Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (31 page)

Rosa slumped back against the wooden rails. “That’s sunk me, then.”

“Will he recognize you?”

“Of course he will! I might fool him in passing, or even for a brief meeting, but not over any length of time. Oh, why couldn’t he go back south, where he belongs?”

“Because he’s a man, and men never do the sensible thing.” Diana paced, slashing at tufts of tall grass with her riding crop. “You’ll have to take to your bed. It’s the only thing. Nothing too serious, but enough of an ailment to keep you in bed. Lord Brand will only come over for a few hours, and Digby can show him the stud.”

Despair lifted a little. “I suppose that might work. I’ll have to get rid of Millie for a while. He’d recognize her in a heartbeat.” Underneath coherence, an incoherent part was gabbling,
Here. So close. I could see him. Can I stand it?
“What about Digby, though?” she asked, forcing weak thoughts away. “It will worry him to death if I seem to be ill, especially now. And he mustn’t suspect who it might be. Ever.”

“I thought you said he didn’t mind.”

“He doesn’t. But he believes it happened at the masquerade. Anonymously. I don’t know how he’d feel if he knew the man involved.”

Diana put an arm around her shoulders. “He won’t find out. We’ll manage.”

After a moment, Rosamunde couldn’t stop the question. “How is he? Brand, I mean.”

“Suffering no ill effects.”

“Thank God.” Then a new fear stirred. “Butterflies! What of the dower house, Diana?”

Diana rolled her eyes. “It’s sitting there like a barrel of gunpowder just waiting for a match. There’s no reason for him to go there, but if he does, he’s bound to recognize it. I tried to get him settled down at the river today, angling, but no, he wanted to walk. At least I directed him in completely the wrong direction.”

Brand stood at the edge of an artfully contrived wilderness, staring at the square, stone house. He’d been seeking the familiar for so long that now he doubted his eyes. Of course, he had no idea what his mysterious lady’s house looked like from the outside, but the layout of the grounds seemed to match the view from that window.

There was one way to find out.

He followed the path that ran close to the passing road, pausing at a tangle of blackberries. Picking a lingering fruit, he tasted it, then shook his head at his own folly. Ridiculous to think he could recognize a blackberry from the remembered taste of juice on a lady’s fingers, or a spicy alcoholic cordial. Ridiculous to think blackberries important at all. They lined every country lane.

Determined to settle this, he cut briskly across the lawn toward the house, seeking the back door. Before rounding the corner, however, he turned back to survey the setting. It did look devilishly the same.

But how? Why? The only young lady in the area was the countess, and he knew she wasn’t his mysterious lady. He’d have to feel something in her presence, he was sure.

He knocked sharply at the door. It was opened by a thin young maid who curtsied, but showed no hint of recognition. “Yes, sir?”

“Whose house is this, girl?”

“Why, ‘tis the dower house of Arradale, sir. But no one lives here at the moment.”

The aroma of cooking and baking seeped out around her. Disregarding courtesy, he pushed past into the large kitchen. “You cook for the faeries?”

She was gaping at him. “I mean none of the gentry live here, sir! Mr. and Mrs. Yockenthwait are caretakers here.”

At that moment, a tall, raw-boned woman stepped into the kitchen, eyes taking in the situation. Did they show momentary alarm? He wasn’t sure he was capable of judging such things. Every sense hunted for sounds, smells, objects, anything to confirm that this was the house where he’d stayed for those brief, shattering days.

“Sir?” the woman asked, stepping between him and the maid. “Is there some way we can help you?”

“You must be Mrs. Yockenthwait.”

“I am, sir.”

And the sort of woman one tangled with at one’s peril.

He could think of no approach but the truth. “A few weeks ago, did you take care of a sick man here?”

The woman’s face could have been made of stone. “Here, sir?”

“Yes, here.” He thought then to look at the maid, but she was wide-eyed and useless.

“No, sir,” said Mrs. Yockenthwait.

“My lord,” he snapped, willing to use his meaningless title to intimidate. “Lord Brand Malloren.”

The woman did twitch at that. Flinch, even. But her only clear response was to curtsy. “My lord.”

“So, you have had no guest here in the past weeks.”

“No, my lord. If you could tell me what bothers you, perhaps I could help.”

He looked around as if the whitewashed walls, the stone sink, or the hanging hams could speak. Despite the woman’s convincing denial, instinct told him this was the place. Who was she protecting? The obvious answer was Lady Arradale, but it didn’t make sense. She wasn’t his lady.

There was one way to be sure. Find the room. He put the woman aside and headed for the door into the rest of the house.

She grabbed his sleeve in an astonishingly strong hold and towed him back. The next he knew, she was between him and the door, a cast-iron frying pan in her hands. “What do you think you’re doing, my lord? If you are a lord, which I’m beginning to doubt!” Before he could answer, she added, “Jessie! Run and get Mr. Yockenthwait, and any other men you can find.”

The door slammed after the fleeing maid, and Brand winced. Hands raised, he spoke as soothingly as he could, “I apologize for alarming you, Mrs. Yockenthwait. I merely wish to inspect the bedrooms.”

“And as caretaker, I should let any stranger who pushes his way into the house free to wander the place as he wills?”

“You may accompany me if you wish.”

“And you may go up to the big house and ask my lady’s permission!”

“Since I’m a guest there, that won’t be too difficult a task!”

And that hit her, he saw. A moment later, however, he realized it could merely be because she feared her mistress’s displeasure at upsetting a guest.

It was all moot, for two men stormed through the door. “What’s this, then?” one asked, a wiry man a bit shorter than Brand, but probably able to do real damage. The other was a strapping young farmhand with forearms like prize hams.

Brand raised his hands placatingly, having no desire to get into a fistfight over this. “My apologies, mistress, gentlemen. I see that it’s unreasonable to expect you to let me to wander freely here to satisfy my
curiosity.” He bowed to the Amazon. “I will ask for Lady Arradale’s permission, mistress. In fact, I will obtain it in writing. Will that suffice?”

To her credit, she did not thaw. “You bring my lady’s instruction to me, my lord, and you will have everything she wishes you to have.”

It sounded as if she hoped it was poison.

Which was close to what he’d been fed in this house already, if his suspicions were correct.

He looked around one last time, thinking he might recognize a cup or coffeepot. Such things were not kept on open shelves, however, so, keeping an eye on the wary, pugnacious men, he made his escape. When he stepped outside the door, he found the young maid hovering hand to her mouth. At the sight of him, she squeaked and moved back a step.

“Jessie, isn’t it?” he said with his most charming smile. “I’m sorry for alarming you.”

She just stared at him.

“Are you sure you don’t know me from before?”

Wide-eyed, she shook her head with violent conviction.

“And no man stayed here?”

“No, sir!” she squeaked, finding a voice of sorts. “Not since I came to work here last winter, sir!”

“Jessie!” Mrs. Yockenthwait appeared in the doorway, weapon still in hand. “Get in here and get on with your work.” With a final glare, she slammed the door in Brand’s face.

He looked at it, then walked back to the side of the house he thought his room had been on. Plague and tarnation, it had to be. There was the path he’d seen his lady on with her companion….

Now
there
was a lady who could be the countess. The one in the pale gown and big hat. Though in truth, he was beginning to wonder if Lady Arradale could have been his mysterious lady. How far could he trust his memory and instincts on this? She was the right height, build, age….

But he felt nothing for her, not affection, lust, or recognition. He couldn’t believe she was his lady. But then, he couldn’t believe his lady had coaxed him into drinking that potion, even sipping from the same cup to pledge her love!

Then again, there was that letter, the one he carried everywhere in his pocket. The one written at the Three Tuns when Lady Richardson had been there.

He froze as a fugitive memory stirred itself. Hadn’t Bey asked about rings, talking of Lady Richardson, who wore a lot of rings? And the woman had apparently been ill. Add that to this dower house, and surely the Countess of Arradale was in it up to her pretty neck. Either she used
the place for the purposes of fornication, or she lent it to others. Perhaps it was a regular occurrence. That would explain the servants’ convincing denials. Secrecy was doubtless part of their job.

So, what did that say about his lady? If she wasn’t the countess, and instinct told him that, then what? Had all her confusion, her shyness, been acting? Did she play this game a dozen times a year, laughing at the poor dupes who fell in love with her?

He jerked into motion, striding back down the path.

Plague take them all. Doubtless the ladies involved in this little game shared their stories, and the countess was laughing at him behind her pretty fans. She’d be in fits over the story of him bursting into her den of sin and being driven off by her servants.

He pulled out the letter, tearing it into pieces and scattering them as he went. If not for the ball tonight, he’d leave immediately.

First thing in the morning, however, he’d be away, shaking the dust of Arradale from his shoes.

Chapter 19

D
iana listened to Jessie’s whispered message and felt ready to give up. Brand Malloren had found the dower house! The servants had done their best, but surely he must have recognized it. And after she’d tried so hard to keep him away.

Perhaps she should have stayed to keep an eye on him, but she’d needed to speak to Rosa in person. She was trusting nothing in writing, particularly with Edward Overton in the vicinity.

Edward was claiming to have twisted his knee, limping and bemoaning the fact that he couldn’t ride, and couldn’t leave Wenscote. A likely tale. Sir Digby had the coach here at Arradale, but Diana had suggested that it be called back to take Edward on his way.

Rosamunde had decided not. “He cuts up my peace, but as long as Digby’s not here to be fretted, I don’t mind. Trying so hard to get rid of him might look suspicious. And anyway,” she’d added with a grim smile, “it’s rather pleasant to watch him smirking over ‘his’ estate, and imagine how put out he’s going to be when he discovers he’s no longer the heir.”

Diana had left Wenscote, thinking that they had matters under control, but she’d returned to find Jessie waiting with this disastrous message.

She sent the girl back to the dower house with praise for the way everyone had handled the problem, then sought the only true peace in the crowded house, her bedroom. She tossed her tricorn on the floor, and flopped back on the bed to think.

She could see no further maneuvers. They were sunk. So, could she still manage matters to keep danger away from Rosa?

What would Lord Brand do now?

Presumably ask for permission to inspect the dower house. How the devil was she going to get around that?

Once he knew the truth, what would he think? What would he do?

Could she convince him that the house had been used without Arradale’s knowledge? She could accuse the servants of setting it up, and reward them handsomely for the slur. That would leave Lord Brand little
further forward except that his lover was presumably from this part of Yorkshire.

What if he involved his formidable brother in the mystery? Diana shuddered. The Marquess of Rothgar set on finding out the truth, and presented with such a clear clue, was not something she wished to think about.

She pushed upright, reminding herself that, like Good Queen Bess, though she had “but the body of a weak and feeble woman, she had the heart and stomach of a king.” Of the ruler of an earldom at least. The blood of the mighty Ironhand ran in her veins and she would not give up. If the Mallorens knew about the dower house, perhaps she could coax them out of revenge.

Coax the diabolical marquess?

Suppressing a shiver, she slid off the bed and rang for her maid. Coaxing the Mallorens, she decided as she worked her way out of her habit, was probably best done as the weak and feeble woman. They would surely hesitate to hurt a lady. So, she would act with complete innocence, be the young Lady of Arradale that everyone expected.

With her maid’s help, she changed into her frilliest, most girlish dress, one embroidered with pink roses and trimmed with cotton lace. As Lucie redressed her hair in a soft style, Diana fretted over whether to tell Rosa about this new development. She decided against it. There was nothing Rosa could do, and in her condition, she shouldn’t be worried more than necessary. There was still no means by which the Mallorens could find out who the lady at the dower house had been.

Chilly with vague images of torture—she wouldn’t put it past the marquess—Diana added pearls and a touch of pale powder, then ventured out. Perplexingly, however, Lord Brand was keeping to his room, and the marquess was attending to paperwork. After hours of polite conversation with her guests, Diana began to pray for them to emerge, for battle to begin.

By the time she had to change for dinner and the subsequent ball, she felt as if she sat under the sword of Damocles, listening to the string fray in a sequence of audible snaps.

Brand was about to go down to dinner when his brother entered his room, glorious in black satin, wondrously embroidered. The stitchery was in gold thread, the buttons rubies.

“Impressing the locals?” he asked with raised brows.