Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (24 page)

“Very right.”

“Very noble.”

“To be sensible, I mean.”

“So sad.”

“Quite romantic!”

“We were to meet here and run off together,” Rosamunde continued, “but no one yet suspects. He has only just arrived, which has given me the chance to see that it can never be.” She sank her head on her hand. “My poor husband. My poor dear children.”

“Oh, the little innocents.”

“Ah, you poor thing.”

Rosamunde faced them, ashamed of the lies she was spewing to these kindhearted ladies. And yet, beneath it all, lay too much truth for comfort. “For the sake of my reputation, for my husband and children”—she put the folded paper on the table—“no one in the inn must know who has left this note for him.”

The lady on the left picked up the note and read the direction. “A marquess!”

“Alas, I was blinded by high rank.”

“And other things, I’m sure.”

“We caught a sight of your man, dear.”

“A fine figure.”

“But handsome is as handsome does, sister.”

“True. He shouldn’t be coaxing good women away from their homes.”

“What can we do to help, dear?”

Rosamunde wondered wildly what the marquess might do about this slander on his reputation. Thank heaven, he’d never know who was responsible.

“I wondered … It is an imposition, but I hoped you might feel able to give the note to someone on the edge of town, with instructions that it be delivered here after a small delay. I fear he might pursue me, you see, and I might weaken.”

“Wise to get clear.”

“We’ll do as you ask.”

Now came the hardest part. She’d have to ask them to lie.

“If anyone asks later, can you not tell them anything about my appearance? I am somewhat disguised….”

The woman on the left patted her hand. “Of course, dear. Don’t worry about it.”

“And don’t lose strength.”

“Go home to your husband and children.”

“Your precious treasures.”

“Neither my sister nor I ever married.”

“Must be hard at times to be married.”

“Men are, aren’t they? Hard.”

“Say difficult, Mary.”

“Oh, yes. Difficult, Annie.”

Though the sisters seemed unembarrassed, Rosamunde wanted to giggle at this.

“But sin can never lead to happiness in the long run,” Mary said firmly.

This was so true, Rosamunde lost any desire to laugh. “Alas, I know it. Thank you for your help.”

She felt tempted to hug the dear, compassionate women, but contented herself with a squeeze of one woman’s hand. “Thank you again. It …”—her voice broke of its own—“it means so much.”

With that she fled before she honestly wept.

Behind, the two sisters shared an intrigued look.

“Quite the little drama, Annie.”

“Or tragedy.”

“Hard to tell.”

“He’s the sort to ruin women.”

“Dark. Handsome.”

“More than that.”

“True.”

“Quite young, I think. Her. Beneath that paint.”

“Oh yes. Hands always tell.”

“And unhappy.”

“Love. Not worth it.”

Annie drained her tea. “I wouldn’t have minded though.”

Mary nodded. “Me neither. Me neither.”

With that, they finished their tea. Miss Mary took up the note and Miss Annie paid the bill, and the eccentric Gillsett sisters picked up their riding crops and tricorns before clomping off to call for their horses.

Chapter 15

“
W
e have to leave!” Diana gasped, rushing into the room dressed in what looked like rags.

Rosamunde turned sharply from the sitting room window, where she’d been foolishly hoping for sight of Brand being brought to safety. “Indeed we must.” Then she took in her cousin’s frantic state. “Why? What’s happened?”

“The marquess is making enquiries, and he’s brought in the
army
. We have to leave. Once away, we can get rid of our disguises and he’ll never find us.”

She flung an armful of clothes onto the bed—her previous servant’s costume—and began to struggle out of the sacklike garments she was wearing.

“Is this another disguise?” Rosamunde asked, helping to remove a coarse calico apron, a dingy top, and a saggy brown skirt.

“This,” said Diana, tossing the last item on the floor, “is the best that could be found when you threw up all over me.”

“Oh, Dinah, I’m so sorry!”

Diana relaxed a little and threw her a smile. “You couldn’t help it, and I must admit, it’s been interesting being the lowest of the low.” She tied the laces of her blue skirt over her snowy white shift, and quickly slipped into the brown overbodice lacing it down the front. “When I put these clothes on at Dulcie’s, I never thought they’d feel so grand to me one day. Now, let’s pack and get away from here.”

Rosamunde watched in astonishment as her normally unflappable cousin dashed around gathering their belongings. “Yes, I agree we should leave,” she said, “but the marquess will never suspect us, Diana.”

All the same, awareness of her note pricked at her. Now was clearly not the time to confess but Rosamunde too wanted to hurry away from Thirsk. She helped pack.

“That man suspects everyone,” Diana said, then dashed to snatch something from the empty grate. Pieces of paper?

Rosamunde’s suspicions sharpened. “Diana, what have you been up to?”

Diana froze, then stirring memories fifteen years or more old, she tilted her chin defiantly and showed what she held in her hand. Her crest torn off a sheet of paper. “I’ve delivered a note to the marquess, telling him where to find Lord Brand. It just wasn’t right—”

“You’ve
what
? Into his
hand
?”

“No, of course not! It was very clever. I’ll explain later. But it’s wending its way to him. And I just saw him with two army officers. I’ve ordered the coach. We’ll never make it home today, but we have to leave.”

“Indeed we do,” said Rosamunde with a sick feeling that everything was going wrong. “I’ve just dispatched a note to him as well!”

“
What
!”

Rosamunde gave her cousin a rapid account of her plan as they both picked over the room for any betraying item. A button. A thread. As they worked, she received a tangled tale to do with ostlers and the London coach. Diana had apparently dropped her note in the stable yard as the coach was leaving. She had also clearly had at least one close encounter with Lord Rothgar.

“Oh, Diana,” she said, giving the room one last scrutiny, “if only the devilish marquess hadn’t arrived when he did! Even in a moment, he made me feel he could find out all my secrets.”

“Devilish. Exactly the right word,” Diana agreed, peering behind the bed.

Rosamunde picked up the valise. “Come on. Devil or not, he is hardly likely to come up here and search places like that!”

Diana was on her stomach, now, searching beneath the bed. “He’s capable of it, believe me. I saw him questioning the servants, looking for any tiny clue. He’s offering silver for any news to do with his brother. The servants will clean cracks in the floor with their fingernails. Ah-ha!”

“What?”

Diana rose, triumphantly holding a shilling. “Riches!”

Clearly the strain was turning her cousin’s mind. “Come along before you lose your wits entirely. A shilling, indeed.”

Diana took the valise from her. “I’m the maid, remember?”

Prompted, Rosamunde banished terrified Rosie Overton and summoned Lady Gillsett. Thus armored, she swept out of the room and down the stairs. While paying the innkeeper, and handing out the vails to Gertie and the other servants, Rosamunde still couldn’t help hoping that Brand would be carried in. Yes, it would be dangerous, but she’d weakly sacrifice every trace of safety for him.

No! She had to preserve the secret. Two notes were winding their way to the marquess, and without doubt he could be trusted to act on them and care for his brother properly.

She’d rather not, however, have encountered him on the way to the door.

“Lady Richardson,” he said with an elegant bow. “I’m delighted to see you so improved.”

Summoning Lady Gillsett as armor, Rosa extended her hand, glad for once of the absurd weaponry of Diana’s glittering rings. “I am much improved, Lord Rothgar. I thank you for your kindness.”

She surreptitiously assessed him with clear eyes. A fine gentleman in casual country clothes. Nothing frightening about that, surely. And yet, there was a presence to him, an aura almost, such as she’d never encountered in her sheltered experience.

“But is it wise to continue your journey?” he asked, lips brushing the air so very close to her skin. “It is already gone three.”

Her nerves trembled. By accident or design, he was blocking her way to the door. Did he know? He couldn’t know!

“We planned to be in York by tonight, my lord,” she said, drawing on every scrap of Gillsettian blasé. “If the road is good, we will make it, and with luck, our baggage cart is there awaiting us. My gown is sadly rumpled.” He still held her hand, and she wasn’t quite sure how to retrieve it.

“And a lady—or a gentleman—is at a sore disadvantage with only one set of clothes.”

“I see you understand, my lord,” she drawled in a world-weary manner. “One must dress plainly for travel, but one cannot exist in drab forever.”

“But with such beauty as yours, Lady Richardson, mere clothes become irrelevant.”

Heaven help her. Was the man
flirting
with her? It gave her an excuse to remove her hand and take a small step backward. She hoped it didn’t show the panic she felt. “Hardly, my lord, or we’d all walk around naked.”

A wicked light lit his dark eyes. “Not in the English climate, dear lady. But it could make Italy an even more entrancing destination.” He bowed and moved to one side. “
Bon voyage
, Lady Richardson. I hope we meet again. In Italy, perhaps.”

Abandoning the hazardous Gillsettian manner, Rosamunde said a hasty, “Good day, Lord Rothgar,” dropped a slight curtsy, and swept out with as much composure as she had left. Her knees were knocking!

“Oh, well done,” Diana whispered as they passed down the corridor leading to the stable yard.

“Hush,” Rosa said on a breath. “Say nothing here.”

The coach was ready, with Garforth giving the traces a final check, so they could climb straight in. Once settled, reacting purely to that ominous encounter, Rosamunde wanted the coach to race out, now, immediately.

Why ominous, though? The marquess had been a little over-bold, but he’d been addressing bold Lady Gillsett. Doubtless in his circles, risqué flirtation and innuendo were the normal way to go on. He’d obviously suspected nothing. All the same, her instincts screamed to be away, and Garforth was still steadily checking the vehicle.

Diana had pulled out her road guide. “It was clever, saying we’re heading for York, but we’d better do so.”

Rosa turned from the window to look at her. “That will take us in entirely the wrong direction.”

“I know, but we have to be seen to be leaving the square as if going to York.”

“He might watch?”

“Definitely. ‘Devilish’ is exactly the right word. You have the feeling he has three heads like Cerberus, and each with all-seeing eyes. But see,”—she thrust the map in front of Rosa—“we can cut across and join the Ripon road again.”

“It could be a track as bad as that other one.”

“This is a coach map. It wouldn’t mark it if it were that bad. Anyway, it’s our only choice. We don’t have to get far today. Just away. If anyone should come after Lady Richardson, going south will throw them off the trail.

“And once away from here,” Diana continued with satisfaction, “Lady Richardson and her spotty maid will disappear like dust in the breeze. Devil or not, the damned Marquess of Rothgar will never find us then. Never.”

That had to be true, but still, as Diana gave Garforth the route and the coach finally creaked out of the Three Tuns yard, Rosamunde felt a shiver down her spine as if they left a shimmering trail for the man who would soon pursue.

The Marquess of Rothgar watched the strange Lady Richardson leave, accompanied by her even stranger maid, wondering exactly what mischief they were up to. It was idle curiosity, however, wiped away when Kenyon, Brand’s manservant, brought him a grubby note.

A man is to be found in a broken-down barn off a track joining the Ripon and Northallerton roads about one mile out of Thirsk.

Instinct spurred him to lead the search himself, but he’d disciplined himself years ago to delegate, and to stay at the center of his web. He dispatched Kenyon and his best men to check the report, and another servant to find out where the note had come from. Then, he went up to his private sitting room—the one next to the bedchamber recently vacated by Lady Richardson—carefully presenting the impression of a man without concerns, and forced his mind to think through the implications.

Was the man mentioned Brand? Why else send it to Kenyon?

Had this any connection to the New Commonwealth sect? The King had sent him north to investigate it for treasonable activities but when he had written to Brand he had not suspected the extent of the danger.

Even so, Brand should have been warned. An oversight.

A tragic one? The note did not say whether the man was alive or dead. Why would the New Commonwealth attack him through Brand?

His servant returned to report on the note. “The lad picked it up in the yard as he says, milord. Took it to some others, because he couldn’t read. Twould seem to have been dropped out of the London Fly that left half an hour ago.”

“Take Denby and Lisle and go after it.” Denby and Lisle were two of his grooms. His servants were never merely servants. “Note the names and descriptions of all on the coach, and watch for people who might be in disguise. Create as little upset as possible, and give everyone a crown for their inconvenience.” He unlocked the strongbox and filled a pouch with coins. He passed it over, then added, “Ask Lieutenants Cripp and Haughton to attend me. They can accompany you to give it official gloss.”

In moments the two uniformed officers were bowing to him. They’d been sent north in case official action was required against the New Commonwealth. He explained their role.