by Tessa Candle
Frobisher rolled his eyes. "No doubt. I forbear from having children, and you claim it is to spite you. He has progeny a-plenty, and you claim it is to spite you. Is there anyone whose familial arrangements are not part of this grand, ubiquitous plot to tax your nerves?" He emptied the cup of its cold tea slops and selected a bottle from his brandy collection.
His mother’s brow furrowed and she opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a servant announcing the arrival of Mr. Patton, the landscape designer.
The Marquess brightened. "Excellent! And so soon." He set down the brandy decanter and returned to the study door, leaving his mother behind. "I'll take him out to the grounds right away."
Chapter 3
The rock slid loose from its place to reveal a pile of rotted fabric and a wooden box showing some signs of weathering. Rosamond pulled the box from the hole, glad to see that it was still intact.
She replaced the stone hastily and stuffed the box into her sack, then fled the back garden through the gate and skirted the south wall of the manor.
She stayed as close as she could to the building, hoping to pass unseen beneath the windows. The murmur of voices became apparent as she neared the corner by the front of the house. Whoever had arrived was disembarking.
She froze and listened. A trunk was dragged along the flagstones and dropped somewhere near the front entrance.
"Will that be all, m'lady?" The servant's London accent and uninterested voice convinced Rosamond that he was not the lady's regular driver. He must be a hired man from town.
"Can you not carry the trunk into the house?" The woman sounded embarrassed. "Only I do not think the servants have arrived yet, or they would have come to greet me." She paused then added without conviction, "There must have been some delay."
The man replied only with a huff. Sounds ensued of the trunk being carried off into the house through the front door. Apparently he was not interested in wasting his time going through the servants’ entrance.
Could the woman be her cousin's wife? Whatever was she doing out here—and without a proper carriage or staff? In a few moments the driver's boots stomped out the door and across the flagstones. The hackney drove away.
Rosamond did not wait around to discover more. She dashed for the cover of the forest. She had to get out of sight before the new lady of the manor started opening curtains and peering out windows.
Chapter 4
Frobisher waved a hand at the rose garden. "These can all be moved elsewhere. I want to do away with such stuffy things and create some amusements."
Mr. Patton nodded and made a note while Frobisher's grounds-man pressed his lips together in impotent silence. The rose garden was his favourite enterprise.
"Oh, do not pout so, Meeks. You can transplant the roses to some other location." Frobisher gestured vaguely.
"Very good, my lord." Meeks suppressed a sniffle.
Mr. Patton tilted his head. "And does your lordship have any particular amusements in mind?"
"I was thinking of a grand hedge maze."
"Hedges take some time to grow, my lord."
"Oh, but I cannot wait for that. Can you not go purchase some established bushes and transplant them here? The ground will be loosened by the removal of the roses."
Meeks coughed and wiped his face with a kerchief.
"Yes, my lord. It can be done."
"Good. You can handle the details and send my steward the proposed figure. I want it to be very grand, mind you, and really inscrutable. I love a good puzzle."
"Certainly, my lord. I shall get some sketches together to show you within the week."
"Very well. Now, on to the south cottage." Frobisher led the two men down to the very edge of the green, then gestured into the park forest. "See back there?"
"It is a snug little cottage."
"Aye, I suppose. But it does not have the right look. I need it to be a bit more desolate and ruined looking—and with an air of mystery.”
"What does your lordship have in mind?"
"It shall be a hermitage." Frobisher's lips curled into a self-pleased smirk. It was one of his best plans yet. He would get a hermit who would supply splendid entertainment for his guests and be someone of interest to visit and talk to when he needed to escape his mother. It would not hurt if the hermit were a little scary—just enough to frighten unwanted debutantes. His mother was sure to ignore his wishes and bring more of them.
"A hermitage, ah yes. And what sort of hermit shall his lordship have?"
Frobisher cocked his head. "Are there different kinds?"
"Oh yes, my lord. There are monastic hermits, for example—not very talkative but often capable of making a decent ale out of next to nothing. Then there are the wise hermits who dole out sage advice and mystical hermits who read palms and such. Or there are fearsome hermits who leap out and scare anyone who comes into their sphere—"
"A frightening hermit, to be sure. But perhaps with a touch of the mystical, too. Plus I shall sometimes want someone to talk to. Are there any hybrid types in the hermit business?"
"I believe so, my lord. I only ask so as to get a notion of what atmosphere the hermitage should present."
"Indeed. Mysterious and a bit frightening. Can you manage it? And will you procure the hermit for me, too?" Before waiting to hear the reply to this question, Frobisher strode enthusiastically onward. "Now a couple of miles down, there stands a rocky outcropping with a cave that has been sealed off—I suppose for safety or some such nonsense—" His words were cut off by a familiar voice behind him.
"Holding court on the lawns, eh, Bish?"
Frobisher turned and grinned at his old friend and new neighbour, the Duke of Bartholmer—Rutherford to his close friends.
"Rutherford! How excellent to see you! I was just going over my plans for improvements." Frobisher introduced the landscape designer, who bowed low to the duke. Then he turned to Meeks. "Why do you not take Mr. Patton out to the cave, Meeks?"
"Yes, my lord."
"You can get some idea of the work to be done, Mr. Patton." Frobisher's lace cuffs danced on the wind, and he waved his hands as if in a magical gesture that would accomplish all the work involved in the transformation that Patton was to pull off. "The cave mouth will have to be excavated, and the inside should be decorated—like it is a smugglers’ cave, or some treasure cache. It should be exotic and mysterious." Frobisher's face lit up. "And secret passageways! There must be secret passageways."
When he had ushered Patton and Meeks off to the task of examining the cave, Frobisher turned to Rutherford. "So very good to see you!"
"I can imagine. It looks like I barely arrived in time."
"Whatever do you mean?"
"That you are clearly bored," drawled Rutherford, "or else you would not be out worrying Meeks with your improvement schemes."
"Bah!" Frobisher huffed. "Meeks lacks imagination. A project or two will be good for him."
Rutherford looked about to say something, then stopped and squinted at the forest behind Frobisher. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" Frobisher glanced over his shoulder, but saw nothing.
"I thought I heard someone walking—look, those branches are still moving."
Frobisher shrugged. "Probably the wind. Let us go back to the manor and have some luncheon. You can tell me how the duchess is fairing."
"In fact you can see her yourself. She is inside chatting with your mother." Rutherford scanned the forest once more and then turned to walk with Frobisher. "And I have a matter to discuss with you that should stave off your boredom."
"Oh really?" Frobisher was intrigued.
"Yes, perhaps you might recall my asking you to look into the whereabouts of a certain pretty widow…"
They walked together across the green, back to Fenimore Hall.
Chapter 5
Rosamond held her breath. That was a close call. The new Duke of Bartholmer—no, out of respect for the old duke, she could not bring herse
lf to call him that—Mr. Rutherford had nearly discovered her. Blasted good hearing the man had.
It would be very bad to be found out by Rutherford, the man who had intruded upon her last moments with the old duke and cruelly wrestled her to the ground and ripped away the precious memento of her time with the dear old man. She had later stolen back the book, but she still bore Rutherford a grudge.
Of course, her own conduct in the matter was not entirely above reproach. She had sort of picked the fight—but who could blame her, really? She was mad with grief when the old duke died, and Rutherford snatched up the book that she spent weeks reading to the patient in his dark hours—while Rutherford was still off amusing himself in London and ignoring his sick uncle.
Still, she supposed she should return the book. She had to travel light, anyway, and the book was probably the reason Rutherford was still hunting for her. What a dog in the manger. The novel could mean nothing to him, and old Bartholmer would have wanted her to have it. Had Rutherford not sworn to his uncle on his death bed that he would protect and assist Rosamond?
Apparently that meant nothing to the petty, selfish man. He was too lazy to do his own dirty work, and was now plotting to send this Frobisher fellow after her. Typical bloody duke. And Frobisher was probably another insufferable, spoilt nobleman. Yet there was something about him.
She had met him at a ball in London once, when she was still running cons with Andrews, before she became the widow, Mrs. Colling. Frobisher presented himself as bored, sickly, grouchy and above his company when they were introduced. But Rosamond had watched him. He was an entirely different man around his male acquaintances and around Lady Goodram, the kind-hearted hostess of the ball.
His whole face changed when he spoke to his friends. It radiated warmth, vigour and caring—and a gleam of intellect flashed in his eye. But all this became immediately eclipsed behind a façade of indolent, stupid boredom when an eligible young lady came into range.
Frobisher was running a con of his own, and it inspired a sort of professional curiosity in Rosamond. It also made her like him a tiny bit better, even if he did hold debutantes in disdain to a degree that some might call misogynistic.
Indeed, he did have that reputation. But the thing that really intrigued her was that, unlike most young nobleman, he did not take one look at Rosamond's face and start devising plans for marriage, seduction, or worse things that got called seductions. So as far as she was concerned, the marquess was less hateful of her sex than a good half of the gentlemen she had met.
In fact, she doubted that he even remembered her. She was only another face in a great stall full of debutantes within the marriage market. He had immediately dismissed her as tedious. She had overheard him saying it to his cousin at Lady Goodram's ball, much to her amusement.
He was probably as dull-witted and useless as most noblemen, but he had not been swayed by her looks, so he at least had some depth and might even present a challenge. If she had any sort of normal life, this odd marquess might tempt her into the diversion of discovering more of his true character. But Rosamond was not in a position to get acquainted with anyone—especially not someone that Rutherford was using as an agent to discover her. All the nobles moved in similar circles, and Cousin Peter would certainly get word of her location if one of these lords discovered it. Discovery meant death.
The two meddling noblemen were far away now, nearing the front entrance to the manor. Rosamond relaxed and stepped out of her hiding place to return to the path that ran behind the cottage and all the way to Blackwood Park.
She had to get back and clear her things from the cottage where the old duke had permitted her to stay, and where she had been squatting in secret since his death. It had already been searched. But it was only a matter of time until someone came snooping again, or until Rutherford found a new tenant.
Yes, she had to leave, even if it was like losing her home all over again, even if she had no idea where else to go.
Chapter 6
Frobisher walked the wooded trail of Blackwood Park, on the ducal estate of his friend and neighbour, Rutherford, the recently ascended Duke of Bartholmer. It was probably pointless, for he had already checked Mrs. Colling's cottage once, but before he had only been looking for Mrs. Colling, not for clues to track her down.
He hated to admit that Rutherford was right, but it was the sort of diversion he needed, and it was for a good cause. Rutherford had told Frobisher of his conduct when his uncle died, and the new duke did indeed owe Mrs. Colling an apology.
As much as Frobisher tried to avoid young, pretty women, he still felt an impulse to assist Mrs. Colling. It troubled him that the widow was now out in the world without protection because his oaf of a friend had frightened her away. Rutherford had a duty to protect her according to his uncle's last wishes, and Frobisher wanted to help him discharge that duty.
He rubbed his hands together. He would enjoy the task of ferreting her out, but he would also enjoy getting his hands on Rutherford's black mare, Lucifer. That was to be his payment for the task. She was a beautiful animal, intelligent and fast as anything. It was a fair bargain: he who finds the widow gets the horse.
Something grazed his top hat and knocked it to the ground. Frobisher cursed and bent over to pick up the chapeau. It must have been a low-hanging branch. He dusted it off and looked up to see which guilty tree had done the deed. There were some branches hanging over the path, to be sure—perhaps they were low enough.
Then his eye spied a cord strung taut above the path just beneath the branches. He reached up to touch it. It was a dull brown wool and blended perfectly with its environment. Anyone tall or wearing a high hat would certainly be inconvenienced by it—probably some child's trick.
Frobisher's irritation converted to intrigue as he saw that the cord disappeared into the trees at the roadside. Where did it lead to? What was its purpose? Perhaps it could lead him to the culprit. He would check into it on his way back. This was a deeper game than child's play.
He continued along the path until the trees opened to reveal a clearing with a snug cottage plunked in the middle. He smiled. The sight of it cheered him. It had been decorated and improved so that it was no longer another poor dwelling, but the abode of someone with taste and heart.
Its seashells and potted plants were pretty embellishments, and the blue and white paint on the gate, sills and doorframe made it playful and sweetly childlike. The overall effect was homey and inviting.
When he arrived at the door, he felt compelled to knock. No answer came, so he entered the dwelling and looked about.
Someone had been there since his last visit, for things were not in the same order. A kettle full of water sat on the table, for example, and a cheap clay teapot stood empty beside it. The fire was out, but he could still smell the smoke and the room was warm.
He walked to the hearth and held out his hand. Heat was still radiating from it. Whoever had been there left very recently and in the middle of making tea—as though she hastened away at his approach. It must have been the widow. But how had she known he was coming?
He began inspecting the cupboards, but only found a small hunk of none-too-fresh bread. Examination of the floors and corners revealed a tiny scrap of paper. It looked like a corner from some sort of official document or letter, for it bore a spatter of sealing wax. There were a few ink markings that appeared to be the tail ends of hand-written letters, but nothing legible. It was probably of no consequence, but he tucked the paper into his pocket. Perhaps a closer examination might reveal some clue.
A fishing rod leaned in the corner by the door. He smiled. He could not help liking a woman who, though a reputed beauty, chose not to profit from her appearance and instead eked out her own existence fishing in the countryside.
He went to open the cupboard by the bed, and the door fell off its top hinge. Inside were a couple of bonnets that were too colourful for a widow. Perhaps she was saving them for when she came out of mourning, tho
ugh they were fancy city bonnets with lace and feather trim—very impractical in the countryside.
Did she have clothing to match them? Was she planning to return to town? He shuddered. London was not a good place for a young, unprotected woman—particularly a pretty one.
He pulled out the bonnets and carefully set the cupboard door back into place. When he looked more closely at the hats, he found a silk kerchief tucked into one of them. It had some age to it, but was very fine, ivory in colour and embroidered with gold thread at one corner to display the initials R.D.
Well, that was something, at least. Certainly not the initials of a Mrs. Colling. Could it be a relic from her maiden days? A fragrance tickled his nose and he held up the kerchief to better smell it.
The perfume was delightful. A hint of bergamot combined delicately with heady, almost drunken hyacinthine florals and a tiny dusting of freshly ground pepper and cloves. It was a bewildering distillate of womanly mystery and exotic knowledge.
He sat down on the bed and smelled the fabric again, for the pure delight of it. There was also an inkling of feminine skin within the bouquet of the cloth, as though her own scent had slipped seductively into the silk to mingle and flirt with the perfume and wreak havoc with his mind.
Frobisher shook his head to return his senses but could not erase the silly smile from his face. He forced himself to think. This perfume was expensive and certainly the work of a French master. His heart told him that it had been crafted for one magnificent woman, and only for her. His rational mind told him it was not the fragrance of a poor widow.
He carefully tucked the kerchief into his pocket, not wishing to rub away the smell.
He knew now that she was planning to leave, for she had clearly gathered most of her belongings already. He may have interrupted her last cup of tea. But she would not be safe out there on her own. He had to find her. If he left her cottage alone, would she return to it, at least to gather these last scraps?