In mere hours, she would be his countess.
Despite her hurts, her body flooded with delight at the thought of finally fulfilling the role she’d been destined for from birth. She only wished Jane and Cecily could be here so she could share the brilliance of her happiness with the two people in the world who would best understand.
Her mind flitted to Xavier and shied away. He’d only give that unpleasant, cynical smile of his and tell her she was fooling herself. Much he knew about it!
The sound of water splashing to the ground in a steady stream made her stop short. A beery voice rang out from the same direction, and she realized what the earlier sound had been. Two men stood with their backs to her, urinating against the inn wall.
Ugh.
She whisked herself behind the nearest concealment, which happened to be the door to the laundry, if the smell of lye soap were any indication.
She listened, waiting for them to finish their business and go back inside. She didn’t attend particularly to what they said until she heard the name Tregarth. Then she opened the laundry door an inch farther so she could hear better.
But the men were clearly drunk; their words slurred together, and that, on top of the thick Cornish accent, made them almost impossible to understand.
However, Rosamund did catch one word before the men pulled up their breeches and moved off. It clanged like a knell in her head.
Murderer.
* * *
When Griffin came in from his early-morning ride, he was astonished to find a bustle in his cavernous great hall.
Joshua and two footmen he’d never seen before carried two massive trunks upstairs and disappeared toward his bedchamber. Griffin went after them.
In his bedchamber, he found Dearlove standing in the midst of a sea of trunks and boxes, directing proceedings.
“What is all this?” Griffin snapped, though he knew very well what it was.
Dearlove permitted himself a smile. “Some items you left behind, my lord.”
If Dearlove included himself in that statement, Griffin couldn’t tell. He detected no reproach in his valet’s expression, then wondered at himself for caring. Did he actually feel guilty for not bringing the man with him?
“Most of your commissions in London have been fulfilled, my lord. Knowing your immediate needs, I ventured to bring with me a few things more suited to country wear.”
“You mean this isn’t the full extent of it?” Griffin was horrified and a little awed at his own unwitting extravagance.
“Oh, no, my lord. The rest is in your rooms at Montford House.”
He gazed about him.
Hell.
“When do you suppose I’m going to wear any of this?”
“If you will permit the impertinence, my lord, that is my concern.” He spread his hands. “The advantage to having a valet is that Your Lordship is not obliged to think about clothing at all.”
Griffin fingered his chin. He didn’t give his garments more than a passing thought now. But however that might be, Dearlove was here. He might as well make use of him.
“I’m to be married today, Dearlove,” he announced, and took a moment to enjoy the shock that passed over Dearlove’s usually impassive features.
“Then we shall choose something special for the occasion, my lord. But first, a shave, perhaps? And a haircut. Joshua!” Dearlove addressed Griffin’s sole manservant. “Bring hot water and towels. Quickly, now!”
As Griffin allowed himself to be primped and prodded, he mulled over the night before. Rosamund had seduced him quite effortlessly. He’d been putty in her hands, and now she must pay the price.
Oh, he knew things had gone too far for him to weasel out of a wedding now. On some level, he suspected he’d wanted to trap her just as much as she’d clearly set out to trap him with that shattering night of passion.
Finally, he would have Rosamund. Hot blood raced through his body at the thought.
But it was selfish of him to want her at the expense of her ultimate happiness. He was a bastard for letting her make the commitment before she knew the difficulties she was likely to face in becoming his wife.
If only he knew for certain whether there was a threat or not.
He was no closer to tracing the source of the rumor about new evidence in the murder of Simon Allbright. If old Sir William Drake, the justice of the peace, assured him no such evidence had been brought to his attention, he supposed he’d have to be content with that. He was not to be hauled off in irons just yet.
But the fact remained that in his neighbors’ eyes, he was a murderer. It seemed there were those who had an interest in keeping that belief alive and fresh in people’s minds.
Rosamund had said nothing else mattered to her, that she would marry him no matter what. Ought he to tell her the truth before the wedding? It might spoil the day—how could it not? But she should be given the choice. Few women would wish to marry a man who stood accused of murder by his neighbors, a man who could do nothing to prove his innocence.
The thought that even now she might carry the beginnings of their child in her womb made great cold waves of panic surge through him. If he knew Rosamund, she would prefer marriage to a murderer to the scandal of bearing a child out of wedlock.
Or perhaps she would choose a third option—a quick marriage to another man. Griffin’s stomach lurched sickeningly at the thought. Lauderdale would take her in a heartbeat. So would a legion of other men, he didn’t doubt.
Hell and the Devil confound it! He’d craved a simple life, and now look where he stood: his thoughts circling around like sharks around a dilemma that could have no good outcome whichever path he chose.
He didn’t think he could live with himself if Rosamund despised him. He’d come to care far too much for her good opinion, it seemed. She would discover the truth of the situation soon enough if she lived at Pendon Place.
Yes, he ought to tell her. For her sake and his, he
would
tell her before they took their vows.
He sat to offer Dearlove his jaw for scraping with a sinking, horrible feeling of dread.
* * *
Rosamund could scarcely tell Jacqueline the true reason she’d changed her mind about riding that morning.
She was glad to know the pain of her first time would not be repeated. There’d been one, searing moment when panic nearly overwhelmed her. She’d wanted to throw Griffin off and yell at him not to come near her again.
It had been over quickly, however, and Jane had assured her the activity could be sublime if a lady’s husband proved to be a considerate lover. She thought Griffin immensely considerate. What he’d done to her with his hands and mouth still sent twinges of pleasure through her body.
Rosamund suggested to Jacqueline that they walk down to the cliffs instead of riding and Jacqueline agreed willingly enough. The breeze whipped the skirts of their habits around them as they climbed to the top. Jacqueline had found a large branch and used it as a walking stick.
Now Rosamund said, “Tell me about the murder of Mr. Allbright.”
The girl paled beneath her tan. “Who mentioned that to you?”
“I overheard some men talking,” said Rosamund. “In fact, in the course of breakfast, I heard it mentioned three times. The subject is on everyone’s lips, it seems.”
This was what Griffin had tried to tell her last night.
“He didn’t do it,” said Jacqueline vehemently.
“Of course he didn’t,” agreed Rosamund. “Tell me.”
Jacqueline stared out to sea. Her lips firmed and she turned her face to Rosamund, the wind whipping her hair from its pins and casting it about her face.
Pulling a strand from the corner of her mouth, Jacqueline said, “Come on.”
They moved down the slope and took a path cut into the hill that was sheltered from the wind.
“Mr. Allbright was my music master,” said Jacqueline, squinting against the wind. “An unnecessary extravagance. You can imagine my aptitude for the pianoforte.” She rolled her eyes. “I can’t guess why my grandfather hired him, except to subject me and the teacher to weekly misery. Allbright was some sort of cousin to our friend Tony Maddox. You will meet Tony. He lives at Trenoweth Hall. Over that way.” She waved a hand to the east.
“Anyway, one day after Grandfather died, Griffin and Mr. Allbright had a row and Griffin dismissed Allbright, who then put it about the village that Griffin had threatened to kill him if he saw him in these parts ever again. We thought that was the end of him, but Allbright returned.”
The girl’s eyes grew hollow. “And then Allbright’s lifeless body was discovered at the foot of the cliff.”
Rosamund gasped. “How awful for you both!”
“Oh, it was … awful, yes. But the worst was when they took Griffin for questioning. No one believed him innocent—no one except for me and Tony and the vicar, that is—but there wasn’t any evidence he’d done it, so the matter was allowed to rest.”
“But the people around here won’t let it rest, is that it?” said Rosamund.
Miserably, Jacqueline nodded. “Griffin sent me away to spare me the unpleasantness, but he doesn’t understand! I want to stand by him. I don’t care what they say—I know he didn’t do it!”
Rosamund put her arm about her. “Your sentiments do you credit. But you cannot blame Griffin for wishing to protect you.” She gave Jacqueline’s shoulder a squeeze. “Shall we go back and take a glass of lemonade? Or perhaps some tea?”
And then she must get ready for her wedding.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Griffin strode through the village toward the inn where Rosamund stayed, ignoring the whispers that followed him like wind rustling the trees. He needed to talk to Rosamund before she took that final step.
He entered the vestibule and glanced toward the stair that led up to her rooms. On a sudden and admittedly craven impulse, he changed his course and ducked into the taproom.
If any occasion called for a drink, it was this one.
The taproom was empty, save for a shaggy old mongrel that lay by the empty hearth. That suited Griffin very well.
The barmaid, who’d been dusting with her back to the door, turned to face him. Her mouth dropped open. The dust cloth fell from her hands.
“Bessie, a tankard of your best ale, if you please,” he said. The inn served only one kind of ale, of course, and the girl stared at him, confused.
He shook his head. “No, on second thought, I’ll have a nip of that brandy you keep hidden behind the bar.”
Despite the early hour, he felt in need of a strong stimulant. Not that he meant to make a habit of imbibing before noon, but if a man couldn’t break with tradition on his wedding day, when could he?
Bessie’s dark eyes were round with curiosity, but he was damned if he’d explain why he was rigged out like some dashed park saunterer. They’d all hear of his marriage soon enough. That was, if Rosamund still wanted to wed him after what he had to say.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Master Griffin.”
Griffin froze, the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end. That hoarse, hateful voice had stopped haunting his nightmares years ago. Yet hearing it now brought the past rushing back.
Crane.
He pretended he hadn’t heard the remark, but of course, his tormentor wasn’t discouraged by his seeming indifference.
“Ain’t you fine today, my lord?” Crane rested one elbow on the bar beside him, swinging an expensive gold watch on a chain that hung from the vulgarly bright waistcoat he wore. He was a big man, perhaps fifteen years older than Griffin. Crane had held the position of steward at Pendon Place until the old earl’s death. But steward had been only one of his functions.
“Too ’igh and mighty for the likes of me now, ain’t you?” said Crane.
He leaned in to murmur in Griffin’s ear, “But I remembers a day when you was no more than a worm beneath my heel.”
Griffin’s jaw hardened and his fist clenched at his side, but he knew a deliberate goad when he heard it. “Get away from me.”
An avid light struck in the man’s green eyes. He licked his lips and turned to the barmaid, saying loudly, “See that lovely scar the earl has there, Bessie love? That’s my work, that is. I’m dead proud of that. Some men would have bungled it and got the eyeball itself, but not Barnabas Crane. The old gentleman would have sacked me if I’d gone and
blinded
his grandson, now, wouldn’t he? Didn’t mind me bloodying his back for him, though.”
Blistering hot rage surged through Griffin like lava from a volcano. His hand shot out. He bunched Crane’s shirt in his fist and hauled him up so they were eye to eye.
The frightened barmaid gave a cry of alarm. “Oh! Oh, please, me lord! Don’t kill him!”
Griffin bared his teeth in a snarl. “You’re not fit to lick the shit off my boots, Crane. You never were.”
A smug look descended on Crane’s features. The bastard thought Griffin couldn’t afford to hurt him because he was still under suspicion over Allbright’s murder. Crane took his shots in this public spot because he had no fear of serious reprisals. He knew Griffin didn’t want to give fodder for any more speculation over the ungovernable violence of his beastly temper.