by Tessa Candle
This man had come to—what? To befriend her, perhaps. But it felt oddly like something more. She was more imperilled in her current circumstances, than if she were dining with the murderous Cousin Peter. Continuing the con was excruciating, but she could not lose her wits now, merely because a handsome man was kind to her. Even if he was perfect.
Rosamond forced herself to think rationally. Her goal and her freedom were so close now, and her enemy might be right next door. Making a mistake at this juncture could be fatal.
Frobisher reached out and took her hand. The sensation was more than a jolt this time. It was a warm stream flooding her whole body, awaking memories of a time when she was not afraid, when there was a place where she belonged, when she was loved.
"My God, this cannot be!" She was not sure if she spoke the words, or merely thought them, but hoped that he had not heard the meaning behind her faint groan.
What she wanted to do was throw herself over the table and crawl into his lap. What she did was snatch her hand away, her heart pounding in her ears. How had she turned into such a ninny? A full belly and a few kind words from a handsome face, and all of a sudden she was ready to curl up beside him like a spaniel? What was wrong with her?
Frobisher's expression was shattered and contrite. "I am sorry to have interrupted your meal and your tranquillity with my zeal. Please be assured, sir, that I mean you only well."
Rosamond was so moved that she almost gave him her hand back, but instead muttered some excuse about not being accustomed to touch. It was true enough, but it was not the reason she pulled away. Indeed, it was among the reasons why she so longed for him to touch her again.
To keep herself in check, she ate another helping of lemon gateau and polished off her wine. Frobisher promptly refilled the glass, but did not venture to say anything else. When they emptied the bottle, he got another.
After the second bottle Rosamond was feeling in better spirits, if not any more relieved of her impulse to be close to him. When he opened a third bottle and continued to pour, Rosamond began to consider, a bit too late, whether getting drunk was the best idea at the current moment. But she smiled to herself and sipped at her refreshed glass. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Frobisher, still quiet, examined her intently. She was afraid to look straight at him and she knew she could disguise this fear behind the façade of lower class humility. But his eyes smouldered in the candlelight, as though he desired her as much as she desired him. Though her glass was only half empty, he poured more wine into it.
An uncomfortable thought occurred to her then. Frobisher might be trying to seduce her. It was mostly uncomfortable because she found that she did not entirely object. In fact, she was alarmed to discover that she wished he would do so. To be touched by another, enfolded into the warmth and care of his arms—especially a man such as this—it was the desire of her heart. Her skin grew hot, she lifted her eyes to meet his and could see her own tumultuous cravings reflected there.
But then, a bucket of cold water fell upon her. He was not looking at her. This fierce, bewildering, passionate gaze was levelled at Mr. Hatch.
Her stomach lurched and her cheeks burned with humiliation. She was such a bacon-brain that she had thought she was developing an attachment for Frobisher—she would not call it falling in love—all the time forgetting that the kindness, the words, the touches were for another. To wit, his regard was engaged by a man.
She sat, trying to keep her mouth from hanging open while she considered this revelation. Then, all at once he was speaking. She forced herself to meet his gaze, finding it had changed, as his mind had moved on to another point of fixation.
"Mr. Hatch, may I ask you again to conjure your otherworldly vision on my behalf? I need some information. You see, there is this woman that I am searching for."
A fresh anxiety gripped Rosamond—and it was only slightly dulled by the effect of the wine. Why now, of all times, was he reverting to his chase of Mrs. Colling? Rosamond, having discarded that identity, found herself thinking of it as another person.
A smile of self-mocking crossed her lips. It was jealousy. She was envious of the woman that might separate Frobisher's attention from herself. She was resentful of Mrs. Colling. No, she had no grounds for such a feeling. Mr. Hatch was jealous of Mrs. Colling. Even better. Was she a bigger fool for wishing to stay close to a man who obviously liked men, or for wishing, though it might separate him from her, that he did not give up on his noble quest to help Mrs. Colling so quickly?
Did she prefer him to stay with her, if it meant that he would be repulsed by her when he discovered she was a woman, or did she want him to affirm that he liked women in that way by fleeing her presence in pursuit of another? Either way, she was a hopelessly beef-witted fool.
"I think I am too drunk," she said at last. It was the naked truth that they were both feeling the wine. But Frobisher was a man accustomed to a lot of drink, and he was much larger than she was. He had her at an advantage. She tried to focus. "Too drunk to read your lordship's palm."
"But you said before," he leaned forward and gave her a meaningful look, "that there were other means."
What had she gotten herself into? She had only meant to frighten him out of pursuing a more in depth fortune. What sort of bizarre ritual would she have to devise to maintain this charade? And why did Frobisher insist on taking these silly dramatizations seriously? It was he who was paying her to play the part of a mystic.
"Perhaps, if you tell me plainly what you wish to know, I can give you my thoughts, my lord." Her voice was slurred. "I do not claim to be a powerful medium, or any such thing. To be truthful, it is more for the entertainment of his lordship and the guests that I make my little efforts in this field. It is not a calling."
He chuckled, and the warmth that he had shone on her before returned. "The sooner I find her, the sooner I can come back to…" His breathing quickened. He paused a few moments and shook his head. "The sooner I can return to the countryside."
Rosamond's heart was beating so that she thought he must be able to hear it. His eyes were smouldering with mad emotion. This was the real, raw Frobisher. She wanted so much to draw nearer to that fire, but would it burn her up? Burn away all her disguises and then finally consume her, too?
She was pulled in so many directions. An insanity overcame her and she reached across the table and took up the hand that rested by his glass and stroked the palm, pretending to examine it, wanting so much more than his hand. "I will say this much, his lordship will not find the woman he seeks… unless he takes me with him." It was true, but as with everything in her life, terribly misleading.
Frobisher grasped her hand. His whole heart was in his eyes. "You marvellous creature! Why did I not think of it myself? And so you will come with me to give me counsel? You will come away to London?"
A sheet of white heat drifted before Rosamond's gaze, and she had an actual vision—a vision of panic and despair. What had she suggested? What was wrong with her? "Forgive me, my lord." She stood and wobbled on her feet. "I believe I must lie down."
Chapter 48
Frobisher watched Mr. Hatch stand up, and he wanted to detain him, to do or say anything to make him stay. But his feelings gave way to a mounting alarm as he watched Mr. Hatch begin to teeter his way to the bedroom.
He stood and moved quickly toward the hermit. "Let me assist you!"
Mr Hatch did not seem to hear him, but stumbled and put out a hand to steady himself on a chair as he passed.
Frobisher made it to the man's side as he fell in a dead faint. A flood of emotion overcame him and he picked up Mr. Hatch in his arms. Frobisher winced at how terrifyingly light the limp form he held was. He had been a beast, keeping the man up late and plying him with drink until he lost his senses. Why was he so consumed with Mr. Hatch's company that he took leave of his own rational mind and selfishly ignored the man's wellbeing?
As he reached the bedroom and laid Mr. Hatch down, Frobisher's nos
e was teased once again by the scent of Mrs. Colling's perfume. It was maddening, even though faint. It was maddening because faint.
"It is maddening because you are mad, you fool!" he muttered to himself. "You are smelling the stolen kerchief." He took the precious item from his pocket and laid it upon the table beside the bed. Then he returned to Mr. Hatch's side.
The hermit had not awakened. Frobisher took the man's hand. He had never looked at it closely before. Though deeply tanned and displaying a set of dirty fingernails, it was small and delicate, like a young girl's hand. He stroked it, first feeling a grave concern that the man might not awaken, then, as his emotions boiled inside of him, a concern that he might awaken and tear his hand away again. This precious hand.
What on earth was wrong with him?
Frobisher stirred himself and stood up. He could still smell that maddening scent. It must be the kerchief that was driving him wild. And he was more susceptible in his drunken state—that was all.
He took up the kerchief again, bent on removing it as far away from himself as he could. He placed it on the hat stand by the cottage door and returned to the bedroom.
Mr Hatch had stirred enough to roll over on his side. Frobisher saw this with relief. The man was not seriously harmed. He might sleep it off without much other ill effect than a headache.
He should go. It was very late, and he had matters to see to before their trip in the morning. And yet, he could not tear himself from Mr. Hatch's side. Though the kerchief was now far away, the bedevilling imp of the perfume still teased him. Was his mind so altered as that? Was he imagining things?
A wave of exhaustion and the beckoning curve of Mr. Hatch's shoulder made him long to lie down. He could watch over Mr. Hatch and get a few hours rest before returning to the manor. What could it hurt? Careful not to wake the sleeping man, Frobisher stretched out beside him on the bed.
Chapter 49
Rosamond awoke to the sounds of someone moving about the cottage. She froze. It was just after dawn, if the pale sun under her curtain was any indication. Who could possibly be out there?
As the pains of a headache began to afflict her, she recollected the events of the evening before. Frobisher. Was he only now leaving?
Added to the torment boiling in her skull, Rosamond was suddenly struck by the fresh pain of recollection. She groaned. What had she done? She had some dim notion that he might have slept next to her, touched her. Or was that only a dream? Was the memory merely the product of her own feelings? Even now in the sober and somewhat jaded light of day she still wished he were close to her.
Rosamond heard the noise again in the outer rooms and stood up from the bed, causing a great surge of agony around her temples. She forced herself to stagger to the bedroom door. She might still be a bit drunk. If Frobisher was yet nearby, she needed to speak with him, to apologize for passing out the evening before, and for... Well, she would make that one apology count for all the things that had to go unsaid.
When she came into the main dining room area, however, Frobisher was nowhere to be seen. Instead there were two servants clearing up the remains of last night's debauched repast.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Hatch," one of the maids said, seeing Rosamond emerge from the bed chamber. "We did not mean to disturb you. Only his lordship left instructions for us to tidy up over here."
In her weakened state Rosamond could not formulate a civil reply. She was deadly thirsty. "Do you have anything to drink? Not wine," she added hastily. "Something else. Anything else."
The other maid rustled about at a sideboard and produced a pitcher of buttermilk, pouring Rosamond a tumbler full.
Rosamond drank the entire contents in a few gulps and handed the tumbler back to be refilled. She also drank the second serving in an instant. Then she remembered herself and croaked, "Thank you."
The other maid spoke up. "There was a man here to see you, as we were arriving."
"Was it Frobisher—I mean his lordship, the marquess?” It was a stupid question, for if it had been, the woman would certainly have said so in the first place.
"No. It was another. A lord, to be sure, but not our master."
Rosamond blanched. She gulped back the rising quake of unease in her stomach. A lord. Her throat felt suddenly hoarse. "Did he leave his name?"
"No. But I knew he was a lord because they have a certain way about them, you know. And he was brazen as a lord, that's for certain. Was standing right in this very room without so much as a by-your-leave. He said he was looking for the lady who lived here. But I told him there's no lady living here. Only Mr. Hatch. And what do you think, as bold as brass he says, 'Ah Mr. Hatch is it?' Just as though he knows you."
Rosamond tried to fathom what she was hearing, and as the possibilities and probabilities penetrated her wine-wasted mind, a cold sweat broke over her skin. "Did this gentleman have a walking stick?"
"Yes." The maid looked at Rosamond as though she were daft to even ask.
Of course he did. Most lords carried them. "With a silver falcon head at the top?"
She nodded. "Why yes, just so. But it looked as though it had seen better days, if you don't mind my saying so. Do you know this lord, Mr. Hatch? Only I should not have been so stern with him, if I knew him to be a proper guest. He had a dark sort of look about him, as though he was up to no good—say it as I shouldn't about a lord."
Did she know him? It was best to lie, really. "No, but I have heard that a lord who matches that description broke into Blackwood Manor and was arrested for criminal trespass. He is not received by the duke."
"Well then, I don't imagine his lordship will think much of him poking around here." The maid looked about her. "Looks like we are all done. Can we fetch anything for you before we take things away?”
Rosamond, wavering between panic and sick despondency, merely shook her head.
When the maids were gone, she went out and splashed water on her eyes from the rain barrel, carefully avoiding her false eyebrows. Her worst fears had been realized. He had found her, by God. How he had done so, she could only guess. Perhaps Mrs. Holden had given her away. And yet, Mrs. Holden only knew her as Mr. Hatch. How could she have told anything?
Perhaps he had seen Frobisher’s card on the salver, as she’d worried he might have, and made enquiries about why the marquess had called. Cousin Peter was not much for sweet talking anyone, but Mrs. Holden might have been unwilling to disoblige a lord, and Frobisher would probably have seen no reason to swear her to secrecy.
Yet how could he have made the connection between the widow he sought out and Mr. Hatch? The cottage was on the path that led to Brookshire, where Cousin Peter must be staying. Had he simply been trying to find out his faithless wife? Was it mere coincidence that he had been poking around her place?
Rosamond forced herself to put all conjectures and questions aside. The fact was that her cousin was here nosing around. It was time to leave. She dashed to her room and began throwing her things together into her bag.
With all the sudden removals she had been making lately, it was a good thing she had so little in the world to weigh her down.
Then she thought of Frobisher. Nothing to weigh her down except her heart. A moan of self-recrimination escaped her as she recalled agreeing the night before to accompany him to London. This she could not do. She could not even stop to say goodbye to him.
Rosamond checked her wig and beard in her shaving mirror before returning the little glass to its fabric case and tucking it into the bag. Then she plastered on her hat, stuffed her sack with some bread and cheese from the larder closet that Frobisher had restocked, and made for the door.
She opened it, ready to rush out, but was stopped in her tracks by a man standing with his cane raised in the air, its silver falcon head gleaming in the dull first rays of morning like the feathers of a bird of prey circling above her.
Chapter 50
Frobisher had mulled it over and over on his walk back to the manor. The dawn li
ght was filtering through the leaves of the trees, and the birds were singing the first tentative notes of morning song.
Frobisher too, felt tentative. He turned his course at the last moment to avoid the manor house, preferring to wander around the grounds and ruminate. He did not wish to face anyone, at the moment, not even his servants.
Last night it had seemed like a brilliant idea to have Mr. Hatch accompany him to London—better than brilliant, truly inspired. But by the light of day, he could not understand that other Frobisher. Was it the wine? What had possessed him to crawl into bed next to Mr. Hatch? Had he completely lost his mind?
And he had awakened with a massive erection. Perfect. His best friend woke up and decided to jut into the back of Mr. Hatch. It was utterly humiliating. He could not leave the hermitage soon enough, and yet…
He wanted very desperately to blame the wine, but in his heart of hearts, he could still feel the longing even now that he was sober. What he wanted to do was run back to Mr. Hatch, be close to him, talk to him. What he should do was park his idiotic rump in his carriage and immediately depart for town before he had a chance to make a greater fool of himself.
What must Mr. Hatch have thought? He could only hope that the man had been too overcome by drink himself to notice that the marquess had cuddled up to him, too sound asleep to notice the little lord poking his buttocks. It was too much to hope. Oh God! He berated himself again, what must Mr. Hatch be thinking?
But the more bedevilling question was what did Frobisher think of himself? And this was too mortifying a topic to contemplate. He finally gave up and returned to the manor.