The Three Evesham Daughters: Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Trilogy

by Audrey Ashwood

  “So, you could not find your brother, my Lord? Not even a trace?”

  Gabriel pondered. How could he express the months of research, the countless miles in a war-torn country? How could he describe the myriad of clues he had been following, only to keep discovering that the earth seemed to have swallowed Elijah?

  “The problem was not too few clues, but too many.” He frowned as he thought back to his search, which had taken him across France and down into wild, inaccessible Corsica. “Sometimes I got the impression that Elijah reincarnated himself and deliberately tricked me by letting his double cross my path.” He shared the last remnant of the alcohol evenly between them. “But neither is that likely nor does it make any sense. In the end, I had no choice but to accept that he was dead, although it is hard knowing that he will never rest on English soil.”

  Hollingsworth rubbed his chin. “I understand. Without any visible evidence, it is difficult, if not impossible, to say goodbye to someone you hold dear, my Lord.”

  Gabriel snorted. “Less of the title. My friends call me Cavanaugh.”

  The doctor looked at the glass in his hand for a moment, somewhat embarrassed, before thanking Gabriel for his trust.

  “Upon my request, he was pronounced dead.” Gabriel picked up the thread again. “That is the end of the matter for me, with or without visible evidence, as you call it.” He changed the subject abruptly. “We should return to the present. I want to talk to you a little more about Lady Catherine and her peculiar illness.”

  “Did you and Lady Catherine decide that she would stay at my father’s house?” Hollingsworth’s face brightened.

  “No. I think that will not be necessary.” Now, the doctor appeared confused. Gabriel raised his hand to stop his next question. “You see, Lady Catherine has confided in me that she is perfectly well, exactly as diagnosed. So, she no longer needs to go to a sanatorium or be looked after every day.” Satisfied and inwardly smiling, Gabriel noticed the mild disappointment that gripped the doctor. It was clear he was attached to Lady Catherine, but could it be that Dr Hollingsworth was unaware of his own feelings? Or perhaps he could not allow himself to see her as a woman because she was his patient? “But,” he continued, to stop torturing the man, “you are welcome to come to my house as a private guest.” Giving his peer a moment, he went on to tackle the critical question. “I could not help but notice that you and Lady Catherine are fond of each other. What are your intentions regarding my cousin?”

  “I would never presume to harbour hopes for the hand of a lady of her rank,” the doctor replied gently, but firmly. “As my patient … I mean, former patient … I mean, of course, in the future, I hope …” He broke off.

  “Good man,” Gabriel replied, gripped by an infinite relief, coupled with tiredness to the bone, “do I really have to play Cupid now? You are the reason for my cousin’s alleged illness and, as her doctor, you need to realise that you are also her only cure. As for Lady Catherine’s status – I just want her to be happy. The rest now lies in your hands.”

  Chapter 27

  Everyone had seen it but her.

  Her sisters had tried to warn her. Even her own mother had clearly expressed her lack of enthusiasm for the man Rose had chosen, not because of her clear preference for the marquess. Now the moment of truth had come, in which Rose had to avow herself that she had succumbed to an illusion.

  Richard de Coucy did not love her, probably never had. What was much, much more important, she did not love him, either. What Rose thought was a heartfelt feeling was… how should one call it? She had not been in love with him, she thought, but rather with the notion she associated with Lord de Coucy. She longed to marry and live with just one man for the rest of her life, with all that it entailed. Pain. Security. Shared laughter. Passion.

  Exactly that, Rose thought as she stared out at the misty-grey garden, was the point she understood least of all.

  Richard had kissed her. It was this kiss that had convinced her that he was the man of her dreams. She must have been wrong, but still … something was not right. She could, of course, put it down to her inexperience, yet Rose was firmly convinced that the man whose lips she had felt on hers that evening had more than tender feelings for her.

  Rose rested her head on both arms and grabbed hold of her hair. It was enough to drive one mad!

  Stay calm, she admonished herself and tried to rearrange the remnants of her coiffure. Her maid would get the willies, at least if she saw Rose’s hair. Apart from her dress, all the preparations for the dinner with her mother’s friend, Lady Evangeline Blankhurst, were complete. Rose looked in the mirror and put back the loose strands. It would be fine like that.

  One more time, from the beginning.

  And slowly.

  She had grasped two things. Firstly, the man who had kissed her two years ago had felt something for her. Secondly, Richard did not love her. Her throat went dry, her pulse raced, but Rose forced herself to face the truth.

  Who had kissed her that evening in a way that spoke of love? Had it been Richard, whose love had turned out to be a fleeting fancy, or someone else? There was only one other man besides Richard who was eligible. Her heart knew who had kissed her, even though her mind refused to hear the answer.

  Now it was important to find the evidence to prove that neither her feeling nor her cold logic were deceiving her.

  Cold? She felt anything but cold. She was not even warm, but in fact, glowing, burning from the inside. Was it anger? Maybe, but also shame, because she had not seen through the deception earlier. The sheer amount of emotions raging through her body (there was no other way of putting it) robbed her of breath.

  Who was the woman she faced in the mirror? Rose thought that the last few days she had spent with the Marquess of Cavanaugh had changed her – if not physically, at least in much of her way of thinking. Surely, her face was still smooth and wrinkle-free, except for the small, deep crease between her brows, which simply did not want to go, but the expression on her face had changed, although she could not pin down in what way.

  Rose ended the fruitless self-analysis. It was time to look ahead and leave the past behind. This morning, she had written a letter to Richard asking for his visit today, but so far, he had not bothered to show up. Presumably, he thought he was punishing her with his disregard, but his default of appearance was simply annoying. She had to talk to him, even if she did not expect to get many answers. But what did he do, despite the urgency in her words? He had not responded to her letter. Not only had he not called by, he had not even answered her.

  Perhaps he thought a visit was unnecessary, since he would see her at dinner tonight, in any case. Well, he was wrong, very wrong. If he preferred not to respond to her request, then Rose would have to find another way to talk to him in private – and put her theory to the test. At least, the first part of her theory, she thought. The second part of her proof would have to wait until she saw the marquess. How unpleasant that they had only agreed on tomorrow. Although, until then, she may probably be free to go about obtaining her – admittedly, a little capricious – proof, without any remorse to do so, given her very particular method of reasoning.

  Rose got up and walked over to her wardrobe. She had no desire to wait until her maid picked out a dress and wanted to choose one herself. Her fingers glided over the rustling fabrics. The purple dress that she had managed to wrest from her mother was one of her favourite garments, but far too dramatic for an unpretentious dinner invitation. With a sigh, she continued to search. In the pale-yellow dress, she felt like a canary bird. Her wardrobe was overflowing with white gowns that unmarried young women usually wore, but even these did not please her mood. Her fingers brushed over a golden cloth, lingered briefly, and then pulled out the dress. Yes! This was the perfect choice for tonight. The gold-and-red dress that she had worn on the evening of the kiss only justified its place in her wardrobe for sentimental reasons. Rose had not had the heart to give it away and was now particula
rly glad about it. She laid it on the bed and set about finding the right jewellery. The dress exerted its effect mainly through the dark red petticoat in combination with the gold tones. Considering its unusual cut, it was clear: This garment could not be combined with colourful jewellery and flamboyant frippery, because it was already a jewel itself.

  Today, she did not want to be content with half measures. She had to look irresistible if her plan was to succeed.

  Lady Evangeline Blankhurst leaned over to Rose and kissed her on both cheeks. “How beautiful you are, dear child,” she said, taking Rose’s hands in hers. “You are truly radiant. Has something happened that I do not know about? Has your Lord de Coucy finally set a date for your wedding?”

  “Our engagement was but just a few days ago,” she replied, noting that the friend of her mother frowned while turning to the duchess.

  “What is the matter with young people these days?” she asked. “In our day, we could not wait to at long last enjoy all the privileges of being a married woman. But your daughter seems to have lost all her enthusiasm. Or,” she said quietly, “has he hurt you? In that case, I would have him thrown out at once.”

  “Oh, no, that is not necessary,” Rose said, forcing a smile that felt like a grimace. It was probably not very convincing, because her mother and Lady Blankhurst exchanged worried glances.

  “What a great pity,” her mother mumbled quietly, though she knew that even an unconventional woman like Lady Blankhurst would not just throw a guest on the street like an ordinary thief. “Rose, we will talk when we get home.”

  Rose was relieved of her response by the arrival of a new guest, so she and her mother joined the attendees in the salon.

  Richard de Coucy sat on the sofa, chatting excitedly with a young woman whom Rose had never seen before. She seized the moment to observe her fiancé and rethink her decision one last time. He said something that made the young woman laugh and did not even notice that she had entered the relatively small room. Lady Blankhurst’s dinners usually took place in a small circle, the number of guests was manageable, and the salon was not overcrowded. He should have seen her if he had not been so busy laying on his charm in such an inflated fashion. Why did he incessantly have to prove to himself and to everyone else how prepossessing he was?

  Rose stepped towards them. “Good evening,” she greeted the two of them.

  Richard stood. “Lady Rose, what a pleasure to see you. May I introduce you to Miss Hetty Primrose? She is the niece of the Archbishop of Canterbury and is spending her first season in London. Miss Primrose, this is Lady Rose, my fiancée.”

  Miss Primrose got up and curtseyed awkwardly. Upon Richard’s last words, a patchy blush had spread across her face. She mumbled something that presumably was a “pleased to meet you” and excused herself. “We will certainly have a chance to talk later,” Rose said to her, or rather to the young girl’s back, wishing it had sounded less like a threat.

  She sat down next to Richard on the sofa. Her heart was pounding fast, and her palms felt damp through her white gloves. Now, she needed to watch every word, and although she had spent all day thinking carefully about what she wanted to say to him, a completely different sentence crossed her lips. “I want you to take me for a walk in the garden after dinner.” So much for a diplomatic approach.

  “It is drizzling, and it is cold, but if you really wish to …” He did not finish the sentence and looked at her, anticipating her answer to relieve him of this tedious obligation. Oh, the temptation was so great to tell him here and now that her engagement had been a mistake, and that she wished for an end to their connection, with no bad blood between them.

  “I wish to,” Rose said firmly. It was only fair not to condemn him before having evidence. In the end, it was good that she had insisted on the walk without further ado, because the next moment, Lady Blankhurst called her guests for dinner. The ladies went first, strictly in order of rank, and then the gentlemen followed in the same order.

  Richard, who was sitting next to her, tried several times to engage her in conversation, but she was too unfocused to go along with him and, if she were honest, had not the slightest inclination to be chatting about the weather (drizzle as he didn’t tire of emphasising) or the benefits of port over whiskey (neither of which she drank). What Rose wanted to know was something that she could not ask in the presence of others, leaving aside the fact that Lord de Coucy would answer evasively, anyway. After a modest ten courses, not only did Rose long for movement, but also welcomed the rain to cool off.

  She excused herself to Lady Blankhurst and was about to go in search of Lord de Coucy who had excused himself earlier when her mother caught her and pulled her aside.

  “Would you be so kind as to tell me what you intend to do?”

  “Mother, I …” must first kiss Lord de Coucy and then the marquess was not an acceptable response, even for her liberal mother. “I want to talk to Richard in private,” she said. Although the duchess struggled to maintain a stern look, a softer expression came over her face.

  “You know, I will always support you, but I also expect you to think carefully about your choices. You should be aware that a broken engagement is not something to take lightly.”

  “I know that, Mother. I thought you were not fond of Richard and would be happy.”

  “My feelings for Lord de Coucy do not matter. It is about you, my child and what you feel for him. For two years, I hear nothing from you save that it is your dearest wish to become his wife, and all of a sudden you are seeing things differently? I just want to make sure that you are sure, nothing more.”

  “I am surer than ever before in my life,” Rose asserted, peering over her shoulder impatiently. If Richard had gone into the smoking room with Lord Blankhurst, she would have lost her opportunity.

  “Very well,” the duchess said. “But when we get home, we will have a talk, a serious one. Now, off you go.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” Rose whispered, standing on tiptoe to kiss her mother’s cheek. “You are the best.”

  “That remains to be seen,” the duchess replied, turning away, but not fast enough to hide her rising tears from Rose, who also felt a lump in her throat.

  Swiftly, Rose went in search of Lord de Coucy and was only just able to get hold of him before he disappeared into the smoking room.

  “You have promised me a short walk through the garden, have you not?” she reminded him and linked arms with him before he could avoid her. She sent a maid to fetch coats for her and Richard and breathed a sigh of relief when they were finally, finally standing on the terrace.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” he inquired, still polite but noticeably impatient.

  “Kiss me,” Rose said, no, she told him to.

  “Have you gone completely mad?” Stunned, Richard stared at her. His blue eyes, which she had once found so attractive, seemed cold and hard as pebbles.

  “Yes, quite possibly,” Rose replied. She pulled him away from the terrace and further into the garden. After a few yards, his resistance became so great that she had to stop so that she did not suddenly find herself alone in the dark.

  How different this night was compared to the one two years ago! Not only was it cold, but she had to admit, it was also completely unromantic to be standing under the starry sky with a man who looked at her as if she belonged in Bedlam rather than at a dinner reception. “Tell me, why do you not want to kiss me?” she asked. This time, she would not be satisfied with an evasive answer – oh, no. If he refused to answer her with words, then it was time to let actions speak!

  “It is not proper as long as we are not married.” With a sullen glance, he pulled her to him. His hands held her, but it was not a tender touch at all, and instead of kissing her mouth, he kissed her on the forehead. The touch was fleeting and fraternal rather than passionate or loving. Rose was relieved when he let her go. Never was this the man who had kissed her two years ago!

  His eyes narrowed as he star
ed at her. “I do not know what has gotten into you, Lady Rose, but I have my suspicions.”

  “Would you be gracious enough as to share them with me?” Even her ironic request provoked nothing but a shrug.

  “You will refrain from associating with that loose wench and her family from now on. She has a bad influence on you.”

  “I certainly will not. The Marquess of Cavanaugh is my friend, and I also cherish his sister very much.”

  “As my future wife, you will do as I tell you.” Lord de Coucy turned his head towards the house. In the brightly lit windows, Rose saw the guests talking to each other. On the right side in the salon were the women, on the left in the smoking room were the men. The two groups differed not only in size and outlines, but also in their movements. While the gentlemen spoke almost motionless with each other, the women performed plenty of gestures, from tilting their heads to fluttering expressions of their hands in order to accentuate what they said.

  “Are you even listening to me?” His flaunted serenity gradually dissolved.

  “Every word,” Rose assured him, her gaze fixed on a broad-shouldered silhouette that stood out in the salon amongst the much smaller women. Her heart jumped as the man spoke to a woman whom she believed to recognise as her mother. The way he bowed his head to the woman so as not to miss a word was familiar to her. It was the marquess, who had appeared as a late guest – she had no doubt about that. To see him only as a silhouette and yet to know that it was him did not seem illogical to her in the least. She knew him well and … Rose blinked. It was more than that. She closed her eyes. She remembered his aftershave that she had sensed more than once and that had seemed so familiar to her. His sonorous voice that deepened when he spoke softly. His strange behaviour when he had first seen her again two years after that evening, as de Coucy’s fiancé, of all things!

  Everything fell into place. The Marquess of Cavanaugh was the man who had kissed her two years ago. Her mind could no longer refuse to accept the truth. Rose knew it as surely as the sun rose every morning, that she had felt Cavanaugh’s lips on hers.