She couldn't help but like Jackson. She supposed most women couldn't help but love him. He was almost too blatantly sensualâonly the dimples saved him from being illegal, but then again, the dimples were quite nice.
“I don't believe that Armond thinks you are a murderer for one moment,” she informed him. “It is my stepbrother who is under suspicion from him.”
“He asked me if I had anything to do with the murdered women found on our property. You see, I was in London both times. I suppose that automatically makes me suspect in my brother's eyes.”
“What a cad,” Rosalind said.
He flashed his dimples. “He
is
a cad,” he agreed. “Definitely not good enough for you. You should have met me first.”
Rosalind sat up and smoothed her hair. “I daresay that it is probably much better that I didn't.” She suspected that she would have never escaped the carriage with her virtue the night of the Greenleys' ball if it had been Jackson she'd approached instead of Armond.
“For the both of us, I'm thinking,” he said, his features now serious. “I suspect he fell in love with you on sight.”
Her cheeks flamed. Should she correct him? Somehow, she immediately felt as if she could trust Jackson Wulf. Maybe if he was a skilled womanizer, it was that trait about him that made women easy prey to his attentions.
“I'm sure he told you the reason he married me. That I had ruined my reputation by providing him with an alibi the morning they found another dead woman in the stable.”
“Yes, he did tell me that,” Jackson said. “And I might have believed him, before I saw you.”
She flushed again. “Do you never cease trying to seduce a woman, even if she is your brother's wife?”
He seemed to consider. “You are the first wife in our family, so I can only assume âno' would be my answer.”
She giggled.
He flashed his dimples again. “Do you love Armond?”
He was back to being serious. Rosalind stared into his dark eyes, and again she felt she could be honest with him. “Yes. But he holds his heart from me. Now, he locks his door. I thought I could make him love me, butâ”
He placed a finger against her lips. “Sometimes love is not a spoken word, but in the way a man looks into your eyes, in the things he does for you. Look harder, Rosalind.”
She had the strangest urge to hug him. She was smart enough to realize women didn't hug Jackson Wulf unless they wanted much more in the bargain.
“I like you,” she said.
He smiled. “Of course you do. You're a woman.” He bent forward and kissed her on the forehead. “I like you, too, Rosalind. You deserve to be happy. So does Armond, even if I am currently put out with him. Now, more than ever, I am determined to make my quest to save our family. Armond has always been the responsible one; Gabriel, the hard worker; and me, nothing. I've been given nothing of importance to do, until now.”
“What is it you think you must save your brothers from?” Rosalind wondered.
Jackson stared deep into her eyes before answering, “Hopefully, you will never know.” He rose from the bed. He was tall, like all Wulfs, but he wasn't built like as tree, a Gabriel was, and was thinner than Armond. Still, he was quite something to look at. “Tell Armond I came around. Tell him I've gone on a quest to kill a witch.”
She blinked up at him. “To kill a witch? Do such things exist?”
He suddenly bent back down, his face coming within inches of hers. “You'd be surprised what sorts of things exist out there in the darkness, Rosalind. If I have my way, you will never be any the wiser.”
Jackson came close to kissing her, she thought. And she realized with some degree of panic that she might have allowed him the liberty. It was as if he held some spell over her, and it didn't weaken until he walked out her door and disappeared.
Armond brushed Rosalind's smooth cheek. She still slept in the clothes she'd worn yesterday. Her eyelashes fluttered open and she seemed to try to focus on him.
“Jackson?”
His hand froze against her cheek. “Did you just call me Jackson?”
She shook her head as if to clear it. “Is it morning?”
“Did you just call me Jackson?” he repeated.
Rosalind struggled up on her elbows and glanced toward the window, where sunlight filtered in. “I had the strangest dream last night. I dreamed that your brother Jackson was here, in my room, speaking to me.”
“That is odd, especially considering that you haven't met Jackson yet.”
Rosalind ran a hand through her hair. “At least I think I was dreaming. Did you question Jackson about the murders?”
Armond felt a stab of guilt. “Yes, and it angered him. That's why he left before you could be introduced to him.”
“Then it wasn't a dream, or I wouldn't know that,” she said. “He told me to tell you that he was leaving on a quest. A quest to kill a witch and save the family.” She looked up at him with her deep violet eyes. “That makes no sense, Armond. That's why I thought I must be dreaming.”
Jackson's revelations might not make sense to Rosalind, but Armond understood what Jackson was thinking. It was a fool's errand, he was also thinking. And his younger brother's decision couldn't have come at a worse time.
“I was hoping to send you to the estate,” Armond told her. “I have decided you would be safer there with Gabriel and Jackson, only obviously, Jackson is not there, and if Gabriel arrived home to find he hadn't returned, I wouldn't be surprised if he isn't on his way back here to look for him again.”
“The estate?” Rosalind pushed her covers aside and
sat. “But I can't leave, Armond. Not yet. I have to help the duchess.”
“You're in danger, Rosalind!” Armond hadn't meant to snap the words at her, but he was worried about her. He had begun to put pieces together regarding Chapman and his thus far unknown accomplice. The dress, the women all chosen because they somehow favored Rosalind, it was clear either her stepbrother or his accomplice had an obsession about her. Then there were the strange things happening to him. Maybe Rosalind wasn't safe in the same house with him. Maybe she wasn't safe in London.
“What happened when you went out last night?” she asked.
He didn't want to tell her. Especially not about the dress. Especially not about himself and the way he had chased a racing buggy down a deserted street and almost managed to catch it, would have if the drunk hadn't stumbled out of an alley and into his path.
“I didn't catch him,” was all he said.
Her soft touch against his cheek startled him and made him glance up at her. “You looked ragged, Armond. Have you slept at all?”
“No,” he admitted, and thought she looked lovely with her clothes wrinkled and her hair wild around her shoulders.
“You should,” she insisted. “I'll have Hawkins prepare you a hot bath and then you should spend the day in bed.”
He lifted a brow. “Will you attend me in my bath again?”
She didn't smile at his teasing. Instead, her violet eyes met his straight on. “Will you lock me out?”
His decision had hurt her, he realized. She didn't know that it was for her own protection that the lock had been placed on his door. He couldn't very well explain to her that it might have been wiser to put the lock on her
side without telling her more than he was prepared to tell her.
“At times, I prefer to be a private person,” he said.
Her gaze remained steady, but her eyes watered for a moment “Did my boldness toward you the other night sicken you? Do I disgust you now?”
His heart nearly broke in that moment. She mustn't think his decision to resist her was any fault of her own. “You could never disgust me,” he said, running his fingers through her tangled hair. “You are the most desirable woman I have ever known. And the bravest.”
The lovely arch of her dark brows furrowed. “Then why?”
He could at least be honest about his decision. “Because you deserve more than I can give you,” he answered. “And because I won't ask you to settle for less. You offered to be my friend. Maybe that would be best.”
She turned her head away from him, but not before a single tear traced a path down her cheek. It ate at his soul, that tear. That tear that he had caused her to shed.
“Damn my cursed life,” he whispered, and because he couldn't stand the sight of her tears, he rose, walked through the door that adjoined their suites, closed it, and locked it.
She assumed Armond was sleeping. He'd locked her out, so Rosalind had no way of knowing for certain. There was also the matter of her stepmother that needed attention immediately and the fact that Armond would be livid with Rosalind if she acted on her own. Still, the sooner she instructed Mary to stop serving the duchess the special blend of tea Franklin insisted she drink, the sooner Rosalind hoped to find the lady on the mend.
Settling the matter in her mind, she went in search of Hawkins. He was, a servant and hadn't the authority to stop her, but she would leave notice this time about her whereabouts. He wanted to argue with her, she could tell, but he knew his place and simply said that if she wasn't back in short order, he would wake Lord Wulf.
It was still early and Rosalind assumed Franklin would not be up at such an early hour. All she planned to do was go to the back entrance, hope to find Mary in the kitchen, and give her the instructions about her stepmother's tea. Rosalind kept to the hedge that separated the properties as much as possible, but there came a time when she had to bravely walk across the lawn in full view of both properties. She hurried.
Her heart was pounding by the time she reached the back entrance of the house next door. She only had to
ring the delivery bell once before Mary opened the door. The woman frowned.
“What are you doing here, milady?” she whispered. “I've not hung the sheet. Mr. Chapman is upstairs abed.”
“I must speak with you,” Rosalind whispered back. She stepped into the kitchen. Glancing around, Rosalind spied the tin of tea leaves Mary used to brew the duchess's tea. She went to the counter where it rested and opened the lid. It had a pungent odor.
“What are you doing, milady?” Mary repeated.
“The tea,” Rosalind whispered. “I suspect it has something in it that is responsible for Her Grace's lethargic state. I think Franklin has drugged her.”
Mary's eyes widened. “Why ever would he do such a thing?”
Rosalind couldn't launch into a detailed account of her suspicions regarding Franklin, and she wondered if Mary would even believe all she and Armond suspected of her stepbrother.
“I want you to empty this tin and fill it with normal tea leaves. Let us just see if I'm right and the duchess improves without the tea her son has instructed you make her, and then I will explain. I haven't time now.”
“I don't know, milady,” Mary said, wringing her hands. “To go against my employer's wishes . . .”
Rosalind stood firm. “Please, Mary. If what I suspect is not the case, it won't harm the lady. And if what I suspect is the case, she will soon be much improved.”
Mary bit her lip. “All right,” she agreed. “But if Mr. Chapman finds out I went against his wishes, he'll be letting me go, and then who's to look after the poor woman?”
“I'm praying that soon the duchess will able to look after herself.” And Rosalind also hoped if her stepmother did indeed know of her son's foul deeds, she would see
that he paid for his crimes. Then Rosalind wouldn't have to worry what he might do to Armond if he got the chance, or to her, either.
“Mary! I've rung for you twice! Where the bloody hell are you?”
Rosalind gasped. Mary's face paled. Franklin was moving toward the kitchen. They heard him banging around.
“Go,” Mary urged her.
“He will see me on the lawn and know I've been here,” she frantically whispered back.
Mary shoved her toward a door leading to the basement and a small set of servants' quarters. There were only two rooms, one of them having been occupied by Lydia when she'd been employed at the house.
“Stay down there until I've seen what he wants,” Mary ordered.
Rosalind slipped inside the door just as she heard Franklin enter the kitchen.
“There you are,” he bellowed. “My head is pounding so that I can't sleep. I'm thinking a cup of tea, the special blend I purchase for my mother, might help. Brew me a cup and bring it upstairs.”
“Very well, Mr. Chapman, right away,” Mary readily agreed. “I was just getting ready to brew a pot for your dear mother and take it up.”
There was silence for a moment. Rosalind pressed her ear to the door.
“Where is the tin? It's not there where you usually keep it.”
In horror, Rosalind glanced down to see that she still held the tin in her hands.
“Must have misplaced it, is all,” Mary muttered. “I'll find it, sir, don't you worry. I'll have your tea up to you in no time.”
“See that you do find it,” Franklin warned. “That blend is very expensive and I'll take it out of your hide if you've somehow managed to lose it.”
“It's not lost,” Mary assured him. “Just misplaced like I said. You go on back up to bed, Mr. Chapman.”
Rosalind held her breath until she heard footsteps moving away. She glanced down the darkened stairs. At one time Mary had also stayed down here, or so the housekeeper had told her. After the duchess became ill, Mary had moved to a small room adjoining the lady's. There were already cobwebs from lack of use on the stairs, and Rosalind felt drawn to the room downstairs where Lydia once slept.
Rosalind wanted to make certain Franklin had plenty of time to make it back upstairs before she emerged from her hiding place. She moved down the stairs and opened the door to Lydia's room. There was only a small window, and very little light filtered into the drab little room. A scarred wardrobe took up space along one wall. A small table stood in one corner. Little more than a cot served for a bed. The bed was unmade. The covers were tossed about in a strange manner.