Secrets of the Night

by Jo Beverley

  “I wish you were here to help with the tangles, though,” she said. “Would you want me to keep Wenscote for the child? I don’t think so. You were as troubled as I was by bringing a stranger’s blood into it.” One hand still on his, she put her other hand over her womb. “It is the child of your heart, though, Digby. Be a special angel for it. It will need you.”

  A feeling of such sweet peace came over her that it was like a blessing, one that made her weep. He’d always made her feel this way. Safe, warm, protected. She knew now he’d do the same for another needy child.

  Smiling sadly, she rested her head on the mattress and let her thoughts wander over eight years of a special kind of love…

  When the clock struck one, Edward tiptoed in. Rosamunde rose, stiff and tired, glad to be going to her bed, but sad to be taking a final farewell of her husband. This wasn’t him, however. He’d moved on. It didn’t seem wrong to leave Edward with this empty shell.

  She nodded to him as she passed.

  Then was caught, hand over her mouth, an arm shackling her.

  She’d never have imagined he was so strong! She writhed and kicked, but could not break free. His grip switched so he had his arm tight around her neck. She tried to claw it down or scream, but he tightened his lock, almost throttling her.

  “Try to call out again, and I’ll really throttle you,” he whispered. Then something cold pressed against her neck.

  “Yes, a pistol, Aunt. One of Uncle’s. How kind of him to insist that I learn to use it.”

  He slowly released her neck, and she gasped for breath, putting a hand to her aching throat. “You won’t shoot me. Everyone would know.”

  “Perhaps I can make it appear suicide. But I don’t want to kill you. Just to get rid of that devil’s spawn in your womb.” He presented a small glass bottle before her eyes. “Drink.”

  Teeth and lips clamped shut, she desperately shook her head.

  “It won’t be too unpleasant, and it will cleanse you of your sins.” He sounded as if he believed he could persuade her! “Otherwise, I will kill you, and your babe will die, too. Come, come. Your life will be easier without a child. You’ll be able to find a young, handsome husband then. Perhaps the one who planted the unrighteous seed.”

  All Rosamunde could do was shake her head, and keep her mouth clamped shut. She was afraid even to scream for he might manage to tip the stuff down her throat.

  He suddenly jammed the pistol into the base of her skull, jerking a cry from her, but she sealed her mouth again before he could act. “Open up!” he snarled, mashing the cold bottle against her lips. “Swallow your medicine, you foul trollop. Purge yourself of your abomination!”

  He kicked the back of her leg and she went down on her knees. He hit her with the pistol barrel so she couldn’t help but gasp. Some liquid splashed into her mouth.

  She spat it out and tried to twist away.

  He grabbed her hair in his pistol hand and pulled back, trying to jam the neck of the bottle between her lips…

  Diana came suddenly awake. The house lay silent, but something was wrong. She and Rosa were sharing a bed, but Rosa wasn’t here yet, so it couldn’t even be one. She felt around on the table for her watch then held it into a beam of moonlight. Surely it said ten past one.

  Then she heard something. A bang? Not on a door, but as if someone had stumbled against a piece of furniture in the dark. Downstairs?

  Heart pounding, she eased out of bed, took her pistol out of her valise, and crept toward the door, more afraid of making a fool of herself than of real danger. She opened the door and peered out. They didn’t have housebreakers up in the dales. It had to be a servant moving about below. Yes, there were footsteps in the hall below. She relaxed, but then she tensed again. Was that a noise from Sir Digby’s room?

  Where was Rosa?

  Then, shocking after silence, steps pounded up the stairs, preceded by a candle’s wild flare. A man appeared, rushing for the master bedroom.

  Brand Malloren!

  Diana raised the pistol in both hands. “Halt!”

  He charged through the doorway as if deaf, and true to her training, she pulled the trigger. The flame from the barrel blinded her. The detonation deafened her and rocked her backward.

  Then she heard screams.

  She stood, frozen in ice. No, she hadn’t prepared herself. She’d not prepared herself to hear that sobbing agony that went on and on…

  As people called and doors opened, she dropped the pistol and staggered into the room. Rosa sprawled on the floor. She hadn’t hit Rosa had she? A man crouched over her. Another jerked and cried on the floor, blood spreading.

  Not Brand Malloren.

  Edward Overton!

  She looked back at Rosa, and saw Brand was the man with her, supporting her unconscious form.

  She fell to her knees by them. “Is she dead?”

  “Fainted.” He held her closer. “Rosa, love. It’s all right. Wake up…”

  Potts ran in. “Saints preserve us!” He went to Overton, who weakly begged for something. Help, death, mercy…

  Mrs. Monkton appeared at the door and began to scream. Short, repetitive, high-pitched screams.

  Rosamunde’s mother arrived, slapped the housekeeper, and went to Rosa, who had come around. In moments, she was taking her daughter away.

  Diana just knelt there, still hearing the explosion of the pistol mixed with whimpered pleas. A gaggle of servants in all stages of dress stood wide-eyed in the doorway now, while the housekeeper sat collapsed in a chair. Blood was pooling on the floor. Voices were blending to a dizzying buzz.

  This would never do.

  Diana forced her weak legs to support her. “Now,” she said, proud of her level tone, “would someone tell me what is going on here?”

  Unfortunately, at that point the buzzing drowned her thoughts and dark rushed in.

  Chapter 24

  Brand looked around, feeling as if he was emerging from an insane fire. Two bodies lay on the floor. The Countess of Arradale and Edward Overton. Someone had called “Halt,” then fired a pistol. They must have shot Overton instead of him. Overton had been screaming, but he was quiet now.

  Someone had taken Rosa away. That was as well.

  He could hardly feel the passage of time between riding toward the house and seeing into this window— seeing Rosa struggling—and being here now with the aftermath.

  Rosa was safe, though. That was all that mattered.

  He knelt by the man lying in a pool of blood. The servant shook his head. “Not quite gone, sir, but soon. Took him right in the side and it’s in there somewhere. Did you… ?”

  “Best not speak about it.” Potts had sent word that Edward Overton had returned to Wenscote. Brand had raced up here, driven by the certainty of danger. He picked up the pistol that must have fallen from Overton’s hand. Not fired. A bottle had spilled its contents on the floor.

  “Poison?” Potts gasped. “Again?”

  “Again?”

  Potts gestured to the bed, and for the first time Brand saw the shrouded shape. “Sir Digby?”

  “Aye, milord. But I was told not to mention…” he whispered. “I’m pleased, milord, that you shot Mr. Edward, and glad he suffered. That’s the truth, unchristian though it might be!”

  Brand didn’t correct him, though he had no idea who’d fired the shot. It couldn’t have been Rosa. Who else was there?

  He rose to stand by the corpse, looking down at the remains of a man he’d liked, a man who had stood between him and his heart’s desire. His conscience twitched that he’d not sent a warning. He’d never thought Overton would go this far, but had he been selfish?

  With honesty, he could say no. To serve his lady, however, he would arrange matters here as best he could. The first thing was to get rid of the wide-eyed servants. The housekeeper, though glassy-eyed, seemed to have some of her wits back. “Why don’t you make some tea, Mrs. Monkton?” he suggested. “For everyone.”

  Wit
h a nod, the woman staggered off, shooing away the servants as she did so.

  Now what? He wanted to go to Rosa, but the damned countess was lying there. Stupid woman to be fainting when she could be of use. He gathered her into his arms, arranging her frippery silk-and-lace nightgown for decency. Then he smelled powder on her hands, and saw dark dust on the white silk.

  ‘Struth! She’d fired the shot? The woman needed a keeper. He carried her into the corridor, listened, then went toward voices. As he hoped, he found Rosa sitting on a bed, her mother comforting her.

  “Diana!” Rosa gasped, quickly making room on the bed.

  He placed the countess there. Rosa’s mother produced smelling salts and waved them briskly under the countess’s nose until she spluttered and came around.

  She pushed the pungent stuff away. “I hate that!” she complained, then sagged back, a hand over her eyes.

  “Stop that, Diana,” the older woman said briskly. “Just because you’re embarrassed to have fainted.”

  “I never faint,” Lady Arradale muttered. “Never.”

  “You’ve doubtless never killed anyone before,” Brand pointed out. “If your aim had been better, you could have killed me!”

  The countess sat up, glaring. “If you rush into people’s houses, you must expect to be shot.”

  “I rushed in because I saw what was happening!”

  ‘Struth, he must be in shock himself to be squabbling with the woman. He turned to his pallid beloved. “Are you all right?” Of course, she wasn’t. Why could he never comfort her when he wanted to?

  “As well as can be expected,” she said, with a gallant attempt at a smile. He could see that she had no more idea how to behave in this situation than he did.

  He fell back on convention. “I’m deeply sorry about Sir Digby.”

  “Thank you.” She tried the same approach. “Have you met my mother, Mrs. Ellington? Mother, you know Lord Brand Malloren?”

  “We met at Arradale,” said the plump, sensible-looking woman in nightgown, shawl, and nightcap.

  Brand bowed as if he was in a drawing room, feeling increasingly unreal. “Your servant, ma’am.”

  “You must have traveled a long way, Lord Brand.”

  “From Thirsk.”

  Devil take it, they’d be talking about the weather next. Everyone here must know the true situation. He perched on the bed near his lady’s feet, and took her chilly hand. “You’re safe now, love.”

  “I know. It’s all right.” But then she swallowed, looking only at him. “He wanted to… to… Brand.” She began to shake, and then she tumbled herself toward him and he was free to gather her preciously into his arms at last.

  For a moment, that was all, a connection too long denied, and deeply hungered for. Then she whispered, “He wanted to get rid of the baby, Brand. He was trying to make me swallow something.”

  “Hush.”

  “I kept my mouth shut. I couldn’t even scream—”

  He held her closer. “Hush, love. It’s over. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

  If only he could. He longed to lie with her, comfort her, and protect her, but this was her husband’s house, and Sir Digby lay dead not many yards away.

  He was going to have to leave again.

  He couldn’t bear it.

  Suddenly, the countess slid off the bed. “I need tea. With brandy in it.”

  Rosamunde’s mother rose from her chair and nodded. “Excellent idea.”

  She bustled past and briefly—amazingly—pressed her hand to his shoulder.

  Well, who was he to go against a mother’s wishes? As the door closed, he sank onto the bed, his lady safe at last in his arms. She spoke wildly for a while, going over and over what had happened, what Edward had said, how she’d fought, the shock, the explosion, the screams…

  He just held her and eventually she quieted, and finally slept. Arms around her, he kept watch over his lady through the night, as a true hero should.

  Rosamunde woke. In someone’s arms? Digby?

  No, not Digby.

  She opened her eyes, hardly daring to hope that her final memories hadn’t been a dream. It was Brand. Heavy-eyed, but watchful and with her.

  “You saved me. Or rather, the child.”

  “Wouldn’t any father save his child?”

  She closed her eyes. “Brand…”

  “Hush.” His fingers weighed gently on her lips. “I’ve had the night to imagine all the troubles. But we can triumph over them. I don’t think you know my family’s unofficial motto.”

  “Let me guess. ‘We are gods and do just as we wish.’ ”

  His smile crinkled his eyes in the most delightful way. “Close. ‘With a Malloren, all things are possible.’ ”

  She looked directly at him. “What do you want to be possible?”

  “I’ll be hurt if you don’t know.”

  “I need you to say it.”

  “I want to marry you, Rosa, and love you, and cherish you, and guard you, and delight you forever and ever, Amen.”

  She laughed, fighting tears. “You almost make me believe.” Then she touched his face, roughened with stubble again. After his long journey and adventure, he was close to the Brand she’d rescued. “Does it happen often, this sudden force? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t think sense has anything to do with it.”

  She expected—half-feared—a kiss. She didn’t know what to do, what to wish for in this extraordinary situation. “Brand, I’m so confused. The baby… I’ll have to…”

  “Hush. We’ll find a way. Just tell me, do you want to marry me? I won’t force you.”

  Could he doubt? “If I’m silly enough to object, please use force!”

  He laughed softly, laying his head against hers. That was all, however. That was one of the things she loved so dearly about him, his honor and his true sense of what was right.

  “Rosa,” he said, “we can’t do anything just yet, but I will find a way. Trust me.”

  She stroked his hair. “I trust you. And we can be together, as long as we give up the baby.”

  He looked into her eyes. “You won’t want to give up your child.”

  “We can’t always have what we want. I’m resigned to it.”

  “I’m not. ‘With a Malloren, all things are possible.’ If you don’t believe me omnipotent, perhaps you have faith in my brother.”

  Faith wasn’t the word for her feelings there. “He won’t try to stop me concealing this child, will he? I won’t shame Digby.”

  He smiled. “You look so fierce. And formidable. You realize, Lady Richardson and her spotty maid outwitted the Marquess of Rothgar. It’s unique.”

  She thought of the kidnapping, wondering if he knew of that defeat. She was sure the marquess must be plotting revenge. “He frightens me, Brand. Don’t let him interfere.”

  “ ‘Struth, love, there’s no avoiding that. But the plan will be as you wish. Only let me try to find one that gives us everything we desire. Everything.”

  She looked at him almost with exasperation. Didn’t he know, Malloren or not, that some things simply couldn’t be? They couldn’t marry and have their child with them without shaming her and Digby. She’d give him what trust she could, however. Taking his hand, she said, “I will pray for a miracle, then, my love.”

  The air stilled. The pull of the forbidden kiss swayed them closer. But then, he said, “This is Sir Digby’s mourning time. We’ll both regret it if we forget.” He rolled off the bed to stretch and yawn as if it were just another morning. He was tousled, stubbly, beautiful, and impeccably honorable. All this at least she would one day have. She would not let loss of the other shadow it.

  It would be enough.

  He turned to her. “I must leave. Will you be all right?”

  She wanted to keep him here. “We’ve parted too often in our brief time…” But she found strength to add, “I have Mother and Diana, and my family will be here soon to walk Digby down. You do
n’t want to stay for that?”

  “I have no place here. Yet.” He was deftly restoring himself with the aid of the small mirror. It pleased her that he didn’t need a manservant for every little thing.

  “Where will the service be?” he asked.

  “In Wensley.”

  “I’ll be at the church there, then. Just an acquaintance paying my respects.”

  “And afterward?” She couldn’t leave matters so profoundly unsettled. “I can’t marry you soon, Brand.”

  “I know.”

  Did he? Did he really understand? “Not until after the baby’s born. After—”

  He put his fingers over her lips again. “Trust me.”

  He waited for her nod, then straightened and winked. “You’re lucky I’m a very patient man, Rosa Overton, or I’d be off seeking another woman to make me into her willing love-slave.”

  Having reduced her to fiery blushes, he left, pausing only at the door to say, “Remember. Remember in the coming months that I love you, Rosa, till death us do part and into eternity. You will have everything you desire.”

  “How?” she whispered, but thank heavens, he was already gone.

  Tears threatened, but she controlled them and put all future problems to one side. Instead, she blew her nose, and rose to face this day, Digby’s mourning day.

  When she emerged from her room, she found that Brand had already accepted responsibility for Edward’s death, and had taken his body with him to Lord Fencott, the magistrate. He’d also dropped hints that the New Commonwealth was being investigated on many charges, including using poison to remove inconvenient people.

  As a result, the gathering to escort Sir Digby on his final journey fairly buzzed with shock and speculation, but also with enormous relief. There was even laughter at times. She didn’t think Digby would mind. He was missed, and he’d know it, but he’d always enjoyed good cheer.

  No one seemed to find Brand’s intervention suspicious. They all knew he’d met Digby at Arradale, and taken Edward away by force when he left. That story had been too good not to fly around the dale.

  Did they suspect other things? She really didn’t think so. The servants at the dower house had kept their mouths firmly shut. Those at Wenscote who had suspicions were doing the same. Perhaps her plan, at least, would work—to bear the child secretly and find it a good home.