Eventually, after Laertes artfully slew Hamlet with a poisoned sword and the stage was strewn with bodies, it required a good half hour to make their way through the crowds outside, then another twenty minutes for their carriage to be brought around. They drove to the Kilbourne town house first, all of them waiting in the carriage while Grayson escorted Lorelei up the wide stone steps to the front door. When the door opened, Grayson quickly realized that directly behind the butler stood Lorelei's father, looking closely at his little chick. What was he worried about? Grayson wondered. He gave Lord Ramey a bow, waved toward own his father and mother, who obligingly waved back, proving to Lord Ramey that their precious son hadn't debauched his precious daughter, and finally Grayson made his good-byes.
"Mr. Sherbrooke?"
Grayson turned. "Yes, Miss Kilbourne?"
"Would you care to come to a small recitation tomorrow afternoon? All young people, perhaps twenty in all. We are reading Mary Shelley's Frankenstein." She lowered her lids a trifle and stared up at him through lovely thick lashes. "I recommended it. I felt it would please you."
Well, it did. It was one of his favorite novels. However, Grayson wanted nothing more than to be left alone with Rosalind and have her translate the Rules. "Well, you see, Miss Kilbourne, I fear that—"
"Actually, after we've read a chapter from her book, we II read from your latest novel, sir, and would very much appreciate your lending your expertise to the discussion of vampires."
"Ah, well, in that case—perhaps a chapter or two would be stimulating," and it was done.
When Grayson climbed back into the carriage he looked so self-satisfied Rosalind wanted to clout him. After he'd told them what he would be doing on the following afternoon, Rosalind sneered at him. "You are so very weak. It is pitiful."
"You're just angry because I won't be home to do your bidding. Besides, this recitation meeting, it won't take very long. Unless, of course, they wish to read a goodly portion of my book, then—" He gave an obnoxious shrug. "If I'm not back in good time, Nicholas can take you for a ride in the park."
Rosalind snorted. "If all the young people present are like Lorelei, you won't escape for a week." He gave her a very satisfied smile. His father laughed. His mother patted his hand.
13
Ryder wasn't laughing the next afternoon when his brother Douglas Sherbrooke, the Earl of Northcliffe, said privately to him, "I am familiar with the Vail family, particularly this Nicholas's grandfather, Galardi Vail. I hate saying this be-cause it sounds so absurd, but I was told he wasn't of this world."
"Wasn't of this world? What world, then? What the devil does that mean, Douglas?"
Douglas shrugged. "Fact is, the rumors were that Galardi Vail was some sort of magician, a wizard of sorts. As for his wife, I believe she died in childbirth."
"I wonder," Ryder said, "was he really a magician or a wizard, or did he simply believe he was?"
"I don't know. Rumors were rife about strange incantations chanted in a strange language, blue smoke rising above the forest, strange red lights glowing from behind draperies at the house, nonsense like that, and Galardi raised young Nicholas when his own father had removed him from his house at the time of his second marriage. He was around five years old, I believe. Nicholas was still a boy when his grandfather died. Well, I should say supposedly died. There was no physician in attendance and there were whispers there was no body." Douglas shrugged. "It sounds like one of Grayson's novels, but this is what I have heard. I remember it because it is so very out of the ordinary." "From whom did you hear this?"
"My main source is Tysen's curate, Mr. Biggly, some two years ago when he first arrived at Glenclose-on-Rowan. Alex and I were visiting Tysen and Mary Rose and he spoke of his prior living at Gorton-Wimberley, a small village in Sussex, near where this strange old man lived. Mr. Biggly could weave an excellent tale, and that is what I thought it until I chanced to hear a friend of Nicholas Vail's father say much the same thing. He too claimed the old man was a wizard. What about young Nicholas? After Galardi's death, he said that young Nicholas simply disappeared. Now Nicholas Vail has resurfaced and assumed his title. May I ask what this is all about? How did you meet Nicholas Vail?"
"Did you also know that young Nicholas's father cut him off, leaving him only what was entailed?"
Douglas shook his head. "Is the young man a wastrel?"
"I don't think so, Douglas." Ryder sighed. "Before Sophie and Alex join us, let me tell you that Rosalind is in love with him. She met him Thursday night at the Pinchon ball. Four days. I hate to believe it, but you should see the way she looks at him. Our girl's in love, Douglas, tip over arse. And you know Rosalind . She never does anything by half measure. That's why I asked you what you knew about him."
Douglas Sherbrooke could but stare at his brother. "I'll admit I'm old, Ryder—but four days?"
"I know, it has fair to knocked me flat as well. Rosalind sees what she wants and she goes after it. The thing is, she also has excellent instincts. Remember that man who came to Brandon House to sell us wonderful bolts of material from France at a marvelous price?"
Douglas laughed. "Oh, yes. And Rosalind nailed him but good."
Ryder said, "She got all the children to unroll halts of his expensive, supposedly fine brocade and, sure enough, there were moth holes throughout."
"He probably thought what with all the children, he would make a very pretty penny indeed and be well gone before he was discovered. So Rosalind approves this Nicholas Vail. But what about Nicholas Vail? Which way does the wind blow with him?"
"It blows in her direction."
"Have you told him why you are Rosalind 's guardian? Has he inquired?"
Ryder shook his head. "I will let her tell him, when and if it comes to that. I don't think it's even occurred to her that there might be a serpent in the garden. Nicholas Vail is a peer of the realm. Blood and background are important."
"Perhaps she wants to wait until she is certain of him. Rosalind is very well grounded."
"In some ways, yes, but the other, Douglas—"
"Yes. What is Nicholas Vail all about? What do you want me to do, Ryder?"
"First I want you to meet the young man, take his measure. Then speak to your contacts in the foreign office. You've told me many times that what they don't know, they can easily find out—see what they know of him, of his family, of his half brothers, two of whom I met last night at Drury Lane. There's deep hatred there, Douglas.
"You also have several acquaintances with a reach into the underbelly of London. Ask them if they've heard anything about him. Nicholas Vail claims he lived in Macau for the past five years. I did find out from our solicitor that he is in shipping and that he's quite successful, and did not need any money from his father, even though the rumors would have you believe he is without a sou and looking for an heiress. As for the nine years before he settled in Macau, he was not specific. I've got to make sure Rosalind will be safe with him."
Douglas nodded. "Then he is twenty-six, near Grayson's age."
"But he is older than Grayson in experience, hard experience, the kind that brings you too close to death. I also believe he would be utterly ruthless, probably had to be to survive. He would be a dangerous man to cross."
"On his own since the age of twelve—that would either toughen a boy or he wouldn't survive."
Ryder nodded. "So he left after his grandfather's death, yet you tell me Tysen's curate spoke of there being no body to bury. Damnation, Douglas." Ryder slammed his fist into his palm, winced. "And there is this ancient book Grayson found in a bookstall in Hyde Park, written by a man whose idiot name is Sarimund. It's titled the Rules of the Pale and it's in code. Unbreakable code, I think you'll agree.
"And let me tell you what scares me to my toes: Rosalind can read it, quickly, no problem at all. Blessed hell, how the devil can one explain that? I most certainly can't. There's something going on here and the children know more about it all
than I do. I hate that."
"Calm yourself, Ryder, we'll find out all we need to know, and quickly. I should like to see this book as well. Code, you say? Unbreakable? Except our Rosalind is able to decipher it?"
Ryder nodded. "This isn't good, Douglas. You know it isn't."
14
I've got to tell him, got to, got to, blessed hell, I've got no choice. Rosalind hated it, but it had to be done. Where was Nicholas? Why must he be late this afternoon of all afternoons? She couldn't lose her resolve. That would be completely dishonorable. But what if he looked at her like an unwanted snail in the garden, stomped her, and walked away?
No, surely he won't stomp me, but maybe he'll give me one of those dangerous cold looks and walk away. It doesn't matter. I've got to tell him, no choice.
Willicombe opened the door and said in his brilliant voice, "Lord Mountjoy, Miss Rosalind."
Nicholas cocked a dark eyebrow at the back of Willi-combe's shiny bald head and smiled over at her. Rosalind jumped to her feet. She saw Willicombe wasn't happy about leaving them alone. She wished he knew, wished everyone knew that she and Nicholas were engaged. That would remove the bilious look from his face. Well, maybe not.
Willicombe eyed first one, then the other. He cleared his throat. "Miss Rosalind, shall I inquire if Mrs. Sherbrooke is available to, er, come and converse with the two of you? Per-haps guide your conversational gambits to a proper elevated plane?"
"Oh, no, Willicombe. We will be unchaperoned for a mere matter of two minutes, no more. His lordship is a gentleman of stern moral resolve. He was born on an elevated plane. I don't know if I was born elevated, but I was certainly raised that way. Don't worry yourself."
Willicombe still wasn't happy and so he gave them only a small bow, this time not bestowing upon them the full glory of his bald head.
As soon as the drawing room doors closed, Rosalind grabbed Nicholas's hand and pulled him toward the bow windows. "Nicholas, you are late."
"Not more than a minute or two. What is this? What is wrong, Rosalind ?"
She dropped his hand and began to wring hers, and looked down at her feet.
He stared at those wringing hands, an eyebrow winging upward. "What is this? You are obviously upset. Tell me what is wrong, Rosalind ."
"My name. It is my name that is wrong."
"Your name? Yes, well, La Fontaine is on the unusual side. But as you told me, your namesake was a name to be respected. Rosalind de La Fontaine. I like your name, Rosalind , it suits you. What of it?"
"You don't know who I am, Nicholas, you really don't. You don't know why Ryder Sherbrooke is my guardian. You don't know anything about me."
"Well, no, it hadn't really occurred to me. We've been rather occupied since we met. But you will feel free to tell me when it pleases you."
"You look very handsome today, Nicholas. I like the buckskins and your riding jacket. Very smart."
"Thank you. I'm listening."
"Well, the thing is—" She stopped dead, then shook her head and paced to the far end of the drawing room, then back to him. "All right, I'll just spit it out. I hear ghosts," she said, coming to a stop right in front of him. "I know ghosts, I've lived with them for ten years. I've never seen them but I've heard them murmuring from shadowed corners or, most often, in my dreams."
"All right, for ten years you've heard ghosts. Tell me about this."
"I will spit it out, I will. I have heard ghosts since—well, since Uncle Ryder found me nearly beaten to death in an alley near the docks in Eastbourne."
He grew very still. How could this be? "I don't understand," he said slowly. "You were nearly beaten to death? You were only a young child. What is this, Rosalind?"
"They believed I was around eight years old. They even let me select a month and a day for my birthday and of course I picked the very next day after they told me. Uncle Ryder took me to Brandon House—it's where he brings children who have been abandoned or beaten or sold, children in awful situations—he raises them and loves them and educates them, and gives them hope. He told me the physicians weren't sure I would live, but I did. But, you see, when I finally regained my wits, I had no idea who I was. I still don't. My memory never came back. Just the ghosts lurking in the back of my mind, and they've never come forward, never told me who I am."
He studied her pale face. "You still don't know who you are?"
"No. The ghosts came and I've asked them over and over who I am, but I can never understand what they say, if indeed they themselves know."
"But your name—La Fontaine."
"I selected the name myself when I was ten years old because I liked Jean de La Fontaine's fables, as simple as that. I'm more of a fiction than his fables are—at least his fables have a moral. I don't have anything. I don't know who I am. At first Uncle Ryder and Uncle Douglas tried to find out about me, but they could discover nothing. Then they decided that whoever had tried to kill me could still be out there, and still want me dead. If someone hated me enough to try to kill me, then I must be worth very little. Or worth nothing at all."
Nicholas had never considered anything like this, never. It didn't matter. He hated that her eyes were sheened with tears, hated her pallor. He pulled her against him and kissed her, gently, as if she'd only just been beaten and he didn't want to hurt her more. "I'm so very sorry, Rosalind ."
She pushed away from him. "No, no, you don't yet understand, Nicholas."
"I understand someone tried to murder a child but you survived thanks to Ryder Sherbrooke. I will be grateful to him for the remainder of my life."
"Yes, yes, of course, but that isn't it, Nicholas. Don't you see?" She drew in a deep breath. "You are the seventh Earl of Mountjoy—an earl, Nicholas, a peer of the realm. You have an impressive lineage, whereas, well, to say it plainly, I am nobody. I am very sorry I did not tell you immediately when you asked me to marry you, but the truth is, I simply didn't think about it. I wanted to kiss you too much and it all happened so very quickly and we've been tossed into the Rules of the Pale, trying to figure out what it all means, and I simply didn't think about it until I was lying in bed last night and it hit me in the nose. I cannot do this to you. I cannot marry you, Nicholas. Actually, it's you who cannot marry me."
Nicholas turned from her and walked to the bow windows. He pulled back the drapery and looked out onto the spring-ripening gardens across the street. There were daffodils swaying in a light breeze, their yellow vivid against the well-scythed green grass. He turned slowly to face her. 'This is unacceptable, Rosalind."
She felt clouted to her soul. She wanted to burst into tears, but she didn't. When she'd realized at the advanced age of eight that her brain was perfectly blank, she'd wept until she was ill, and learned tears were good for exactly nothing. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm very sorry I didn't tell you immediately. I allowed you to gain lust and fondness for me."
"Lust and fondness," he repeated, a dark brow arched. "You put that nicely. You misunderstand me. I find it unacceptable that someone tried to murder you—a child."
"That is because you are noble. But I survived. Listen, Nicholas, I could be a butcher's daughter, a pickpocket, a match girl. I could be a perfect nobody."
"No, you're not a nobody. Otherwise why would someone try to kill you, an eight-year-old child?"
"My Uncle Ryder and Uncle Douglas agree with you. They believe I must be the daughter of someone important, someone who made powerful enemies. It's true I was wearing very nice clothes when Uncle Ryder found me. Ripped and torn nearly off me, of course. And this." Rosalind unfastened a gold chain from around her neck. Hanging from the chain was a small heart locket. She handed it to him.
Nicholas held it in his palm. It was warm and smooth. He felt the small latch and opened the locket. Both sides were empty. He checked the thickness of the gold. No, there wasn't hidden space.
"It was empty when Ryder found you?"
She nodded. "Perhaps there were two pi
ctures, one of my mother or father, and one of me. Perhaps, but I don't know. Were the pictures removed because someone might recognize them?" She shrugged. "But it doesn't matter, Nicholas. No one has any idea at all of who I am or who my parents are—or were—or if they're English or Italian. Uncle Ryder believes I'm possibly hath, since when I began speaking, I spoke both Italian and English. Uncle Ryder also believes my parents must be dead" or they would have searched the earth for me. Of course that is what he would do if Grayson disappeared. It's a damnable thing, Nicholas, but I am a blank page."
"No, you're not at all blank. You have an ability that none of us have—you can easily read the Rules of the Pale. This is a gift, so perhaps you come from parents with a similar gift. You've accepted this gift of yours without question. I would say this gift is only one of many."
One of many? Hmm. "So much has happened so quickly. I haven't even wondered why I can read that blasted book." She gave him a pathetic attempt at a smile. "I will ask the ghosts when I next hear them. They come to me less often now. It's odd, but I miss them. It's like they're my only link to my lost past. And now they're giving up on me."
"Ghosts," he repeated. "Ghosts around you."
"You don't think me mad, do you?"
He looked distracted. He drummed his fingertips on the mantelpiece. "Mad? Oh, no. My grandfather, I believe he was intimately acquainted with ghosts, and he wasn't mad, believe me." He shrugged. "To be honest, I suppose I assumed you were of my class. Say we discover you aren't, Rosalind . What does that mean in the long course of events? Not much of anything. My own father was a weak man, manipulated by my stepmother, but vicious as only a weak man can be. Whoever you are doesn't matter to me. You 're Rosalind de La Fontaine. You will shortly be mine, Rosalind Vail, the Countess of Mountjoy."
"You cannot be so noble, Nicholas, so elevated in your spirit, you cannot—"
"Hush. That's quite enough. Let's be sensible here. You would like to know who you really are. I am acquainted with many different sorts of people from all over the world. I will have your portrait painted, perhaps a dozen miniatures, and I will have them sent out. We will discover who your parents were, Rosalind . Or, perhaps, one morning you will wake up next to me, and smile, and you will remember. I quite understand why your Uncle Ryder and Uncle Douglas stopped the search. But you will not worry about anyone ever hurting you again. I will protect you with my life."
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