by Tessa Candle
The plan was to get there before the workmen, but upon arriving he heard the sounds of the crew in lively discussion. The workers must have been out at the crack of dawn.
"We can’t just put him in a bucket. Show some respect, man!"
"Right. How ’bout a wheelbarrow?"
Frobisher approached the men. "Did you find something?" It was not possible, of course, but he had to at least pretend. If they found some old hambone or something, it would save him the trouble of planting his own fabricated remains.
"My lord!" The first man jumped and removed his hat. "We were not expecting your lordship, but the timing is good. We found Mr. Hatch—God rest his soul."
"Oh indeed?" Frobisher pushed past the circle the three men had formed, and took a look, expecting to see nothing. But there, lying beneath a bit of charred beam was a body. Frobisher gasped.
"I beg your forgiveness, my lord. We should have covered him up. We did not mean to shock his lordship."
"No, not all." Frobisher swallowed and recollected himself. "After all, it is not quite real unless one sees it with one’s own eyes." This was a very unpleasant turn of events. Who was the dead man? And he was visibly a man, for his boots and much of his clothing were sufficiently intact to mark them as belonging to a male. Had someone else accidentally been trapped inside? Frobisher did not see how it was possible. He had been in the cottage himself before the blaze became too high for entry, and there was no one inside. Only a man bent on suicide would have gone into that fire after Frobisher left.
Frobisher leaned in to inspect the corpse more closely. He was a gaunt figure, by all appearances—a bit taller than would fit Mr. Hatch's description, but not much. And who would notice that detail?
In fact, the dead body did nicely corroborate the story of Mr. Hatch's death. It was too convenient. Then a wonderful idea struck him. What if it were Screwe? What if he had come back to be certain his victim was burnt, or to retrieve something he had forgotten, and ended up dying by his own evil machinations?
Oh, it was too good to be true, wasn't it? It was not Christian of him, but the very thought made Frobisher wish to dance a jig right next to the bastard's smouldering remains. He quashed the grin that was forming on his lips and pressed them into a look of stoic determination. "Very well." He sighed for effect. "I have had a wooden casket made for our departed friend. I shall have it brought over and we can lift Mr. Hatch directly into it. Are you three strong enough to move this beam in the meantime?"
After the three men removed the charred plank, more of the dead man's ensemble became visible. He might certainly have been wearing a gentleman's clothes, but it was not possible to be sure. It could have been Screwe.
When the box arrived and the men began to carefully roll the corpse onto a canvas sheet so that it might be transferred with the least loss of fragile pieces, something caught Frobisher's eye. It was a cane. It was scorched and broken, but the man's body had apparently shielded it from the worst of the flames, for it remained identifiable as a gentleman's walking stick. He leaned in closer to peer at it. Screwe's had a sliver head on it in the shape of a falcon. No such ornament topped this stick, but the upper end appeared to have been broken. Had it been removed?
He looked suspiciously at the three men who had finished transferring the body and were now carrying the box out to the waiting cart. There was not a look of guilt among them. He truly did not think they had taken anything. Indeed, he would not begrudge them the bit of silver in the least. Only if it was Screwe's corpse, he would like very much to be certain of it.
Chapter 73
Rosamond was glad to have the faux funeral over with, although she could not attend. She prayed that news of Mr. Hatch's death and interment would circulate quickly around the neighbourhood and in the papers. If only it would secure her from Screwe's attempts on her life so she could have a modicum of peace and freedom.
She had not minded being locked up indoors at Blackwood. The domestic calm and good company was a very welcome change from the chaos of her previous lives. Her days were filled with fine food, pretty clothes, quiet amusements and ease.
And Frobisher had essentially taken up residence at Blackwood, so her nights were filled with even more pleasant, though considerably less quiet, amusements.
All in all, she was not discontent, but she did long to have their engagement more widely known. And she wished to visit Fenimore and see what would be her new home, to indulge the dream of establishing her own household with the man she loved. It was the part of her future life that she was most impatient for. But Frobisher believed it would be far too risky for her to leave Blackwood, so she stayed.
Father Tobin was to come pay call at Blackwood after the funeral, and she hoped the secret visit would allow a bit of planning toward the wedding. It was something, at least.
But nothing could be overtly done. She could not even officially exist until after her twenty-first birthday. This thought reminded her that in all the confusion—not to mention the delicious distractions of her fiancé—she had not opened the message that had come from Mr. Trent.
As everyone else was out either attending the funeral, or taking a turn around the grounds, she would have some uninterrupted repose. Rosamond went to her room, retrieved the letter and scanned over it quickly. It did not say much. She took it downstairs, intending to read it more thoroughly in the east parlour, which had become her favourite.
But as she passed the entry room at the bottom of the stairs, the door flew suddenly open, and Mr. Delville dashed inside. Not waiting for a servant, he closed and bolted the door.
"Mr. Delv—" was all she got out before she was interrupted.
"Dee! Mr. Dee. Do remember that. Ah, but never mind, I was not here. Neither Mr. Dee nor Mr. Delville was ever here, you understand? I need you to hide me." He gave her a wild look and then a sudden thought interrupted the panic. "I don't suppose you have a key to the wine cellar?"
Rosamond did not have a chance to reply before a knock came on the door, and Mr. Delville jumped out of his skin.
"Good lord! It is too ruddy late. I've been spotted!" He cast about madly for the best place to hide, when a second knock put him out of all patience and he shouted through the door, "Go away you relentless blood-sucking servant of hell! For the love of Christ, leave me alone!"
The servant arrived and opened the door to a somewhat confused looking clergyman.
Delville’s chuckle of relief still held a twinge of nervousness. "Ah, Father Tobin. Sorry about that. I thought you were my mother."
The man looked more confused, but announced that Frobisher had been detained at the funeral speaking on some business with one of the attendees, and had sent him along to Blackwood to speak to his fiancée about the wedding.
The servant ushered him in, and he walked past Delville, smiling at Rosamond and saying, "I am sorry that there is no one proper here to introduce us, but I am told that God himself makes the way easy for clergy to introduce themselves."
Rosamond smiled and extended her hand. "I should not dream of standing upon ceremony, Father Tobin."
"Excellent!" Delville piped up. "I have never had much use for ceremony myself. Speaking of which, if you two are going to talk about weddings and such, perhaps you could first see your way clear to finding me the key to the wine cellar?"
Chapter 74
Frobisher returned from the funeral to Blackwood, eager to find Rosamond. He did not like to be away from her for long, both for safety's sake, and for the sake of his own deeper impulse to be as close to her as possible. But now he had an added inducement to hurry him along, for he had received some very intriguing intelligence from a man he met at the funeral.
The servant led him to the south parlour where Rosamond was apparently entertaining visitors.
As Frobisher entered, Delville jumped from his seat and looked ready to flee. Then, pretending nothing was wrong, he assumed a more relaxed demeanour and strolled over. "Frobisher. Lovely to see you."
Frobisher gave him a queer look. "Quite. It has been at least two hours since we last spoke at the funeral."
"Ah, yes? Only two hours you say. Well it seems like longer." He leaned in to deliver a confidence whispered in a voice that had to be audible to everyone else in the room. "They have been talking of weddings and church practices and all such manner of horrid things, Frobisher. And nothing but tea to stave off the blue-devils. Have you nothing stronger?"
Frobisher shook his head at his odd friend, but smiled and stepped back out to hail the footman. "Take Mr. Delville up to the library and furnish him with some stronger refreshments."
"The library?" Delville perked up. "Brilliant. She'll never look there. If anyone enquires after me, I was not here. Neither was Mr. Delville. There's a good fellow!" Delville barely paused to turn and bow to Rosamond, who was laughing, and the priest, who frowned but inclined his head. Then he dashed away.
When he was gone, Frobisher said, "Well, have you two been making wedding plans?"
"Indeed we have," Rosamond replied, "but mostly we have been getting better acquainted." She said it with a significance that told Frobisher she had decided to trust the priest with everything about her identity and her secrets.
This was very good news. Frobisher had noticed in her a lingering tendency toward secrecy and mistrust. It was completely understandable given her past, but he did not think she would be happy unless she could learn to stop looking over her shoulder and carefully controlling the information she shared. The priest could be relied upon. Confidences were at the heart of his business.
Father Tobin rose to take his leave, assuring them both that there should be no impediment to their wedding, and that he looked forward to baptising their children.
Children. A happy glow spread over Frobisher. What a wonderful thought. However, he could not indulge his dreams of filling Fenimore with chirping, knee-scraping progeny at the moment, for he had important news to discuss with his beloved.
When the priest was gone, he turned to Rosamond, and they said at the same time, "I have to tell you something."
She laughed. "Very well. What have you to say?"
Frobisher took a breath. He knew not how to soften the shock that this information would give her. Or even if what he had learned was to be credited. He guided her back to the couch and sat down beside her. "A man, whom I believe you know, approached me at the funeral."
"Not another of Screwe's agents?" The perpetual fear was present in her eyes.
"No." He took her hand and squeezed it. "It was a Mr. Trent."
Rosamond's brow furrowed. "I have only just read a letter that he sent to me when I was Mr. Hatch. He had not discovered much, aside from what we already suspected, that Screwe has been spending my money as though it were his own, and only constrained by the suspicions of the banker that managed the trust account. Indeed, that was what I meant to tell you. But whatever could Mr. Trent have come to the funeral for?"
"When he heard of Mr. Hatch's death, he came hoping to find the heir, or some acquaintance that directed him to the heir." Frobisher chuckled. "He has forgiven the deceased Mr. Hatch for misleading him into believing that Mr Hatch was, himself, the beneficiary. Since sending that letter to you, he has discovered that he is really seeking a woman, and he hopes still to make some fee off of his services, even though the contingency arrangement cannot be enforced."
Rosamond tilted her head. "Well, that is only fair. I shall pay him for his work, if there is anything left of my inheritance when it passes to me."
Frobisher looked at her and sighed. "I know this inheritance is important to you, but I promise you, even without it, you will never want for anything. I have spent my life spoiling myself. And though you have taught me to love, you have not taught me restraint. I intend to spoil you like no marchioness has ever been spoiled in the history of England." The dream of children brought a grin to his face. "You and all our dozen children."
"Dozen?" She laughed at him. "I think we may need to negotiate that point."
Frobisher looked at her earnestly. "But do you not want a big family?"
Rosamond sighed. "I have had no family to speak of for so long, and until recently, the friends I have found I have lost. Any family at all seems large—like a bounty I never expected to have. Of course I want children, but you are terribly off topic. I am sure you were not so earnest about telling me merely that Mr. Trent desired payment."
"No." Frobisher came to the point, "But speaking of friends, Mr. Trent has told me that, in seeking out information on the estate, he has discovered—or rather he was approached by—a man who claims some acquaintance with you. That is to say, that he, too, was looking for the heiress. Mr. Trent has offered to arrange a meeting with him."
The nervous look came over her again, and Frobisher put his arm around her shoulder. "Do not fear. I questioned Trent closely, and it is not Screwe. We shall have to ascertain if it is anyone working for him, of course, but Mr. Trent described him as a fine, well-mannered gentleman. That does not sound like anyone that Screwe might lure into his schemes. And this could be important in establishing your identity, if it were someone who knew you as Rosamond Delville."
"I cannot imagine anyone else who knew me as myself. Did Mr. Trent furnish you with a name of this so-called friend?" Rosamond's voice betrayed her scepticism.
"Mr. Andrews. Do you remember anyone by that name?"
Her eyes grew wild, and she stood suddenly. "My God! Impossible! We must leave now!"
He looked at her in bewilderment. Good Lord, what had he done?
Chapter 75
Rosamond dashed from the parlour and up the stairs to her chamber. She needed her sack, and something to disguise her face. But her thoughts scattered, she was in such blind panic that she could not think rationally.
She should have known better than to trust in the safety of this place. Safety, family—all were an illusion. She should never have let her guard down. Andrews was dead, and whoever this pretender was, he had to be working for Screwe. She did not know how he had done it, but Screwe had found her out and sent an impostor to lead her into a trap.
She hated Screwe in this moment, more than she had ever done before. Now that she had found a life, love, friends and happiness, he surfaced again to rip it all from her. And he did it in such a hurtful way. If Screwe had discovered her past with Andrews, he had to know what Andrews meant to her, how the possibility of seeing him again would tear at her heart.
But it was a trick. A bloody, nasty, vile, murderous scheme. She now wished that she had killed Screwe in that fire, that she had knocked him unconscious as he crept in to light the curtains with his torch, bashed him over the head again for good measure and nailed the door shut on him with his own hammer.
But there was no time for regrets. She had to move. Screwe or one of his assassins could be on his way as they spoke. How much had Frobisher revealed to Mr. Trent? Her only hope was that, if Screwe had discovered their relationship, he would assume Rosamond was at Fenimore. A little delay was all she needed to get away.
She grabbed the sack from the corner of her closet and looked ruefully at the beautiful violet dress she wore. It was a conspicuously bad match for the grubby looking bag, and it would be a bit of a hindrance in a flight, but there was no time to change. Perhaps Frobisher could lend her some men's clothing, later.
Frobisher. Her heart had been subtly conning her into the idea that she could bring him with her. But it would be impossible to remain concealed with a marquess tacked to her side. And he could not protect her—she could only endanger him.
She loved him. She could not bear to leave him, but for his own safety, she must. Rosamond flew out the door and into the arms of Frobisher.
"Hold up!" he said. "Rosamond! Where are you going?"
He looked into her eyes and her heart melted all over again. "Please let me pass, I must get away."
His eyes softened into sad pools as he stared in recrimination at the b
ag on her shoulder. "And were you going to leave without me?" It came out as barely more than a whisper.
She looked at him in silence. What could she say? This was so miserable. She was hurting him, abandoning him again, just as she had been abandoned so many times.
"You must calm yourself and tell me what the matter is. We can conquer anything together."
His words were so valiant, so temptingly sincere. She could never deserve him. She would only bring him under the same curse that afflicted her.
"I will tell you, but I must leave this minute, walk with me." As she struggled internally, he complied and went with her, but kept his arm glued to her waist as they strode down the hallway.
"Speak to me, Rosamond. Do not cut me out and run away again."
His words stung her conscience. "I only leave for your sake."
He hissed out a frustrated sigh. "You must never say that. Do I not have some say in what is for my sake? I should never agree with any argument that I be separated from the woman I love more than life. How could that ever be for my sake? Tell me, now, Rosamond: who is this Andrews fellow?"
They were descending the stairs, but his grip on her waist was firm. Rosamond knew Frobisher would not see the necessity of her leaving. He would believe he could protect her. But Screwe was so insidious. He could worm his way through a single crack in one's defences. She groaned as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "Andrews is the man I used to aid in swindling people."
Frobisher gasped, and released her so he could turn her to face him. "The man who posed as your father?"
"Sometimes, yes." Rosamond was miserable. "But he is dead. Do you not see? This man is an impostor. Screwe must have learned about him and sent some actor to torment me, thinking I would become incautious and run to see this man I had thought long dead. It is a trap. He knows I am alive, he knows of my connection with you and he means to kill me. He will not stop trying if this ruse fails, either. He will keep coming to find me and kill me in my sleep."