Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (33 page)

Puzzled by his brother’s comments, Brand went to Arradale library to consult a Bible. “Vexed unto death,” certainly described his state. Samson, however, had been blinded by the Philistines, not by love of Delilah.

Closing the book, he saw what Bey meant. Delilah was rather crude in her deceits, and any man not blind should have seen through them. So, it was love that had made Samson willfully blind long before his eyes had been put out.

At the end, he’d noted, it didn’t say that Delilah was among the Philistines killed when Samson tore down the pillars in Gaza.

Love. If he’d known she was there, Brand suspected Samson could never have done it.

Chapter 20

R
osamunde settled her horse into the Wenscote stables, and slipped into the silent house, weary, but strangely at peace. It was over—

A figure emerged from the gloom, making her gasp. Stark moonlight showed her Edward Overton’s stern face. “You frightened me!”

“Where have you been, Aunt? Out with a lover?”

“For a man of strict religious beliefs, Edward, you have a low mind. I’ve been down to the stud stables. One of the mares was in some distress.” It was true, though the matter had been a simple one, taking up very little time, and the stud was too close to ride to. With luck, Edward would not see that.

“It is not seemly for a woman to be engaged in such matters, Aunt, or for her to be out of the house alone at night.”

“It is not seemly, in your eyes, for a woman to show her hair, or her arms, or her chest. It would seem you New Commonwealthers are very easily tempted.”

His lips tightened. “All men are easily tempted.”

“Then perhaps
men
shouldn’t be allowed out of the house at night,” she pointed out, trying to sidestep him.

He blocked her way. “Before heaven, Aunt, you have an unseemly tongue and need to be taught better!”

“With a whip?” She looked him straight in the eye. “Edward, I despise you, your beliefs and sanctimonious—”

He slapped her.

For a frozen moment, silence reigned, Rosamunde with her hand to her stinging cheek. Then: “
Out!”
she cried, pointing at the door. “Out!”

“You have no right—”

“Shall I rouse the servants and have them throw you out?”

“You cannot—”

“Out,” she repeated, snatching up the poker and advancing on him, burning with a rage she’d never have thought was in her. “Out, out, out!”

He backed. “You can’t throw me out. I’m the heir—”

“You’re
nothing
until Digby dies, and with God’s will, you’ll be dead by then yourself, choked on your own sanctimonious bile!”

“He’ll be dead within the year. And then we’ll see!”

“When he’s dead, you can return here, Edward, but not a moment before.”

He was up against the door and fumbling for the knob. “Uncle Digby will never permit that.”

“He will when I tell him you hit me.” She jabbed the poker at him. “Out. Out. Out.”

He staggered back through the open door. “It’s dark. Where do you expect me to go?”

“To hell for all I care!” Rosamunde slammed the door in his gaping face, turned the key, and added the scarce-used bar for good measure. Then she turned and sagged against the oak. My, but that had felt good. She should lose her temper more often!

Had it been dangerous, though?

No, she decided, straightening and rubbing her stinging cheek. Having an excuse to bar him from Wenscote would save Digby a lot of strife. And now that she was with child—she was sure she was with child—it would soon become irrelevant.

She hugged herself and did a little dance around the silent hall. She’d banished their grim grayness in every way, and now everything was perfect.

The Arradale footman answered the banging on the doors with some surprise. The night was well advanced and no more guests were expected. At the sight of the plainly dressed man in the steeple hat, he started to close the door again.

The man pushed through. “I am Edward Overton. I must speak to my uncle, Sir Digby, on a most urgent matter!”

Well, that put a different face on it, even if it was a plaguey Cotterite. James reluctantly led Mr. Overton to a small reception room. “I will see if Sir Digby can be found, sir.”

“Lose many guests here, do you?”

My, my. James stalked off, suppressing a smirk. Those saintly New Commonwealthers weren’t supposed to lose their tempers. Good for whoever upset this one! But as James trotted up the stairs to find Sir Digby, he felt a little concern. Perhaps it was worry, not anger. Perhaps there was trouble at Wenscote. The only family there was Lady Overton, and no one would want to wish further trouble on the poor lady.

He found Sir Digby in the card room, half in his cups, and laughing with a bunch of the old cronies, and whispered his message.

“On my life. What’s to do?” the man asked of no one in particular as he heaved himself up. He made his way ponderously toward the door, clearly as concerned as James, and clearly drunk. James hovered all the way down the stairs, praying he could catch the portly gentleman if he slipped.

Everyone knew that Sir Digby stood between Wensleydale and the New Commonwealth. Long life to the man.

Once he’d seen Sir Digby safe into the reception room, he blew out a relieved breath and shut the door.

“Is something amiss?”

James turned to see the countess coming down the stairs, and stood a little straighter. Truth was, he had some spicy daydreams about the pretty countess in her lovely silks, but he rarely had a chance to talk to her in person. “I don’t know, milady. Mr. Overton has ridden over from Wenscote with some urgent message for Sir Digby.”

His lady’s brows came together in a frown, and then she marched over, high heels clicking on the tile floor. He hastily swung open the door for her, and she passed through into the room. Then, alas, he had to close it.

“Lady Arradale!” Edward Overton protested. “This is a private matter.”

Diana observed him, trying to conceal her dislike. “My apologies if I intrude, Mr. Overton, but if anything has happened to my dear cousin … Sir Digby? Has there been an accident?”

Sir Digby was sitting in a chair, hands on his spread knees, looking flummoxed. “An accident? Stap me vitals, but I don’t know! Here’s my nevvy telling me that Rosie has thrown him from the house in a fit of mad spite.”

Diana turned to the younger man. “Upon my soul, what a strange affair. And you did nothing to offend, Mr. Overton?”

The man drew himself up. “I have no doubt she took offense. I discovered her sneaking into the house after dark and advised her on wiser behavior.”

“Somewhat impertinent, wouldn’t you say?”

“I am a man, she is a woman. What is more, I am now a speaker in the New Commonwealth. I preached in Lancashire to a most gratifying response. It is my duty to advise sinners.”

“Only those in your flock, I think.”

“For the New Commonwealth, all mankind is our flock.”

Diana raised her brows. “Are you saying you would attempt to advise me, Mr. Overton?”

He looked down his nose at her. “It would be my duty, though I would harbor little hope of success.”

“Lud, sir, but you will soon have preached your way out of another bed for the night.”

“I have no intention of staying here,” he said, as if invited to lie in a pigsty. “I expect my uncle to return with me to Wenscote and discipline his wife.”

“And I refuse to permit such a thing. Sir Digby should not exert himself in that way.”

“Uncle?” Edward Overton turned from her to demand compliance from Sir Digby.

The older man shook his head. “Stap me, but it’s a pickle. To tell the truth, though, nevvy, I don’t fancy a trip back up to Wenscote just now. I was just about to seek my bed.”

“You would feel more up to such things. Uncle, if you forswore drink.”

Diana hoped Sir Digby would put down such impudence, but he pulled a shamed face. “Aye, and you’re right about that, Edward. Rosie would be cross, too, to see how much I’ve ate and drank. It’s time I mended my ways. Especially—”

“Especially when drink is making you feel unwell, Sir Digby,” Diana hastily interrupted. This was no time to tell Edward Overton about the pregnancy.

“Not so much the drink as the puddings, me dear,” he said, easing undone the buttons of his stretched waistcoat. “I’m resolved to make a change.”

“I am glad of it, Uncle,” Edward put in.

“But since Rosie is all right”—Sir Digby heaved himself out of the chair—“I’m not about to jostle and bounce my burning stomach through the dark to Wenscote. I’ll go in the morning to sort this all out. Anyway, Lord Brand Malloren’s coming up with me to look over Rosie’s stud. I can’t go without him.”

“And you must stay the night, too, Mr. Overton,” Diana said, cutting off further protest. “We can find you a very simple room that will not offend your principles. It is gone midnight and doubtless my cousin is in her bed by now.”

“Very well,” he said stiffly. “Since my uncle is unwell….”

“How considerate you are.” She led the way to the door. “And how fortunate that your knee has healed.”

He colored slightly. “In truth, it still pains me, but I had no choice.”

“How very brave. Tomorrow you can return to Wenscote in the coach, which will be a relief to you.”

Diana arranged for his room—by requiring some upper servants to share another one—and for the hovering footman to be sure Sir Digby made it safely to his bed.

Then she worried. What on earth had so upset Rosa? Could it have any connection to the Mallorens? How? And why had she been sneaking back into the house at night? With sudden certainty, she knew Rosa had been here, and a quick message to the stables confirmed it.

Oh, Rosa. The sooner Brand Malloren was away from here the better, and Diana wished desperately she could see a way to prevent the visit to Wenscote tomorrow. It fretted her that he hadn’t asked about the dower house, but she let herself believe that he wasn’t sure. If so, and if Rosa could stay out of sight, they still might escape with their skins.

Brand finally escaped the ball when the local guests piled into lamplit carriages to travel home under the full moon. Once in his room, however, he found he was in no mood to sleep. Fighting a tendency to look at the moon and pine, he settled to a dull, informational book, cursing himself whenever his mind slipped to another book, and a certain mysterious lady.

He would like to read the rest of
Planned Breeding Programs
, but he hadn’t dared buy himself a copy yet. It carried too many dangerous associations.

Even in bed, he lay wakeful. Perhaps he should dress, creep across the park, and break into the dower house. Why, though? He knew the room was there, and what more could it tell him? Could it tell him who his lady was? Or that she had been true and loving? He laughed at his own folly. Despite everything, he was a blind prisoner in Gaza, still hoping to learn that his Delilah hadn’t betrayed him, even as he remembered the poisoned loving cup she had set to his lips.

With dawn, he gave up any attempt at sleep and wandered the misty grounds, listening to the first fervent birdsong, but keeping well away from the beckoning dower house. He hoped he looked normal at breakfast and when he took his leave of his hostess and his brother. Doubtless not in the latter case. Bey was devilish about reading people.

All he said, however, was, “Don’t forget to keep your eyes open at Wenscote.”

“Why? It’s a straightforward case. The heir is a Cotterite and he’ll take over the property when Sir Digby dies.”

Bey drew him down the front steps toward the waiting coach, carefully out of earshot. “He became the heir upon the death of another nephew, William Overton.”

“Not unusual, surely?”

“What if William Overton was murdered?”

Brand stared. “It’s not like you to chase wild theories, Bey. If the death was suspicious, we’d surely have heard of it.”

“William Overton was a man very like Sir Digby, and not a great deal younger. He ate and drank ‘merrily’ as people put it, and suffered the consequences. No one was greatly surprised when he keeled over one day after a large meal.”

“But you suspect foul play?”

“Exactly the same thing happened last winter to a Mr. Josiah Crayke, heir to an estate over near Northallerton.”

“Northallerton?” Brand echoed, his mind starting to stir.

“There
are
estates near there,” Bey said sharply, clearly irritated by Brand’s abstraction.

“Yes, of course. Who owns it now?”

“One Samuel Barlow, a recent convert to the heavenly rewards promised by the New Commonwealth. Mr. Crayke left two daughters, so Squire Barlow has settled money on them and the widow, but the estate has been given to the Cotterites. He’s taken to the life himself, even sharing his house with a number of unmarried farm laborers.”

“And Crayke died of an apoplexy?”

“Or something of the sort.”

Brand’s attention was caught, by that and other matters. “It could be coincidence.”

“I am always suspicious of coincidence. It’s remarkably clever. So many men are feeble through food and drink. If Sir Digby Overton keeled over one day after a hearty dinner—a respectable time after his nephew’s demise of course—would anyone be surprised? Really,” Bey added with asperity, “both he or his senior nephew should have attended to the matter of the succession.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Then Brand wished he could bite the words back.

“I have brothers,” Bey said, unmoved. “Some of whom seem naturally enthusiastic about marriage and procreation. You see now, I hope, why I want you to pay attention to more than cart horses at Wenscote.”

“Yes, of course. It would be a shame for Sir Digby to come to an untimely end.”

“It would be a shame not to catch them in the act. You will apparently be traveling with the heir, who has spent the night here.”

After little sleep, Brand wasn’t fit for mental gymnastics, and he stared at his brother. “I’d hardly think he was one for balls.”

“Apparently Lady Overton threw him out of Wenscote, so he came running to his uncle.”