrible.”

“Think, love! You can’t show your scars, and a mask would draw attention, but heavy paint will hardly get a glance.”

Rosamunde’s mind, however, had jolted to other matters. “Where is he?” She sat up, despite the pain in her head. “What have you done with him? What have you done?”