The door shut behind him. The key turned in the lock. Once he’d left, Rosalind rattled the doorknob anyway. She circled the room, searching for a means of escape, something she might have missed.
Finally, she flopped on the bed and stared out the window. Dusk had fallen, and drunken revelry drifted from the bar, the noise becoming louder as the evening progressed. Her stomach rumbled. Mansfield had said he’d send food. Perhaps she could overpower the person who delivered the tray. Lord, could she risk eating any food Mansfield provided? The thought gave her pause. She must keep her wits about her. She’d be no help to Lucien if a sleeping potion or the like incapacitated her.
Rosalind settled back to wait. Her eyes grew heavy, but she fought sleep. Twice, she almost nodded off. She concentrated on Lucien and prayed for his safety. Her lids lowered as she pictured him in her mind.
A heavy thump jerked her awake. At first, her thoughts scattered, her mind sluggish and uncomprehending. The thud of footsteps sounded outside the door. Rosalind stiffened. She leaped off the bed, anticipation racing through her veins.
This was it—a chance to escape. She ducked behind the Chinese screen and lurked out of sight. A weapon. She had nothing to strike them over the head with. Fool. Wildly, she searched the room for a weapon. Anything. A poker. Bellows. A lamp. The chamber pot.
Frustration beat at her. It appeared Mansfield had ordered the removal of anything that might double as a weapon. Her shoulders slumped, and she stepped into plain sight as the door opened.
An elderly lady waddled into the room. “Ho! Trying to escape, was you?” Her face glowed a hot red as if the climb up the stairs from the kitchens had taxed her strength.
Rosalind ignored the taunt. Despite the woman’s bulk and raspy breathing, she still towered over her and looked far too strong for Rosalind to deal with and escape. She’d have to try another way.
The woman glanced over her shoulder at the door. “What ya doing, dawdling out there, girl. I don’t have all night. Bring that there tray and be quick about it.”
A young girl staggered in carrying a laden tray. Her arms trembled under the weight, and it clattered when she dropped the tray on the walnut table standing beside the bed.
“You’ll pay for breakages, Annie. I be deducting them from yer wages. Just you remember that.”
The girl bobbed her head, keeping her eyes downcast. “Yes, mistress.”
The woman turned to fix small piggy eyes on Rosalind. “Put yer tray by the door when yer be finished. Annie will come to collect it. And don’t yer be trying nothin’ or I’ll make yer sorry. I be wise to witches. Girl, come along.”
Annie shot from the room like a rabbit frightened by a fox. The elderly woman glowered at Rosalind and stomped after the girl. The door slammed with a solid thunk followed by the scratching of the key when it turned in the lock.
Rosalind stared at the stout door. A daring plan formed in her mind. That was it. Her means of escape. Probably her only means of escape, but she’d need to remain vigilant to make it work.
She surveyed the contents of the tray. Lumps of meat swam in a bowl of thin gruel. A crust of dry bread accompanied the stew. Rosalind picked up the bread knowing she needed her strength. It tasted as bad as it looked, and she dropped it back on the tray to wait for the return of the girl.
An hour passed, then another. Rosalind yawned and glanced at the bed but knew sleep was a luxury tonight. She stood and walked the length of the room, determined not to slumber and miss her chance of escape.
Finally, the key scraped inside the lock. She tensed and crept closer. The flutters inside her stomach intensified. This had to work. Once Mansfield had her on the ship to France, escape would be near to impossible. She didn’t want to leave St. Clare or Lucien. Lucien—there was no telling what Mansfield would do with her husband before he killed him. Rosalind shuddered, knowing Lucien’s death was inevitable if Mansfield wanted to succeed. She daren’t fail.
The door creaked when it opened, and candlelight poured into Rosalind’s room. Annie halted when she saw Rosalind.
“You were meant to put yer tray on the floor,” she said. A frown puckered her brow.
“I forgot,” Rosalind replied, infusing her voice with contrition. She sauntered over to the bed and sat on the edge, close to the table where the tray sat. “I’m sorry.”
Annie chewed on her bottom lip and stared at Rosalind in clear dismay. “Can…can you bring it here?”
“You want me to carry the tray over to you?” Rosalind tensed inside, ready to spring at the girl the minute she came close enough.
Annie blinked. Even in the dim light, Rosalind spotted the desperation in the girl’s pale green eyes. Annie licked her abused lip, looking from the tray to Rosalind. It was clear she didn’t want to leave without the tray and risk the old woman’s wrath.
“Please, miss.”
Guilt flashed through Rosalind. The old woman would beat the girl if she returned empty-handed. Then Rosalind visualized Mansfield and what he intended to do to them all. She hardened her heart. “Come in and get it,” she said, waving a languid hand at the barely touched dishes. “I won’t hurt you.”
The girl’s eyes rounded. She edged a few inches inside the door but looked ready to bolt at any sudden move on Rosalind’s part. Rosalind watched Annie even though she pretended disinterest in the tray and the girl’s presence.
“Be it true yer a witch?” Annie blurted.
Ah, gossip. Rosalind came to a quick decision. What do you want from a witch, Annie? One thing came to mind. Rosalind wanted to smile with triumph but inclined her head slowly, so she didn’t frighten the girl. Finally, gossip might help instead of bringing heartache. The tittle-tattle might help save Lucien. “Yes, I’m a witch.” She watched the girl, measuring her reaction.
Annie glanced over her shoulder furtively. Both uneasiness and desperation slid across her face when she turned her attention back to Rosalind. “Do you do potions?”
“What did you have in mind?” A man was involved here, and unrequited love. Rosalind bit back a satisfied smile, reassured by her initial deduction. Her plan would work. She’d make it work.
After another quick glance over her shoulder, Annie seemed to decide. She crossed the threshold, closing the door behind her, her apprehension regarding Rosalind overtaken by the need for love. “A love potion. I need a love potion.” Her blurted words confirmed Rosalind’s guess.
She pretended to consider the request before saying, “There’ll be a price.”
Annie crept toward the dirty dishes, nearly going cross-eyed as she kept one eye on Rosalind and the other on the door. “I’ve saved coins. How much do you charge?”
One loud boo and the girl would take off like a startled hare. Rosalind quashed the guilt inside and forged ahead. “No money.”
“But you said there’d be a price.” Like a dog whose master beat it, Annie cowered, poised to run. Scrawny hands quivered at her sides. Her gaze skittered over Rosalind without settling. She bit her bottom lip again in clear indecision. “I can’t let you go. She’ll beat me.”
Not if Rosalind had anything to do with it, but she couldn’t make the promise and be sure she could keep it. Without warning, she leaped from the bed and seized the girl by the forearm, holding her easily. Apart from emitting a small squeak, she didn’t cry out. She stood stiff and trembling, tears filling her eyes. Rosalind experienced the full spectrum of her distress. Annie’s frantic thoughts and fears slid stealthily into her mind. Guilt bloomed afresh, and Rosalind made a silent vow to come to the girl’s aid once life settled. But for now, she’d have to take advantage of her in the same way everyone else did. Annie was her only means of escape.
“Don’t hurt me. Don’t put a spell on me.” The girl shivered so much Rosalind felt like a bully. The stream of panicked thoughts coming from her didn’t help.
“If you let me go, I’ll help you,” Rosalind said. She pushed Annie down on the bed and stood over her.
An
nie shook her head from side to side, her wide panicked eyes stirring Rosalind’s guilt anew. “She’ll kill me.”
Rosalind grabbed for the large key, but the girl refused to yield it. “If you don’t give me the key, I’ll make warts grow on your nose, your mouth, and your hands. Your sweetheart won’t want you. You’ll be ugly. No one will want you.”
Tears streamed down the girl’s face.
“I’ll turn William Harrow into a frog,” Rosalind warned the terrified girl. “Give me the key. You don’t want William to suffer, do you? You wouldn’t want him to know he suffered misfortune because of you.”
Annie’s terror filled the room. She cowered even farther away, her panic clear. She swallowed, finally finding her voice. “How did ye know his name?”
“I’m a witch,” Rosalind muttered, glancing at the door. This was taking too long. Mansfield might arrive at any moment, or the old woman, and then she’d lose everything.
Rosalind sprang, grabbed the girl’s hand and pried the key loose. She winced at the flash of pain in her ankle but forced her discomfort aside. Escape was imperative. She wouldn’t get another chance. With the key in her possession, she crept to the door and slid it open to peer into the passage outside. When she saw there was no one to witness her escape, she slipped out as quick and fluid as morning mist. She locked the door and pocketed the key. Deep sobs penetrated the barrier, and Rosalind knew the pitiful sound would haunt her in weeks to come.
The moon shone through the window high above him, the light hitting him in the face. Lucien’s eyelids flickered before he jammed them shut. Pain, sharp and intense, knifed through his head, the moon’s glow aggravating the steady throb. He heard a groan. His groan. Nausea rocked his gut, yet his mind impelled him to move.
Lucien lurched to his feet, and a moan squeezed past his clenched teeth. There wasn’t any part of his body that didn’t hurt. He sucked in a slow, cautious breath. Then another. One thought crystallized in his hazy mind and stuck there.
Rosalind. Where the hell was she?
He gripped a sturdy pillar for balance while he took stock of his surroundings. Despite the limited light, he noted the old wooden casks in various states of repair stacked beneath the lone window. A scuttle of feet told him he had rats or mice for company. He let go of the pillar and wobbled, unsteady for an instant, before righting himself with the help of a wall.
Dust rose with each move he made, tickling his nose and teasing a sneeze loose. The sound reverberated in the cavernous prison, sending renewed pain surging through his aching head. He frowned, having no idea of his location. He listened, trying to fix his locality. Apart from the steady drip of water and the rustle of rodents, he discovered nothing to aid him. Presumably, the casks indicated the King’s Head. Odd he couldn’t hear the drunken gaiety of patrons. He fumbled his way along the wall, searching for a door. He blundered into a cobweb and sneezed twice before he located the exit.
“Rosalind,” he whispered, picturing her beauty in his mind’s eye. He’d give almost anything to hold her right this moment. He had to find his English mouse.
After examining his memory for clues, he recalled leading Oberon through the lane, despite his misgivings. Someone had struck him when he’d exited onto the main thoroughfare. He hoped Oberon was safe. Had Mansfield hit him? Lucien scowled, trying to make sense of his jumbled thoughts. No, the other man had gone ahead to order the drinks. Lucien discarded the idea of treachery, but his mind kept circling back to the idea. If the motive was robbery, he’d still be lying in the lane. His incarceration in this dark hole made things appear more sinister than mere theft.
One hand reached up to investigate the knot at the back of his head. Blood came away on his fingers. His father always said St. Clares had hard heads, and several pub brawls when he was younger had proved it. Lucien’s teeth clamped together as he rode another wave of pain. What the hell had Mansfield hit him with?
Mansfield.
His father…
Lucien froze. A hazy memory surfaced, shimmering through his throbbing brain. As usual, he tried to seize the fleeting recollection before it disappeared. Instead of escaping, the scene solidified as he eagerly grasped it.
Lucien concentrated as another emerged.
And another.
Memories poured into his mind like after-dinner port splashed into a glass. It was as if a barrier in his mind had broken, allowing the memories to flow free.
He remembered his past.
All of it.
Lucien stumbled against the door and attempted to open it. He stepped back and ran at the door with his shoulder. A sharp throb of pain burned the length of his arm. Cold pierced his damp jacket and breeches, pebbling goose bumps over his limbs. But elation surged as memories piled one on top of the other. One particular memory hit him hard.
Betrayal.
A friend’s betrayal.
Mansfield’s betrayal.
Lucien recalled the night in Naples. He remembered his friend walking up to him in the deserted street in the early hours of the morning.
“Mansfield.” Lucien swayed, worse for local wine. His shirt and jacket reeked of the woman’s cheap perfume and sex, but his muscles were loose and limber after the spectacular ride she’d given him. “Thought you went back to our rooms.” Damn, he wished Mansfield would stand still. His friend kept splitting into two men. Two friends angry with him wouldn’t do at all. “Sorry ’bout ’fore,” he slurred.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Mansfield muttered, ignoring the apology.
“I’m gonna win our bet.” Lucien’s small step turned into a stagger, but he righted himself before he hit the ground. “Whoa! Ground’s moving. Tonight was number ten.”
“I don’t care about our stupid bet. You’re drunk,” Mansfield sneered, glancing past Lucien instead of looking him straight in the eye. “Think I can forgive your insults to my mother? To me? I am the rightful St. Clare heir and, by damn, I intend to claim my place. You might have won Edwina, but I’m not having you steal my birthright too.”
Befuddled, Lucien stared at his enraged friend. Brother? Was it true? If so, he’d never suspected a thing. A foreign sound drew Lucien’s attention. He spun around. Three men with clubs and knives stood behind him.
“Robbers! Draw your pistol!” Lucien cried to Mansfield. He darted a quick glance at Mansfield and blinked. His friend stood unmoving, his expression disinterested.
The first blow caught him on the shoulder, numbing his right arm. His pistol dropped to the ground. A knife flashed out, slicing the length of his face. Blood gushed from the wound, shrouding his sight.
“Make it look like a robbery,” Mansfield instructed. “But make sure he dies.”
Lucien was dimly aware of Mansfield leaving.
“There be someone coming,” one man warned.
They dragged him to a dark alley, kicking and beating him until he lost consciousness.
Lucien shook himself from the black fog of the past. He’d been drunk. Vulnerable.
Mansfield had acted as a decoy while his paid men had come up behind him with knives and bludgeons, striking him, leaving him for dead. By God, Mansfield had abused his trust, and now he’d captured him again. But Rosalind—did Mansfield have her? Worry filled him at the idea of her in Mansfield’s clutches. He’d endangered Rosalind by marrying and bedding her. The possibility of an heir between Mansfield and the title had pushed him over the edge. And where was Charles? Was his cousin part of the scheming?
Fury propelled him away from the wall. Lucien stalked the boundaries of his confines, ignoring the dull ache in his head as he searched for a way out.
He stumbled over a barrel. With his mind functioning more clearly, he smelled the stale scent of dried hops, of beer. An unused cellar. But where, if not the King’s Head? And how the devil was he going to get out? He paused, listening carefully for noise, any sound to alert him to the presence of another.
He heard nothing apart from the rustling of rodents. Frustratio
n grabbed him. He tested the door with his shoulder for the second time. Although old, it was stout and built to last.
Lucien sank to the floor, his back resting against the cold wall. He’d have to wait until someone came, then overpower them. It was his only hope.
19 – Escape And Danger
Shouts and cheers from the public rooms increased in intensity as Rosalind crept down the stairs. The stench of smoke and beer, boiled cabbage, and unwashed bodies assaulted her nostrils. Raucous laughter spilled through an ajar door, masking the creak of the wooden stairs under her feet. She caught flashes of movement and faces—a barmaid carrying tankards, a group of rough laborers, two well-dressed men. Mansfield was probably inside the taproom, so she continued down the last two stairs instead of gawking.
Fear of discovery made her heart pound and her limbs tremble, but she forced herself to speed. There would be only one chance. She mustn’t falter.
The door leading to the taproom burst open, and a couple staggered out. The man kicked the door shut and the couple fell against the wall. His hands swept under his partner’s full frothy skirts, displaying white thighs to Rosalind’s incredulous eyes. As she watched, the man fumbled with his trousers. She pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back her cry of shock. They were going to do it right in front of her.
At least the door leading to the tavern was shut now. The couple was engrossed in each other. Surely escape was but a few steps away, as long as they didn’t see her. Rosalind ducked her head, letting locks of hair fall across her face. She scuttled past the couple, trying to ignore the animal grunts of lust.
Rosalind tugged at the side door to the small street off the main thoroughfare. Her hand, moist and sweaty, skidded across the latch. Her teeth clamped down on her lip as she glanced over her shoulder. She wiped her palms across her skirts and tried again. This time the latch slid smoothly under her grasp. She opened the door and slipped through, closing it with a snap.
The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen Page 26