by Jo Beverley
Aunt Arradale nodded with obvious approval. “Very sensible. You can never be too careful about reputation, and it will be pleasant to have your company for dinner.”
Rosamunde hadn’t quite intended that, but the words had the aura of a royal command, so she had to agree. She gave her thanks and goodbyes and threaded her way back out of the grand house, turning things over in her head.
Yes, she thought, emerging into sunshine on the sweeping terrace that led down to the east lawns, it was the right thing to do. If news of his presence leaked out, the fact that he’d been vilely ill the night before, and she’d slept elsewhere tonight would help deflect suspicions.
Why, she wondered, did people assume that nighttime was the only dangerous time?
She hurried across velvet lawns and through the carefully managed wilderness, happy to be seen by a number of gardeners, but strangely unsettled by her visit to the big house.
Why?
Pausing on an ornamental wooden bridge, she watched the racing water, pondering. She’d known and accepted the style at Arradale all her life—in fact, as a child she’d used its grand staircases and marbled halls as a place to play. She’d never pined to live that way, preferring the simpler ways of her childhood home and Wenscote.
So why did it disturb her now?
Ah. Because Arradale was Brand Malloren’s accustomed style of living. Or something even grander. It emphasized the gulf between them.
She shook her head at the way her foolish mind kept taking that path. The gulf was as wide as an ocean, formed by dishonesty, the pressures of her cause, and the absolute fact that she was married.
And that they were strangers, she reminded herself, walking on briskly, heels rapping on the wooden planks, then turning silent on the leaf-mold path. Brand Malloren had a gift of seeming familiar, but this time yesterday she hadn’t even known the man. She was crazily building a romantic fancy over a disreputable stranger. What was worse, both Diana and Aunt Arradale might have guessed it.
Bad enough to be known as adulterous, even in a noble cause. Intolerable to be thought stupid!
She stopped by the old oak near the Hawes road, struck by another thought.
Why had he not told her he was Lord Brand Malloren? Why had he kept some of his identity hidden? Probably—why had she not thought of it earlier?—his simple clothes were a disguise. So, what had Lord Brand Malloren been up to that led to him ending up unconscious and in danger of death?
She doubtless didn’t want to know. After all, the son of a marquess could be many other things—a highwayman, a smuggler, a felon running from the law.
She was in danger of being bowled over by a charming rogue. She must not let herself start to trust him. She was doubtless being a fool to trust him as much as she did. A wise woman would have nothing more to do with him.
Rosamunde, however, wasn’t wise enough for that.
She plucked a buttercup by the path and spun it so it shone in the sun as she considered how to sneak back into the dower house after dinner to enjoy a seductive tryst.
Chapter 9
She was almost at the house, skirting the hawthorn hedge between the side garden and the road, when a voice hailed her, “God be with you!”
She turned, and on the other side of the hedge saw a horseman in a tall, black steeple hat. For a moment she thought it was Digby’s nephew Edward Overton, but he would have called her by name, and anyway, this man was stockier.
A New Commonwealther. Here. It was like a call to battle, a reminder of the seriousness of the situation.
“Sir? Do you need something?”
He was an ordinary enough man with quite a kindly expression and very fine, vivid, brown eyes. His plain gray suit was simple and well-worn.
“Is this Arradale House, sister?” She stiffened at that address, then remembered that they used “brother” and “sister” instead of more formal forms of address.
“The dower house.” She knew it was irrational, but she felt as if he knew exactly what was going on.
“A handsome property. And you, I think, must be the countess’s cousin, Lady Overton.”
Rosamunde put her hand swiftly to cover her cheek, astonished that she’d been talking to a stranger without giving it a thought.
“Yes, I knew you by your scars,” he said, without embarrassment. “Edward Overton has mentioned them.”
She made herself lower her hand. “You know my nephew?”
“Very well. I am staying at your home at his invitation.”
“He has no right to invite guests!” she said sharply before she could stop herself.
“Just for the night,” the man said, as if he hadn’t noticed her discourtesy. “We travel to Lancashire to preach, and broke our journey at Wenscote so Edward could visit his ailing uncle.”
“Sir Digby is not ailing, as I hope both you and Edward have seen.”
“It is a blessing, but he would do better for a simple diet, as we have tried to tell him.”
Blast them both. Though the advice was sound, Edward had a way of giving it that always upset Digby, and this man wouldn’t help with his bland, impervious amiability. Thank heavens they were leaving in the morning.
Then something else caught her attention. “I didn’t know Edward had taken to preaching.”
“He is assisting me, and training for the future. We all expect Edward to soon be high in our ranks.”
By virtue of his rich gift of Wenscote. Rosamunde kept a bland smile pinned in place. “I’m sure he’s delighted.”
“Our pleasure comes only from service to the Lord. We will leave at first light tomorrow. Will we see you at Wenscote tonight?”
“I am spending the night at Arradale House.”
“Then let me thank you now for the hospitality of your home. It shows all the beauty of a woman’s care.”
“Then you may express your thanks to Mrs. Crofton, the housekeeper, who has been there a great deal longer than I, and who does most of the ordering of it.”
He inclined his head slightly, perhaps in acknowledgment of her parry. “I will do so. I gather from your husband that you tend the garden, however, and are interested in animal breeding.”
“True.” She wished he would go, but also wished to learn more of him. He represented her enemy, the first New Commonwealther other than Edward that she’d ever met.
“Then I wish all the more that we had opportunity to talk. It is a strong interest of mine, and one day your work will be turned to the purposes of the Lord. God’s blessings on you, sister.”
With that, he clicked his horse onward. Rosamunde listened to the clop of his horse’s hooves moving away, seething at the thought of her work profiting the New Commonwealth. The encounter disturbed her in other ways, too. He could not possibly suspect, but she wished a New Commonwealther had not encountered her here today. If—when—she revealed her pregnancy, would he make any connection?
No, for he’d not know a man was here.
Still, she shivered.
And he’d been a different sort of man than Edward. Though Edward had the means to hurt them all, she generally found him ridiculous with his ostentatious simplicity and humorless preaching. That man, with his simple manner and warm eyes, could sway the susceptible, persuade the reluctant. He’d even made her feel her scars were nothing.
Dangerous, that.
He was a dangerous man. She was used to thinking of the New Commonwealthers as rather stupid.
She hurried on her way, wishing Digby would ban Edward from the house. Digby had hopes of turning him from the sect, of course, hopes that she was sure would never come true. At the moment, it was all Digby could think to do to prevent disaster.
Soon, please God, all that would change.
Should she go up to Wenscote to check on the situation? It would only take an hour or so. It was impossible, however, because there’d be no good reason to come back. She’d have to send a letter, however, explaining her comings and goings to her husband.<
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So many complexities.
That man had said he and Edward were to leave tomorrow. It would be all right. She grimaced as she wiped her shoes and went into the kitchen. She wanted it to be all right so she could stay, and she wanted to stay for wicked delights.
She’d never have believed before yesterday that she could so quickly and thoroughly tumble into sin.
Rosamunde found Jessie and Millie at the kitchen table, enjoying a cup of tea. Jessie leaped up as if caught in a sin, but Rosamunde waved her back to her seat. “I assume there’s been no trouble from upstairs.”
“Not a sound, milady. Do you want tea?”
“Yes, thank you. In fact, I’d better take him something.” The mere thought of visiting him sent her foolish heart racing.
“I can do that,” said the maid, who’d gulped her tea and was now busily preparing new. Rosamunde supposed there was no way the girl could sit comfortably in this situation, but she wasn’t about to let anyone steal a few precious moments with Brand.
“I’ll take it up,” she said, wishing she had the strength to do otherwise. “I have the newspapers for him.”
“There’s plenty of books in the library, milady,” Millie pointed out with a disapproving glower. She always thought people took advantage of Rosamunde.
“Not to his taste, I’m sure. However, I do have that book on animal breeding that I bought in Harrogate. I’ll see if he would like that.” At least she hadn’t yet written her name inside.
Jessie had finished the tray, so Rosamunde picked it up and hurried out of the kitchen. She should probably have let one of the maids take it, but she couldn’t resist a few more minutes of his company.
Couldn’t resist…
Anyway, she rationalized, the less the maids saw of him, the less likely they’d be to let slip any details.
Oh, what a tangled, tangled web!
And there was the dratted mask. She put it on, unlocked his door, and entered his room.
He rose, and she paused, blinking at the change in him. The clothes might be simple and stained, but in some way they made him an altogether more formidable figure. He seemed bigger, but also more distant. His hair was tamed by a dark ribbon, and despite the low quality of the garments, something made it clear that he was an aristocrat. The way he stood? The aristocracy were taught, boys and girls, to stand and move so as to command. She saw it in Diana, and even Aunt Arradale had learned it after her grand marriage.
Whatever the cause, he effortlessly dominated the room. He was a stranger.
“Tea?” he said pleasantly. “When a person has nothing to do, food becomes important.”
Rosamunde came to herself and placed the tray on a table. “And newspapers.”
“Wonderful lady!” He smiled at her, but she felt more like a praised servant than a thanked equal. “Can you be even kinder and keep me company?”
Helpless to resist, Rosamunde sat and prepared the tea, taking foolish pleasure in such a simple task. “I can’t stay long,” she warned as she stirred the swirling leaves.
“I suppose not.” He sat at ease, one leg crossed over the other. “Who was that I saw you talking to outside?”
Her spoon rattled against the china pot. He’d seen her? After a moment, she realized that he couldn’t have seen much at such a distance, and she’d been wearing her obscuring cap.
She continued to stir the leaves, half mesmerized by the dark, spiraling liquid. “Talked to? When?”
“Just now. In the steeple hat.”
She looked up sharply, but didn’t see the suspicion she thought she’d heard. “It was just a New Commonwealther.”
“Ah yes. The Cromwellians.”
She realized the tea was probably overbrewed by now and hastily poured it. “I’m not sure they’re that, though they want people to live the strict Puritan life. Milk? Sugar?”
At his indication, she added them.
“So,” he asked, taking the cup from her, “he’s a neighbor? You have the New Commonwealth in this area?”
“Not yet.” Immediately she wished she’d just said “No.”
“They seem to be spreading. Steeple hats and starched caps all over the place.”
“Yes.” Surely there was no harm in discussing a social phenomenon, and yet it rested so close to her secrets that she did not dare. She seized the plate of biscuits and thrust it at him.
He took one, but said, “I’ll admit to having some sympathy with their cause.”
“Sympathy?” She almost spilled the ginger snaps in his lap. Was that the reason for his plain clothes? Mercy, what had she done?
“You sound shocked.”
She gathered her wits, searching his face for clues. “You don’t strike me as a Puritan.”
“I suppose I don’t,” he said, with a laugh. “And I’m not. But I don’t much care for the excesses of today either. The government has restricted sale of gin, yet poor people still drink too much.”
She put the plate down with a clink. “So it’s allowable for the higher orders to drown their troubles in spirits, but not for the common man?”
“Are you a radical? If a simple man drinks every day, likely his children will starve. If a nobleman does it, his dependents may not suffer unless he games at the same time.”
She couldn’t resist. “What you’re saying, of course, is that noblemen are useless.”
His lips twitched at what he clearly thought was a private joke. “Only some of them, dear lady.”
“And what of the nobleman who employs you? Is he an idle drunkard who knows not what he owns?”
More humor. “Assuredly not.”
“Yet you were found drunk.”
“I told you I don’t drink to excess.”
“Will he dismiss you, then?”
He put down his cup and looked around. “Where do you keep the rack and thumbscrews? This is clearly an inquisition.”
Rosamunde wondered why she had turned teasing into attack. “I’m sorry. But you did appear to be drunk. It puzzles me.”
He gave a rueful grimace. “It puzzles me, too, for it isn’t in my nature. I have this vague memory of being in a tavern, but that doesn’t mean I was there to drink deep. It’s a place to meet others, or to eat a simple meal.”
“And there are no taverns within miles of where I found you.”
“Then we have a mystery to add to the many.” He shrugged. “I doubt it’s important.”
“Even though someone moved you, drunk, from there to the cold, wet moors?”
“Perhaps I rode. I had a horse. A dun gelding hired in Thirsk. Has such a horse turned up around here?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“He might have returned to more familiar parts.”
“But why would you have been coming up here?”
“Where is here?”
She almost told the truth. “G—Gillsett.” Of course, she had to stammer!
“Don’t lie,” he said without heat. “You want to keep your identity secret. I accept that.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and she was. She was miserable. She’d always regarded truth as precious, as part of the deepest, warmest bonds. You don’t even want such a bond with this man, her stern part said.
Yes, I do, whispered folly.
“Where will you want to go tomorrow?” she asked, reminding folly that tomorrow this would be over.
“To Thirsk. I have an appointment to keep there. I likely will be out of a job if I let matters run wild much longer.”
“You do suffer from a harsh master, then.”
“Harsh? An understatement! I only pray he never hear of my misadventure.”
“He would turn you off?”
“He’d turn me inside out. Clearly, I was stupid somewhere.”
He was probably speaking of his brother, the daunting and vengeful marquess. “He won’t find out from me, at least.” Rosamunde rose, knowing she must leave, but miserable over it. Or rather, miserable over this talk of him
leaving.
Tomorrow.
Forever.
It seemed wrong that this could end so absolutely, so soon.
“Is our time up?” he asked, as if responding to her secret thoughts. She let herself believe that he minded, too, just a little.
“Not quite. I have a book that might interest you.”
Brand watched her leave, irritated at himself over the wistful note he’d heard in his own voice. She was a married woman, and he wasn’t going to carry her like a hump on his back when he left.
His interest in her sprang from boredom. Nothing more.
He turned his mind to the thought of his brother’s reaction if he ever learned of all this. Bey would be scathing if he heard that a brother of his had let himself be drugged.
That had to be the explanation, however. Probably some form of opium. Plain drink couldn’t have had the effect he’d suffered. So, he thought, leaning back and nibbling another biscuit, who had drugged him? And why? If only he could remember whom he’d been drinking with.
The money in his pockets had gone, but it had been a small amount, not worth a plot. Anyway, thieves wouldn’t take the trouble to carry him so far from the place of attack.
And why, plague take it, had his mysterious lady been talking to George Cotter?
She returned with a large, leather-bound volume, clutched rather like a shield. “I don’t know if this will be of interest. It’s agricultural.”
“My bread and butter, dear lady.”
“Oh. I suppose so.” She walked over and thrust it at him. “It’s new, so you may not have read it.”
He looked at the title. Planned Breeding Programs— A Gentleman’s Guide. Interesting.“ Opening the book, he added, ”So new, the pages are uncut. I will need a knife.“
She left and returned in a moment with a razor-sharp, long-bladed one designed for just this purpose. He could very easily have slit her throat with it. He didn’t point that out, but it reassured him. She couldn’t be up to serious mischief and be so naive.
He wasn’t even certain Cotter was a wrong ‘un, but her conversation with the man bothered him. Thus far, he hadn’t been more than idly curious about his gentle jailer, but now he needed to know more.