Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (28 page)

“Doubtless why he turns up as the light’s going.”

“Aye, you have the right of that. I grant, it does fair fret me to see him in that stupid getup, mincing and praying at every little thing, making a to-do about eating plain food. Pulling a face at the sight of drink or a maid’s full bosom.” He winked. “I told Polly to ease down her shift another inch and to be particularly particular in her attentions to him.”

“Digby!” Rosamunde burst out laughing. “You wicked man!” Polly was a house maid with the most generous of endowments, made more so by a tiny waist. She was not a wicked girl, but she had no reluctance to flaunt her pride and glory.

Digby chuckled, too, dabbing his eyes again. “I swear to you, pet, he turned purple at one point! Mind you, to give him credit, George Cotter didn’t turn a hair.”

Rosamunde stopped laughing. “Who?”

“Aye, pet. Edward’s companion was none other than George Cotter himself, start of all the trouble. And Edward making a damn fool of himself, as if he had the King by his side.”

“George Cotter!” With sick certainty, Rosamunde asked, “An ordinary-looking man in rather threadworn clothes?”

“That hardly singles him out, love, though I know what you mean. I was surprised by him. Do you mean you’ve met?”

Rosamunde suddenly felt icy. “He passed by the dower house while I was taking the air. He didn’t give his name, but he did say that he was
staying here with Edward for the night. I would have rushed home if they hadn’t been leaving the next morning.”

George Cotter. She tried desperately to remember what she had said in that idle chat, whether she might have raised suspicions.

“Aye, well, I’ll not deny Edward upset me as usual, but Cotter was no trouble. Truth is, he seemed a reasonable man, and his honest talk about God and justice strikes home in any rational mind.” After a moment, he added, “Dangerous, that.”

“Very.”

“Clever, too,” Digby added. “Very clever.”

Rosamunde heard the question in his words, a question echoing her own concerns. “We just shared commonplace courtesies.”

He nodded. “And where’ve you been since then, pet? Your note said you were off to Richmond with Diana.”

More lies. “You don’t mind, do you? Diana had some errands there. One of them was to visit a friend of hers who used to be in the theater. We discussed face paint.”

“Aye?”

“This lady showed me ways to cover my scars so they aren’t so noticeable. Diana thinks I should do that when I want to go abroad.”

“She might be right, love. Not that I think you need to cover up anything, of course,” he gallantly lied. She noted that he was sitting to her good side as usual. “But I know it frets you, and you can’t spend the rest of your life hiding up here.”

“I feel so strange all painted up. Not like me at all.”

“Well, you’ll have to put on the paint and let me be the judge, eh?”

Rosamunde ran her finger down the long scar. “I will, then. In truth, Digby, I do feel a little less afraid of showing myself after this adventure. Everyone has been right all along, that my scars aren’t so bad. George Cotter acted as if there was nothing wrong with me at all.”

“Good of him,” said Digby, gruffly. “As I said, in his own way, he’s a good man. Come, give me a kiss, love, and then I’ll take a nap. Knowing you, you’ll want to be off checking everything. Hera dropped her foal while you were away.”

“What?” Rosamunde leaped up, then obeyed the first instruction and kissed his too-red cheek. “The thoughtless jade. She wasn’t due yet.”

“Women,” he teased. “No relying on them at all.”

She cheekily stuck her tongue out at him and hurried off to the stables to check on the offspring of her best mare and Lord Fencott’s Friesian stallion.

On the path to the stables, however, she paused in the herb garden to collect herself. That had gone well. Digby really was happy at what she’d done, and eased by hope. Despite common morality, perhaps she had done the right thing.

If only she hadn’t let the worm of forbidden love into this blossom. It was for her to prise it out and crush it. Her situation would only be truly honorable if she put Brand Malloren out of her mind forever.

Weeks later, with her mind largely under control, and harvest keeping her too busy for folly, Rosamunde received an unexpected visit from Diana. Rosamunde was helping Mrs. Monkton and a maid lay apples on racks in the cool room, but a glance at Diana’s face was enough to have her abandon the job.

Trouble.

She’d thought all safe by now.

She hurried out into the privacy of the garden. “What?”

“The Marquess of Rothgar has virtually invited himself to Arradale.”

Rosamunde put her hand to her mouth. “He suspects? How?”

“I don’t see how,” Diana said, with a helpless gesture so very out of character. “Perhaps it’s coincidence. He’s moving around the North making enquiries about the New Commonwealth, and Arradale is an obvious base for Wensleydale. He requests my knowledge and opinion, though it’s likely only a polite excuse.”

Coincidence. It had to be. Rosamunde commanded her heart to slow its panicked beat. “If he’s able to do something about the sect, I’ll be pleased.”

Diana looked at her. “Does it still matter?”

Rosamunde knew she had turned red. She’d not spoken of this to anyone. “I don’t know…. But … I am late.”

“Rosa! This will be such a wonderful thing. Does Digby know?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t said anything yet. I can’t be sure. I’m as regular as the church clock usually, but I can’t be sure.”

“Will it be all right?” Diana asked, taking Rosamunde’s hands. “With Digby?”

She smiled, tears forming as they often did these days. Joyous tears. “So right, Diana. I wasn’t entirely sure, but he’s showing me in so many little ways.” She pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “I can’t wait to tell him.”

Diana pulled her into a deep silent hug. Then she put her away again and took a breath. “Now, Rosa, listen. I’ve had time to think this all through. Since I must play hostess for Lord Rothgar, I’m holding a house
party and throwing a ball. It will be expected, and it will serve to distract him from me a little.”

“He’d never recognize you!”

“I pray not. You, of course, must stay out of his sight. That should be easy since you are not in the habit of attending large social gatherings.”

“But what of Digby? You know he enjoys a chance to get together with the neighbors.”

“But he attends without you. This time must be the same.”

“Of course.”

Diana nodded. “I thought I’d better make sure, because everyone’s noticed that you’re going about more these days.” Diana gently touched the side of Rosa’s face, touched the tinted paint. “It’s excellently done.”

“Dulcie helped me. But it doesn’t change this. Of course, I won’t come.”

“On what excuse, now you have attended other events? I didn’t mention this, but … Rosa, it is just possible that Lord Brand might accompany his brother.”

Rosamunde felt as if someone had poured ice and fire through her veins. “No!” she said, shaking her head. “No. I can’t….”

“Quite.” Diana seized her hands again. “Don’t panic. If you stay up here, you won’t meet. It will be all right, love.”

Ice of fear, fire of need. Rosamunde put need behind her. She wouldn’t ruin everything now by giving in to the temptation to see Brand Malloren one last time.

“Perhaps Digby won’t want to go,” she said. “He’s not well. He seems to find it impossible to follow a plain diet. He tries for a day or so, but then he’s tucking into puddings and drinking bowls of punch again.”

“I’m sorry for it, but it serves our need.”

“Once I’m sure of the child, he’ll try harder, I’m sure. Perhaps I should tell him now.” Her hand slid down to her belly. “I am, Diana. I can feel it in the most extraordinary way. I’ve been hesitating for fear that I’m deluding myself, but I know. Everything is suddenly different.” She shook her head. “I can’t let anything spoil it now!”

“Nothing will. I promise.”

“What of you and Lord Rothgar, though? What if he suspects who the spotty maid was? He would make a very dangerous enemy.”

“No more dangerous than I,” Diana retorted, “and he’ll be on my territory. Anyway, how could he possibly guess? I assure you I intend to be dignified and grand enough to please even Mama. No trace of a scrubby servant girl.”

Rosamunde relaxed. In truth, it would require mystic powers to pierce Diana’s secret. “And I will not attend, no matter what. We’re safe.”

With relieved smiles, they turned to stroll back toward the house. At the trellis arch, burdened by late fragrant roses, Rosamunde stopped, however, hand again to where her womb would soon swell.

“I need to say this once, Diana. Once, and never again. This is Brand Malloren’s child, and I wish for his sake and my own that I could tell him, and share it with him. It is Digby’s child and will save us all, but my heart weeps for the other.”

Diana hugged her, saying nothing. She doubtless understood all that was unsaid.

Rosamunde’s future was now fixed at Wenscote. The child, the whole reason for this, must be raised here, raised as a simple Yorkshire landowner who would love this land and stay on it. She had always known this, known the consequences of her decision, and accepted them. She had never anticipated, however, how painful, how agonizing, that acceptance might be.

Please, Lord, let Brand not come with his brother. Please don’t make me have to be near him again
.

Brand rode up Wensleydale toward Arradale House, Bey by his side, but the carriages of servants and baggage far behind. He’d only decided to come at the last moment, and had been in the mood for mindless speed. They’d visited a few studs around Leyburn to pursue Bey’s interest in racehorses, but Brand’s excuse for coming was the heavy horse breeding he’d heard about farther up the dale.

Of course he wasn’t riding the dales in the hope of meeting a certain lady. A lady with an interest in animal breeding. A lady who didn’t like spindly legs and nerves, but preferred the heavy horse….

His lips twisted at his own folly. Every day, every breath, he searched for her, even though he didn’t know what he wanted to do if he did stumble across “Lady Richardson.”

Assure himself of her safety?

Hold her?

Seduce her?

Throttle her?

“Good country,” Bey remarked as they walked the horses for a spell along a leafy lane between harvested hay fields. “But rises to rough rather soon.”

True, the fells weren’t far away, already divided in places by the new gray stone walls. “Sheep country,” said Brand. “There’s nothing wrong with sheep.”

“In the form of tender lamb, true.”

“And wool. Sheep have always been the staple of England.” Brand looked all around. Though they were in the fertile valley, he could see for miles. “I like it here. Up on the moors, a man can truly feel alone.”

“Perhaps I should have set you to the navy.”

“A chance to feel alone?” Brand countered with a grin. “The land suits me perfectly.”

“I would never have guessed,” said Rothgar dryly. “But a person can be too alone in these parts. If dumped here unconscious.”

Brand sighed. “Leave it be.”

It was too much to hope that Bey would forget an assault on the family, but Brand was weary of fencing over this. He’d long since remembered everything that had happened, everything, and decided for sanity to put it behind him. She clearly hadn’t felt as he did, or she’d never have tricked him into drinking that potion.

“Are you not yet ready to act?”

Brand simply urged his horse back to a canter.

He’d been tempted to give his brother everything he knew and permission to do his worst. She deserved it, the cheating jade. But then one day he’d received that bleak note, sent on with other papers from London. It melted anger, but fueled despair.

All the same, he hadn’t been able to ignore the fact that it had been written on the Three Tuns’s paper, in the same handwriting as the note delivered by the Misses Gillsett. She had been either Lady Richardson or her spotty maid, but both had vanished like creatures from a myth. They’d outwitted even Bey, which was almost a unique achievement.

What did it matter?

The note told him there was no hope.

If only it was as easy as that. Dreams, rage, and questions swirled in him constantly, misting the words in a book or the figures in a ledger, stealing his mind in the middle of speech.

He hadn’t been able to resist the long journey up into Arkengarthdale, to the isolated home of the eccentric Misses Gillsett. He’d hoped to learn something there. Even though they were elderly, there had to be a connection.

The tough-skinned old ladies had refused to tell him who had given them the note. They had, however, expressed cryptic duet opinions on men who dallied with married women, trying to lure them from their lawful husband and children.

Children
.

He’d never imagined his lady with children, and he’d ridden away in a state of shock.

He’d tried to seduce her from her elderly, neglectful husband, but could he steal her from her children, and them from her? He was sure she was a loving, beloved mother. Perhaps that was the unscalable barrier that had stood between them. It was a barrier he had to respect.

Even with this, he was a Malloren and thorough. He needed to know. Riding back down Arkengarthdale, he’d slipped into conversations with local people and learned that the old ladies had no close relatives, none with a title. No one there had ever heard of Lady Richardson.

It was a dead end and more proof that his lady was clever. He’d returned to Thirsk with yet more respect for her determination and quick wits, with yet more bitterness at losing her.

He’d never been a romantic, never believed in the concept of the one-and-only, but now it was as if part of him lay dead. Heroine or jade, she had captured him, and despite the brutal severing, she had not set him free.

So here he was, working most of his waking hours, seizing every chance to travel, just to pass the days. And of course, despite all his resolutions to put it out of mind, everywhere he went, he couldn’t help searching. For a spotty maid. For a lady with a hint of the familiar. For the house where he’d spent two days and lost his life.