The Spurned Viscountess

by Shelley Munro

  He suppressed amusement at the insult. Danger. Now there was the rub. Rosalind knew nothing but the tip of the rotten stench enclosing both St. Clare castle and village. And he wasn’t about to share the horrors with her. Bad enough for him to suffer the consequences. “Tell me of the progress in the kitchens. I understand you ordered work to begin on new kitchens.”

  “The old kitchen was disgraceful,” Rosalind said. “It’s no wonder the food served is inedible.”

  Lucien noticed the firming of her chin, the narrowing of her eyes and the unswerving resolve. The devil made him prod. “Lady Augusta tells me your plans are a shocking waste of money. Money the St. Clare family can ill afford.”

  “Perhaps I know where the treasure is.”

  A fleeting memory flashed through his mind. Lucien came to an abrupt halt, trying not to concentrate too hard or force the memory. Children. A cave…then nothing. His curse rang through the air, heartfelt and colorful.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Absolutely nothing.”

  Her hand tightened on his arm. “You’ve recalled a memory from your past.”

  “Maybe.” His voice was curt and he knew it. Frustration and self-preservation made him refuse to discuss the past and his lost memories. People treated him differently when they realized, looking for signs of madness with each furtive glance.

  “Is it the treasure?”

  Lucien’s head whipped about to stare at her in consternation. Everyone except the English mouse.

  “I thought so.” Every word dripped with smug satisfaction. “Did you search for the treasure when you were a child?”

  “Usually after listening to the tales spun by Charles’s father before he died. He was a gifted storyteller. He made it all sound so exciting. He…” Lucien trailed off with astonishment. The memories had arrived without prompting. He’d just known instead of having to forcibly drag them from the fog inside his head. He concentrated, a furrow forming between his brows as he pushed for more. Was it possible the earl spoke the truth, and he was a St. Clare after all?

  Rosalind tightened her grip on his forearm. “Don’t. Don’t force the memories that haunt you. You’ll make your head hurt. Tell me more about the tales your uncle told.”

  “I don’t remember.” Disappointment beat at him. Damn it! Why couldn’t he remember the important things? Childhood memories were a waste of time.

  They entered the Great Hall. Muffled thumping echoed through the castle, a reminder of the needless deaths of the servants.

  “Have you tried to discover where the passage goes?”

  Lucien turned to study his wife. Her face held innocent enquiry, yet she’d voiced the very thing he’d mused over. “You’re not going to search for treasure,” he said. Firmly, he thought.

  “I’ve already started. I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open while I look for Mary.”

  Lucien sucked in a deep breath, biting his tongue when he really wanted to shake sense into the woman. No matter how many times he issued orders, she went her own pigheaded way. “Do you want me to lock you in your room?”

  “At the risk of repeating myself, I have been shot at and thumped over the head. And it was only luck that saved me from falling through the kitchen floor.”

  “Make no mistake, I will lock you in your room if you insist on placing yourself in dangerous situations.”

  “But that’s not fair.”

  “Rosalind, I don’t have time to guard you, and since you refuse to obey my instructions to take a footman with you, you leave me with no alternative.”

  The wounded look on her face made him feel like a bully. However, he had enough to deal with. His investigations in Dover had borne fruit. After questioning several of the captains, he’d learned of a boat that had sailed to France around the time of the attack on him and Francesca. Not noteworthy until the captain mentioned several of the local thugs for hire were on board, and they’d boasted of easy riches for disposing of an Italian and his wife. He hadn’t been able to track down the boat and captain, since they hadn’t been in port, but he had located one of the seamen who’d sailed with the Gallant on a previous voyage. Bitter at his unfair dismissal, the man had grasped the opportunity to earn a few coins and gain revenge. He’d heard the men talk about a man called Hawk and how he was paying them handsomely.

  Yes, it was only a matter of time and he’d have Hawk. Along with explanations that were unclear to him right now—provided he could make the man talk.

  “Will you stay locked in your chamber?”

  Lucien gaped at his wife. “What?”

  “I asked if you would stay in your chamber.”

  “I heard your words. It was the meaning I didn’t fathom.”

  “You’re in danger too. I heard the villagers talking.”

  “There’s no point arguing. Come, Lady Augusta waits for you in the Chinese Drawing Room.” He didn’t have time for this.

  Rosalind wanted to screech in a tantrum of Miranda proportions. He refused to acknowledge the danger to himself while he ordered her about like a servant. Who’d watch his back? There’d be no dark-haired sons or daughters for her if her husband died.

  A resolute determination crept to the surface, undaunted by Hastings’s threats. There was too much of her future at stake here. If he refused to take safety concerns into account, then she’d act as guard and escort.

  Hastings ushered her to the Chinese Drawing Room and paused before entering. Rosalind grimaced at the closed door separating them from Lady Augusta’s wrath. “Can’t you pretend you couldn’t find me?”

  Hastings’s chuckle held clear satisfaction. It was obvious he intended to keep her busy waiting on Lady Augusta so she wouldn’t have time to disobey his edicts. He pushed the door open and stood aside for her to enter. Lady Augusta sat in an upright chair, her head lowered in sleep.

  “Where are you going now?” The man was in danger, whether he believed it or not.

  “I need to check on the roofing and rebuilding in the village.”

  “I don’t think we should wake Lady Augusta,” Rosalind said. “She needs her rest.”

  At that moment, Lady Augusta stirred. Her head whipped up, her eyes instantly alert. “What took you so long? I summoned you an hour ago.”

  Hastings edged toward the door and disappeared.

  “I have just returned from the village,” Rosalind said. “I came as soon as I realized you needed me.”

  “Humph! I need more of the tonic you made me.”

  “I thought you said it didn’t help.”

  Lady Augusta’s glare was sharp enough to pierce the thick castle walls, but it didn’t put a dent in Rosalind’s rising spirits. Lady Augusta had gifted her with a reason to wander outside.

  Rosalind worked at keeping her satisfaction hidden but it burst forth in a smile. “I’ll need to collect more fresh herbs before I can make more of your tonic. I’ll see to it immediately.” She bustled from the Chinese Drawing Room. In the Long Gallery, the same edgy sensation she experienced while she was alone in her chamber shivered down her backbone. She forced away her unease and pretended she noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

  As she entered the Great Hall, she slowed. Janet and the dark-haired maid strolled through the hall and, seconds later, Tickell followed, nodding at her.

  “Do you require anything?” he asked.

  “No, thank you. I’m running an errand for Lady Augusta.” Rosalind collected a basket and slipped outside. In a hurry to gather her herbs so she could snoop a little, she scurried along the courtyard wall, heading for the small gate that led into the North Tower garden. All the herbs she required grew in this vicinity. A visit from Lady Pascoe had cut short the search she’d conducted during her last foray for fresh herbs. This was a good opportunity to see if she could discover anything to help her find Mary. The pungent scent of basil filled the air as she plucked several stems. Soon sage, comfrey and lavender joined the basil in her basket. They would m
ake a rub, which would hopefully reduce the swelling of Lady Augusta’s joints. A lemon from one of the potted trees recently relocated from the orangery. Some celery to make a tincture. Perhaps some chamomile if she could find some to add to her tonic.

  Her hand froze as she picked a second lemon. Mary should be here with her, scolding her about dallying in the fresh air and arguing about which one of them would carry the herb basket. Her absence was a huge gnawing hole. She clamped her eyes shut, battling the pain piercing her heart. No one understood her concern, but Mary was more than a maid. She was her friend and the only person who’d stood up for her in her uncle’s house. The people of Stow-on-the-Wold had whispered about witchcraft, especially after the incident with their neighbor’s son, Thomas.

  A watery chuckle emerged as she recalled Mary taking to him with the straw broom. He’d intended stealing more than a kiss when he’d cornered her in the barn. Of course, she hadn’t helped matters when she’d informed him the boil on his backside would become painful and not to look to her for treatment. He’d had his hand on her breast, squeezing it painfully, when Mary appeared, wielding the broom like a sword.

  No, Mary would never leave without telling her. She was brave and loyal. Sniffing, Rosalind pushed the memories to the back of her mind. Mary was her best friend, and she owed it to her to continue looking. There had to be a logical explanation for her disappearance.

  Rosalind pulled a final fragrant lavender stalk and turned in the direction of the North Tower, her skirts sweeping past the tangle of plants and blackberries. It wouldn’t hurt to investigate a little under the pretext of searching for more herbs.

  At the edge of the garden wilderness, her steps slowed. She squinted into the afternoon sun. The North Tower clung to the edge of the cliff. Part of the weathered gray tower had crumbled into the sea, leaving a skeleton behind. A pile of debris blocked the arched doorway. As Rosalind pondered the tower, a raven flew through a slit in the wall, its loud caw echoing eerily before it reached the open sky. A shudder worked through her body, and she glanced over her shoulder in disquiet.

  Then she heard the clip-clop of hooves on the stony track on the other side of the tower. A flicker of apprehension gave her feet wings. She ran for an oak tree at the edge of the garden, left her basket of herbs hidden in the undergrowth, and scrambled up into the lower branches.

  The horse trotted closer. A combination of misgiving and daring swept through her veins when she peered through the screen of green leaves.

  It was Hastings.

  Chapter Twelve

  Oops. Hastings had seen her. The clenched jaw and narrowed eyes were discouraging, but she owed it to Mary to keep searching. Her friend would do nothing less for her. And as for her husband—he was in danger whether he denied it or not. Someone had to help keep him safe. Her chin lifted in determination as she met his scowling gaze.

  Rosalind clambered down from the low oak branch and put her gown and cloak to rights. “Ah, good afternoon.”

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’ve been collecting herbs. See?” She lifted her basket and waved it in front of her with a flourish.

  “And?”

  “I’m searching for Mary.” Bother, he’d seen through her subterfuge. Perhaps partial honesty would work. “And you’re in danger too. I’ve tried to tell you, yet you refuse to listen.”

  A bark of laughter escaped him, transforming his face into someone more approachable, a man she definitely wanted to know. “What sort of danger?”

  “A man is trying to kill you.” Rosalind pursed her lips, undecided about how much to tell him. She’d worked so hard to earn his approval, his trust, his smiles. Telling him of her cursed gift would change everything.

  “How do you know?” Curiosity glinted in his dark eyes.

  Panic roared through her, lodging like a huge knot inside her stomach. She wrenched her gaze away. She couldn’t tell him only to watch the fear and superstition slide across his face like a mask. A few words would seal her fate. The secure, loving relationship she craved would slip beyond her grasp.

  “I just know,” she said. His stern features propelled her to blurt out more. “I heard men talking in the stables. Someone is paying the servants to watch you.”

  Hastings snorted. “I suggest you return to the castle. We’ll discuss your punishment when I return.”

  He discounted everything she told him. “But what about Mary?” she asked.

  “I will search for your maid.”

  “But…” His irritated expression halted her objection. St. Bridget’s nose! She couldn’t let him go without trying to warn him. “Be careful. You can’t trust—”

  “Where is your escort?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Return to the castle now. I’ll deal with you when I return. Go now.” He waited until she reached the garden before he wheeled Oberon about and galloped away.

  Rosalind winced. He didn’t believe her. What was she going to do? She couldn’t tell him how she knew so much. Her gift. Her visions. He’d start treating her like a circus freak, if he didn’t call her witch first or commit her to Bedlam, just as her aunt had constantly threatened.

  ***

  Rosalind’s uneasiness increased when Hastings failed to appear for the evening meal.

  “Where is Hastings?” Lady Augusta demanded of Charles.

  “I have no idea.” He turned to Mansfield, who had joined the family for dinner. “Did you see him on the way here?”

  Mansfield shrugged and toyed with his glass of wine. “I haven’t seen him. I’ve been otherwise engaged.”

  “Dallying with the widow on the road to Dover, no doubt,” Lady Augusta snapped. “He’s a bad influence on you, Charles. You’ll never wed if you carry on like Mansfield.”

  “We’re not children any longer, Aunt,” Charles said in a mild voice. “Besides, you enjoy Mansfield’s tales of life in the sultan’s court. You can’t call them children’s stories.”

  “I could tell you about the harem,” Mansfield said slyly, winking at Rosalind.

  “Humph,” Lady Augusta said, pretending offence, but Rosalind caught the clear curiosity on her lined face.

  St. Clare chimed in. “Lucien told me he wanted to check the roofing work on the cottages in the village. That was hours ago.”

  Worry killed Rosalind’s appetite and she stopped pretending to eat. Something had happened. She just knew it. If the stubborn man had listened to her…

  “That sounds like Hastings now,” Charles said when they heard a commotion from the direction of the Great Hall.

  “Thoughtless man,” Lady Augusta said. “We’ve already finished our soup. I refuse to wait while Hastings eats his soup.”

  Tickell entered the dining room. “Lady Rosalind—”

  Rosalind bounded to her feet before the butler finished. “Where is he?”

  “In his chamber. He asked for you to attend him there.”

  Rosalind flew down the passages and up the stairs, barely registering her surroundings. Hastings was hurt. The words pounded through her brain. She burst into his chamber, her breath coming in gasps.

  “I told Tickell not to bother you.”

  “You’re bleeding.” Rosalind sought the source of the blood on his face. “Let me get my bag.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Then let me see.” Before he could argue, she moved closer, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. She swallowed a laugh, turning it into a choking gasp at the last moment. “Is the rebuilding on schedule?”

  His eyes narrowed as his gaze fastened on her face. “Everything is fine.”

  “I have salve in my bag that will help the cut heal.”

  “All right,” he growled. “If you must, but it’s not necessary.”

  Rosalind nodded and hastened away. Her smile bloomed. He’d tripped over a log while playing with two children and was too embarrassed to admit his clumsiness. Still grinning, she burst into h
er chamber. The grin died a quick death.

  “No!”

  Her belongings were strewn over the floor, her linens ripped from the bed. Slowly, Rosalind made her way through the path of destruction. Her new silk gowns were tossed carelessly on the floor. Someone had shredded them beyond repair. She scooped up the broken remains of her hairbrush, the last remaining memento she had of her mother. Tears stung her eyes. Why? The wanton destruction seemed so senseless, as if the person had destroyed her belongings in a jealous rage.

  “Noir?” His plaintive meow started a frantic search. “Noir, where are you?”

  Another meow sounded, and a small black head poked from under a pile of bed linens. Rosalind scooped him up, hugging the kitten to her chest. “Thank goodness you’re all right. I bet you saw who did this.” She stroked a finger over his head until he started to purr.

  Sighing, she placed Noir on the bare feather mattress and searched for the bell to ring for help. The maid announced her arrival with a brief knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Rosalind called.

  Janet slipped through the door and came to a stunned halt. “Lady Hastings, what happened?”

  “My room was like this when I arrived.”

  “I’ll call another maid to help clean up. You’ll want fresh linens for the bed too.” Janet turned to the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Rosalind sighed as she started to pick up her treasured knickknacks—a small china shepherdess with her head broken off, a glass vase and the selection of flowers it had once contained, and several mismatched shoes.

  Janet returned with another maid sauntering in her wake. The maid’s ample chest heaved with a put-upon sigh when she saw the mess to clear.

  “I checked with the other maids,” Janet said. “None of them saw anyone enter your chamber. And Beth turned down your bed.”

  “I did. Everything was in order when I left.” Beth circled the room in a slow, leisurely gait. “You’ve got enemies, you has.”

  Rosalind bit back a retort. The woman had to state the obvious. “If you would make my bed, I’ll help Janet sweep the floor. Make sure you shake the linens well before you take them away. A little more glass and broken china on my floor won’t do any harm. Here, I’ll shift Noir for you so you can make the bed.” She put the kitten in a corner, gave him a scrap of ribbon to play with, and told him sternly to stay out of the way.