Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (38 page)

Diana laughed and, raising her cocked pistol, she fired it into the air. “Ironhand!” she cried.

A moment later, however, she sat with a thump on the ground, lowering her head as if she feared to faint. Rosamunde knelt beside her.
“That was amazing. My heart was in my mouth when you rode down that slope!”

Diana raised her head and shook it a little. “So was mine! Poor Cyrus. I’ll have to give him extra special care after demanding that of him.” She gripped Rosamunde’s hand. “Thank heavens I was in time. Where was he taking you?”

“South, he said. I don’t understand it. But”—she sat down in the dirt beside her cousin—“he was right.”

“Right? To take you south?”

“That if the Cotterites are done for, and Edward with them, this child has no right to Wenscote.”

“Nonsense. Who else?”

“There is another heir back up the family tree a bit. I’d forgotten him, but Digby keeps in touch with him. He’s a doctor in Scarborough.”

“Who’ll never know,” Diana protested, scrambling to her feet, then giving Rosamunde a hand.

“I’ll know. Digby will, too. If Edward’s out of the way, he won’t want to foist a cuckoo into the Overton nest.” She put a hand over her belly. “What’s to become of the poor thing?”

“That’s what he meant about violation of good order, plague take him. I—” But she fell silent, clearly as tangled and distressed as Rosamunde. “Oh, come on, love,” she said at last, wrapping an arm around Rosamunde’s waist. “Let’s get you home. We have months to sort through this mess.”

“Not really. If the child can’t inherit, it can’t exist.”

“Rosa!”

But now Rosamunde shook her head, not willing to talk about it until she’d thought some more.

Accompanied by Diana’s six grooms in case the marquess tried to snatch Rosamunde back, they rode to Wenscote. At the sight of the high stone walls, Rosamunde thought perhaps she’d order the gates locked tonight for the first time in years.

But then she saw Dr. Wallace’s gig outside the front door, and her heart missed a beat. She slid from the horse with a thud and ran into the house.

“What?” she asked Millie, who was standing there, weeping.

“Oh, milady! It’s Sir Digby! He was taken ever so ill after his dinner!”

No! Rosamunde picked up her skirts and raced up the stairs to their room. She stopped outside for a calming breath—she mustn’t upset him—then opened the door quietly. Perhaps this time he’d take the warning seriously.

He lay in the bed, eyes half open, skin gray. A chill swept through her. “Digby?”

A hand stopped her rush to the bed. She turned to see Dr. Wallace’s sober face. “I’m sorry, Lady Overton. You are too late by minutes. He has just left us.”

She stumbled over, fell to her knees, and took his still-warm hand. “No. Come back, Digby.”

Then Diana was there, holding her. “Hush, love. It’s over.”

“My dear aunt.” Another hand rested on her shoulder. “Lady Arradale is correct. My poor uncle has gone to his heavenly reward and as Christians, we must be glad of it.”

Rosamunde stared up at Edward Overton. “What are you doing here? You were told to stay away!”

“Not forever. My uncle did not mean that. I feared our distance might be distressing him.”

“Your presence distressed him!” But as she pushed to her feet, sick fears churned. He turned up. Digby died. The marquess had implied strange murders. Poison …

She turned to the doctor. “What caused his death?”

The man shrugged pityingly. “Need you ask, Lady Overton? I have been warning him for years, but he seemed completely unable to be moderate.”

“It was his heart? You’re sure?”

“As sure as a medical man can be.”

She faltered. She’d known this was coming, too, despite every attempt on her part to help him to be healthy. Probably Edward had agitated him into this, but that couldn’t be called murder.

She gently closed Digby’s eyes, accepting the two pennies from the doctor to place on the lids. Then she gathered his flaccid hands and crossed them over his breast. When she bent to kiss his forehead, her tears fell onto his lifeless skin. How fast the spirit fled. She dabbed them off with a corner of the sheet, then pulled it up over his face.

What now? What was she supposed to do now?

Her grief tangled with her horrible moral dilemma. Should she claim her child as Digby’s heir, or conceal it? Though some of the servants must have suspicions, thus far she’d only told her parents. They could be asked to keep silent. She could bear the child secretly, far away….

What would Digby have wanted? If only she could have asked him. She couldn’t think of all this now!

With Digby dead, however, she had to. Within days, the legal wheels would start to turn. If the marquess was right, Edward wouldn’t inherit, but Dr. Nantwich hovered in the wings. By right, Wenscote was now his.

All she had to do, however, was announce that she was with child, and Wenscote would be her child’s, and thus, for many years, hers. Wicked, but oh so tempting.

She looked rather helplessly around the room. Mrs. Monkton was there, weeping into her apron.

“What do we do now?” Rosamunde asked.

“You must not worry about anything, Aunt,” said Edward. “I will take care of all the details. I will look after you.”

No, you won’t
, she thought, but kept it to herself. She thanked him for his concern, and led the weeping housekeeper away. “Let me take you back to the kitchens, Mrs. Monkton. I must have a word with the staff, too.”

As they went downstairs, the housekeeper said, “It was fast, milady. That’s one blessing. One moment he was enjoying his dinner. The next, he came over funny and was unconscious.”

Suspicion revived. Food. Unconsciousness. Death …

“Did Edward do anything to upset him?”

The woman shook her head. “I wouldn’t say so, milady, any more than by just being himself. Seemed to be trying to be careful, in fact. Even told the master not to eat the fried collops.” She began to cry again. “I’m right sorry about that, milady, but he asked special like! Do you think they killed him?”

“No, no,” Rosamunde soothed, though she was exasperated. Had Digby been sneaking forbidden foods every time she was away from the house? Perhaps the collops had caused his death, but other suspicions would not go away. She must try to confirm or deny them.

In the kitchen, she was met by somber, anxious faces.

“Sir Digby has just died,” she said. The maids began to weep. “We should all take time to think about him and recover from the shock. Don’t worry about your work for a while. Why not go out and walk in the garden for a half hour?”

They looked bewildered, but she shooed them all out, even the housekeeper. Alone for a moment, she hurried to the dining room where the remnants of the meal still lay untouched by the distressed servants.

Diana came in. “What are you doing?”

“Not the soup,” Rosamunde muttered. “Edward ate that.”

“What?”

Rosamunde picked up Digby’s plate, still half full of rabbit stew and fried collops. “It’s his second helping, too. I can tell from the amount left in the dish.”

“Rosa, I know you’re distressed, but leave this. Even if he ate the wrong foods, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Oh yes, it does. Go and find Potts. I want witnesses. I’m not mad, Diana. Please.”

With a pulled face, Diana went. Rosamunde considered the wine, but the inch or so left in Digby’s glass seemed clear, and she doubted a potion could be disguised in straight wine. It had to be the spiced stew.

Perhaps she was mad with grief, but she didn’t feel it.

She burned with righteous anger. The marquess had implied that Edward’s goose was cooked, but if he’d murdered Digby, she would be sure of it.

Diana came in with Digby’s red-eyed manservant.

“Potts, I want you to watch something, but I also want you to hold your tongue about what happens here. Do you understand?”

“Yes, milady. But—”

“Just observe.”

Digby’s hounds were upstairs, mourning outside his room. Rosamunde went to the one hound left behind, poor old Snapper, too crippled now to climb the stairs. She put the plate in front of her. The bitch lifted her sad head to sniff at the plate, then lurched up painfully to enjoy the treat.

Rosamunde watched as the bitch licked the plate clean then collapsed down again. For a moment, she thought she’d been wrong, but then the animal gave a kind of cough, stiffening. Then another. Then after a few horrible twitches, she died.

Rosamunde knelt and stroked the hound’s bony old head. “I hope you’re chasing rabbits in heaven, Snapper. Or romping with Digby.”

“I’ll arrest the wretch!” Diana declared.

“No.” Rosamunde looked up. “The marquess has plans, and we don’t want to interfere with them.”

“Oh, don’t we?”

Rosamunde shook her head. “Also, I want Digby’s death days to be untarnished. Once he’s in the ground, we’ll see what to do next. You both are witnesses if needed. Yes, Potts?”

“Yes, milady.”

“You’re going to pretend this didn’t happen?” Diana protested.

“Just for a little while. If it looks as if he might go free, however, I have the means to destroy him. Potts, you may go now. Remember, say nothing.”

“Yes, milady, though it will be bitter not to spit at him.”

The man left and Rosamunde put the plate back on the table, ladling the rest of the stew onto it to disguise her act. Then, thinking of something, she tipped the plate to smash on the floor.

“What was that for?” Diana asked.

“In case one of the servants decided to polish it off.”

“’Struth. I think I’ll employ a food taster after this!” Then she came over and wrapped an arm around Rosamunde. “You’re so pale, love. And see, you’re shivering. Come up and lie down. I’ll get Mrs. Monkton to make a possett for you.”

Suddenly drained, Rosamunde let Diana shepherd her up to a spare room, where she slipped off her shoes and lay back on the bed. Diana pulled a thick eiderdown out of the chest and fluffed it over her. She gathered it round gratefully, even though it was a warm day. She lay there, trying to accept the fact that Digby really was dead, that nothing she could do would bring him back.

“Rosa,” Diana said, “I don’t want to bother you, but if you don’t say anything about the stew, what’s to stop Edward Overton from playing havoc here in the next few days?”

“Send for Mr. Whitmore. There are legal ways, I’m sure.” But then it all seemed to break through the shell around her. The death. The baby. The murder.

And Brand. Always, always, the forbidden fact of Brand Malloren. “Brand. It’s his child, too,” she whispered, to the one person who understood. “What am I going to do?”

Diana spread her hands helplessly, and Rosamunde broke into soft, deep tears.

Chapter 23

M
rs. Monkton bustled around making her favorite oatmeal possett for her ladyship, glad to have something to do. If only she’d not made those fried collops!

It was only to be hoped that their suspicions were right and the lady was with child, no matter how that’d come about. Otherwise it’d be Mr. Edward and those Cotterites. There’d be no joy cooking for the likes of them.

She added the ale, wine, and sugar, and set it to stand and cool a little. When she turned from the fire, Mr. Edward was watching. “What are you making?” he asked, quite pleasantly. “I have taken the study of medicines and such as part of my labor for God, so I have an interest in these things.”

“It’s just an oatmeal possett, sir. It’ll steady the lady and give her strength.”

He asked about ingredients and did seem to have some knowledge. When she put the dish on a tray, he said, “Let me take it up. I’m sure you have much work to do.”

For a moment she was tempted, but then she remembered how much the poor lady disliked him. She didn’t need more upset at a time like this, so Mrs. Monkton thanked him and took the tray up herself.

Mr. Whitmore arrived before Rosamunde’s message had found him, for the news was already spilling down the dale like the river. As an old friend of Digby’s, he was much distressed. Rosamunde felt better for the cry and possett, so had energy to comfort him. She offered him a glass of brandy.

He sipped it gratefully. “Such a terrible shock.”

“Yes. Edward is here.”

“He heard so soon?”

“No, he arrived this morning.” It was tempting to share her knowledge with this trusted family friend, but it was better kept quiet for now. “I’m sure he’s pleased he had the opportunity to speak one last time with his uncle.”

The solicitor nodded, but without conviction.

“What is the procedure now, Mr. Whitmore? As far as the running of the estate. Financial matters and such.”

He put down his glass and became businesslike. “You must not worry about a thing, dear lady. I and your father are executors, and can authorize any payments in the immediate. And of course you are provided for through the settlements.”

“When will I have to leave?”

He sighed. “That will depend on Sir Edward, of course.”

Rosamunde started. She’d forgotten that Edward had inherited the baronetcy as well. She couldn’t help a spurt of malicious pleasure. “I don’t think he’ll enjoy the title.”

Mr. Whitmore’s eyes twinkled for a moment, but then he turned sober. “I doubt you would want to stay here, Lady Overton, once the New Commonwealth takes over.”

“No, of course not. When must that be?”

He tapped the table, thinking. “Well, as to that, nothing can be settled in such a case as this until it is proved that the lady is not … er … with child.”

Rosamunde met his eyes. Did he know?

“Of course, it is unlikely,” he said quickly, “but it must always be assumed to be so before an alternate heir is given access to the property.”

Time. Time to think. “How long?”

At that moment, the alternate heir came into the room, pinch-faced. “Aunt, why was I not told Mr. Whitmore was here?”

“I wished to consult with him first, Edward. About my position here, my jointure and such.”

He turned to the solicitor. “I will see to Lady Overton’s welfare.”

“There is no need, Sir Edward—”