There must be plenty of old gentlemen just like Father who need secretarial help, she told herself. I haven’t had the formal training, but I have read enough on archaeology to be an able assistant.
First she had to get away, because if Edgar were dead, some sort of enquiry would be mounted. Roxanne picked her way down the dark staircase to the entrance hall. A small lamp on a table cast a faint glow. The scrawny potboy, obviously the inn’s first line of defence, lay snoring in a chair. Roxanne quietly lifted the bar on the door and escaped into the chill night air.
Her plan was simple. To evade detection, she decided to avoid any form of transport such as a coach, where she needed to buy a ticket and her single and unaccompanied status might be remarked upon. The best plan would be to walk for as long as she could and hopefully get taken up by a kind cart driver. Once safely away from the London area, she could take the stage coach to Bath and try to find Aunt Cecily.
But Roxanne had greatly underestimated the cold night, the aftershock, which descended upon her, the weight of the portmanteau, and her limp arm. After trudging for what seemed to be an age, dawn broke and, with it, her strength gave out.
She was in luck. A sympathetic farmer took her up beside him for the better part of the day. Although he was disinclined to leave her alone on the road when he turned off to go his own route, she refused his offer of putting up at the farm with his wife and six children. Besides her new fear of men, she did not want to form any associations that could leave a trail back to Edgar, in the awful possibility that he had survived. The farmer bade her goodbye with an anxious look and turned for home.
The clouds were lowering in a dull, grey sky as Roxanne pulled her cloak tightly around her body and picked up the portmanteau. She regretted refusing the farmer’s offer, but it was too late. Perhaps there would be another inn round the bend in the road. Roxanne heard the drumming of hooves behind her and tried to jump up onto the grass verge to escape the fast approaching vehicle. As she staggered under the weight of the portmanteau, something shot past her at top speed. The velocity shook her and she fainted.
Chapter Three
“I wonder who she is.” Julian frowned as he gazed at the still body lying on the bed.
“I can tell you,” replied Dr. Grantley, polishing his glasses. “Her name is Roxanne Chesney.”
Julian stared at him. “Good God, man! Are you psychic?”
“Not at all.” The doctor pointed to the small neat letters stamped into the leather bag on the floor next to the bed. “Her name is on that portmanteau you brought in with her.”
Julian looked thoughtful. “Chesney. Now where have I heard that name before?”
“I’ll tell you something else,” remarked the doctor as he packed away his instruments. “Someone attacked her and tried to rape her.”
At the sight of Julian’s horrified face, he shrugged and said, “A lone female unattended. It can happen.”
He lifted Roxanne’s right hand. “See here? Blood and skin under the fingernails. She scored the face, I assume, of her attacker. I haven’t done too much because I think she isn’t up to a thorough examination. Her shoulder was dislocated so I’ve popped it back in. Her attacker must have twisted her arm behind her to overpower her. She’ll be more comfortable now. I’ll be in tomorrow and do a thorough examination. Now she must rest.”
Julian’s face was ashen. “What kind of monster would do that to a defenceless woman?”
The doctor looked serious. “Not the kind of man I’d like to be acquainted with. I can tell you one thing.” He gave an admiring glance at the still figure. “She fought for her life and won.”
“How do you know?”
“The blood on her dress. Copious amounts, but there are no corresponding wounds on her body. That’s his blood. I hope she knocked his brains out. Must have had a weapon of sorts. A poker perhaps?”
“Do you think she was raped?” Julian sounded apologetic as he lowered his voice.
The doctor frowned. “No, not that I can see. I think she fought him off. She has lots of cuts, bites, and bruises so he was determined to get what he wanted. But I think I’m right. She hasn’t suffered that terrible indignity.”
His sympathetic gaze lingered on Roxanne’s face. “Poor girl. That’s the last thing any woman would want—a child from a rapist!”
Julian’s expression was sombre. “Quite so.”
When Roxanne opened her eyes she found herself clad in a lacy nightdress, in a strange bedroom, delightfully furnished for a young woman. Someone had wrapped a warm shawl around her shoulders and her injured arm was nestled in a sling. As she looked up, two faces swam into her line of vision: a grey-bearded, older man and a younger, handsome man. Roxanne gave a faint scream and shrank back on the pillows, thrusting out her uninjured arm in defence. The younger man caught her hand between his fingers and held tight.
“Don’t be afraid. Remember me? Julian Trevallon. We found you on the side of the road from London.”
His voice was pleasing to Roxanne—low, cultured, soothing.
He looked at the bearded man who smiled encouragingly and nodded.
“This is Dr. Grantley, the family physician who attended to your arm and some cuts on your face and arms. Have no fear. He has been mending our broken limbs and other ailments since my brother and I were in leading strings.”
Roxanne looked at the men, bewildered. Tears welled up and huge sobs burst from her throat as memories of her ordeal crowded into her mind. Dr. Grantley quickly shooed Julian from the room. As shuddering cries racked her slender body, Dr. Grantley held her hand, persuaded her to swallow a few drops of a calming cordial, and encouraged her to release the pent-up strain with soothing murmurs. Gradually, her shaking ceased and Roxanne lay back against the pillows, grateful for his tactful kindness.
“Now, my dear,” he said. “All I have done is attend to your dislocated shoulder—it was no more than that—and clean up those cuts. You do not have to answer my questions, but I hope you will because that will enable me to assist you to a speedy recovery.”
Roxanne nodded. “What did you want to ask me?”
“I noticed that your dress showed marks of bloodstains, yet there is no corresponding wound upon your body. It is clear to me that you have been attacked by someone who sought to molest and perhaps rape you.”
Roxanne flinched and he patted her arm reassuringly.
“I have not wanted to subject you to the indignity of an examination while you were unconscious, but you should tell me now if the man succeeded in his foul intent.”
Roxanne felt calmed by the doctor’s kind gaze and fatherly appearance. Her breathing returned to normal; it seemed she was in a safe place.
“He did not.” Her reply was almost a whisper.
The doctor smiled. “For your sake, I am very glad of that.”
Tactfully he reassured her no bones were broken and that the worst was over, barring the cuts and bruises that would heal in a short time.
“I am sure, judging from the bloodstains, that your attacker came off far worse. Perhaps Gentleman Jackson would welcome you as a sparring partner.”
The sound of her tinkling laughter echoed through the room. There was a discreet knock on the door and Julian entered.
“Am I intruding?”
Roxanne turned her gaze upon him as the doctor packed up his bag saying, “Not at all, Julian. I’m sure you are anxious to make yourself known to your charming, unexpected guest.” To Julian’s questioning raised eyebrows he replied, “The young lady is quite all right, apart from her superficial bruising. Another day’s rest and I’m sure she’ll be able to get up.”
He looked at Roxanne and wagged a reproving finger. “No running about before I see you tomorrow.”
His relaxed country manner made Roxanne feel as if she were being scolded by the village doctor back home. She blushed and nodded.
“I’ll see myself out, Julian,” he said.
As the door closed behind th
e doctor, Julian laughed. “I am not sure why, but whenever Dr. Grantley is in the room, I feel exactly like that scruffy boy so many years ago in a frilled shirt and nankeens, afflicted with the measles or some such childish ailment.”
Roxanne smiled in understanding. As she gazed at Julian she noticed that his eyes, which had previously been the grey of storm clouds, today reflected the grey of a rain-washed sky. Roxanne warmed to him. He had been so kind, but she must not trespass longer than necessary.
“Tell me, are you able to speak of what happened or am I being impertinent?”
Roxanne’s fingers played nervously with the fringe of the shawl. Either which way she looked at things, the situation did not favour her. If Edgar was dead she could not divulge the truth to anyone lest she face charges of murder. If Edgar was alive and bent on tracking her down, she must put as much distance between herself and him as possible. She would have to create a plausible tale for as long as she stayed under her host’s roof.
“What were you doing in London, Miss Chesney?”
Roxanne felt a cold shiver slither down her spine at his question.
“Why do you ask?” she stuttered. “How do you know my name?”
Instantly, she thought that perhaps someone had gone into her portmanteau and discovered the documents revealing her marriage.
Julian drew back slightly and gave her a warm smile.
“I can assure you, Miss Chesney, there is nothing mystifying about knowing your name. It is on your portmanteau. And I also recognized the name Chesney from a book of archaeology my Great-Uncle Oswald gave me. He was partial to reading on that subject and I believe he funded a few local digs in his time. Perhaps your father wrote the book? It’s called Roman Britain, if my memory serves me. Horace Chesney. I’m sure in the frontispiece it mentions he lives in Brentham.”
His expression was so patently bewildered that Roxanne lay back on the pillows, chiding herself for reacting in such a suspicious manner. Her hostility would be sure to draw attention.
“Lived,” she corrected. “My father is dead.”
“What a clumsy fool I am,” he said. “I must apologise for being so insensitive.”
“You have done nothing to upset me,” she whispered. “It’s just that after what happened I feel almost like a hunted animal, so afraid.”
Her voice faded and Julian took her hand in his, patting it gently as he would pet a little bird. In a halting voice she outlined the bare bones of her sad tale, leaving out any mention of Edgar.
“My father died recently and I had to come to London to see his lawyer to sort out the will and collect some jewellery of my mother’s. By the time I arrived, it was too late to find my way to the lawyer’s office, so I found what I thought to be a respectable inn. In the night I must have forgotten to latch the door because a man came in, threw himself upon me and tried to…tried to—”
She turned her face to the wall. Julian continued to pat her hand.
“I fought him off and he ran away. As soon as I could, I packed my bag and started walking.”
Julian’s brow creased in a frown. “Surely you reported this to the inn keeper?”
“Oh no!” Roxanne cried. “I did not wish there to be a hue and cry about it since I felt I was not badly injured. Just my arm and the bruises. It was more the fright, I think.”
Roxanne’s heart turned over when Julian suggested communicating this information to the authorities. She felt the web of lies she had constructed begin to tighten around her, like a spider pulling the threads closer to trap her.
“No, I could not bear it,” she said firmly. “I could not face the humiliation of an investigation so soon after the sorrow of losing dear Father. It would be shameful for me and people would suppose that…he had…My reputation…”
“I see.” Julian’s face still wore a frown. “I quite understand a gently reared young woman wishing to protect her good name from possible slurs. Yes, perhaps you are right. These things can get out and become twisted when reported upon.” He smiled. “Where were you going?”
“To Bath,” she replied. “To my—”
In a flash Roxanne knew she could not mention an aunt. Better to invent a fictitious governess. More lies! The threat of a dead Edgar and the dreadful consequences of an official investigation hung over her like a dark shadow of doom.
“To my old governess in Bath. Miss…er…Watkins. I believe she is retired down there. I wanted to get away from London immediately and perhaps write to the lawyer, saying that my visit would be delayed. Of course I would not be able to tell him why.”
“Well,” said Julian, “I am sure your old governess will not begrudge your staying here while you get back your strength.”
“Sir!” Roxanne said. “I cannot possibly trespass upon your kindness for longer than is necessary!”
“You cannot possibly go anywhere until you are well and, since we are informal after our adventure, call me Julian or Mr. Trevallon. But please not sir!”
He grimaced so awfully that his expression soon had Roxanne laughing.
“I shall try to remember.”
At that moment Roxanne had to acknowledge he was right. She was too weak to consider leaving. However, she would impress upon him the need to depart without delay.
Julian rose and Roxanne felt a faint sense of loss, as if she did not want him to go. She steeled her emotions and told herself that since she had to leave as soon as possible, it was no use forming attachments to anyone in the house. It only made things more complicated.
He made her a small bow. “I shall leave you in the tender care of Mrs. Dawson, who has, like Skelton and the doctor, attended upon my family since I was in the cradle. So there’s no pulling the wool over her eyes, I’m afraid. She will look after you and perhaps I shall see you tomorrow?”
Roxanne smiled. “I look forward to it, Mr. Trevallon.”
He raised his hand in a salute. “Adieu.”
As he left the room, she heard him laughing. “Yes, Mrs. Dawson, I’m going, I’m going. The young lady is all yours now.”
“About time too, sir!”
The expostulation arrived as the housekeeper, Mrs. Rose Dawson—although there had never been a Mr. Dawson to anyone’s knowledge—bustled into the room. She was a plump, country woman of middling height and age, with dark hair fixed in a bun, surmounted by a perky lace cap. She wore a black bombazine dress that rustled fiercely as she swished through the doorway. However, her twinkling blue eyes were bright and appeared vastly interested in the visitor.
“I’ve known the young Master since before he was born, and I’ve been with the family since I started all those years ago as a mere scullery maid,” she announced, folding her arms in satisfaction. “There’s not much gets by me!”
“I’m sure,” Roxanne responded, uncertain whether to laugh or be frightened of the doughty lady.
Within seconds, Mrs. Dawson had beckoned for a timid parlour maid to enter bearing a tray emitting a delicious, savoury aroma, had mercilessly thumped Roxanne’s pillows into submission, and had tucked the shawl more firmly around her shoulders.
“Here, Becky, set the tray down on this small table. Now go and fetch Miss Chesney a nice cup of tea. Be quick now.”
Once the tea arrived, she waved Becky away and took up a spoon of what appeared to be steaming broth. Mrs. Dawson fixed a steely gaze on Roxanne and said, “Now you’re not going to quarrel with me on this, my dear? You haven’t eaten since the Master collected you from the side of the road—what a to-do, I’m sure—and your body needs nourishment.”
With that she propelled the spoon towards Roxanne’s mouth. Feeling much like a scolded little girl in the hands of her capable nurse, Roxanne ate the bowl of soup and drank a cup of tea. Refreshed, she smiled at Mrs. Dawson.
“Happy now?”
The housekeeper chuckled. “That’s the ticket, lass!”
“Where am I? I mean whose bedroom is this?” Roxanne asked.
“You’re at Penro
se. This is Miss Sophia’s bedroom. The Master’s sister.”
It was a sunny room painted in pale yellow and cream, picked out with touches of gold on the mirrors and picture frames. Flowered chintz curtains hung at the windows and the counterpane and coverlet matched the furnishings.
“And these?” Roxanne hesitantly touched the nightdress and shawl.
Mrs. Dawson nodded. “Also Miss Sophia’s. I couldn’t find a nightdress in your bag.”
She frowned at this oversight. Roxanne reddened as she remembered the brief blaze as the fire had consumed the garment.
“But won’t she object?”
Roxanne was panic-stricken that the earl had seen fit to ensconce a stranger in his sister’s room and make free with her wardrobe. She plucked at the shawl.
“These are her clothes!”
“Don’t you fret, m’dear. Miss Sophia’s got clothes a-plenty now and in no need of what’s left behind. She’s been gone these three years already. Made a very fine marriage to the Duke of Silverton. She’s got a wee baby as well. Little Master Francis. He’s nearly two by now.”
Mrs. Dawson’s indulgent smile was a clear indication that little Master Francis ruled his admirers’ hearts with a tiny fist of iron.
“And the countess?” Roxanne hazarded.
Perhaps the earl’s wife would be displeased to find a strange woman in the house. He had not mentioned a wife. For a fleeting moment Roxanne hoped he was not married and in the next second crushed those thoughts. After all, she was perhaps still married if Edgar had survived the blow. She turned her thoughts firmly back to Mrs. Dawson who grinned even wider.
“Lord love us, there’s no countess.” An exaggerated sigh followed this remark. “Although we’re all hopeful that he’ll find the lady of his dreams soon enough.”
Her eyes lit upon Roxanne and although her gaze seemed innocent, Roxanne had the feeling that Mrs. Dawson was thinking in that direction.
Hastily Roxanne interrupted her. “I hope he does as well. And his brother? He mentioned a brother.”
The housekeeper’s face hardened. “That wastrel!”
Married at Midnight: An Authentic Regency Romance Page 3