The Spurned Viscountess

by Shelley Munro

  Once the footman swung up beside her and flicked the reins, the black pony took off at a fast trot. His pace barely slackened as they approached the avenue of trees after exiting the castle forecourt.

  Rosalind seized her bag when it started to slide from the cart. She shoved it under her feet and gripped the edge of the cart until the color bled from her knuckles. “Do we need to go so fast?” she shouted above the creaking cart, the pounding of the pony’s hooves on the dusty road, and the footman’s curses.

  “Whoa!” Matthew yelled, hauling back on the reins.

  The cart shot into the avenue. Sunlight faded to dark, forbidding black. Branches whipped across her face and torso.

  “What’s wrong?” Rosalind shrieked.

  “Whoa! Whoa! I don’t know, my lady!” Matthew leaned back, pulling with all his strength.

  “Turn the pony up the steep path, the one at the exit of the avenue,” she ordered.

  “Aye. That should slow him.” Grimly, the footman sawed on the reins, trying to turn the pony’s head.

  Rosalind feared they’d whisk past the turnoff, but at the last second the pony grudgingly turned. The cart hit a hole in the road. Rosalind screamed and slid against the footman. Her bag flew from her grasp, flying off the cart, hitting the ground with a thud.

  “Hang on, my lady! The brute is slowing.”

  As the slope increased, the pony reduced speed. When he finally halted, his coat was white with foamy sweat. His sleek sides heaved as he sucked for breath.

  The footman leaped nimbly from the cart, holding the pony firmly to prevent flight. “Are you all right, my lady?”

  “I’m fine.” With the footman’s help, Rosalind clambered from the cart.

  The footman scratched his head. “I’ve never known old Sambo to take a start like that.”

  “Check his harness,” Rosalind directed in a terse voice.

  “Righto, my lady. I’ve heard of insects stinging animals. Do you think that could have happened?”

  “I don’t know.” Rosalind limped back to where her bag lay on the ground. She opened it cautiously, expecting the worst. The pungent scent of dried herbs was strong. Her eyes watered. She wiped them impatiently and restored her medicines to order. Only two jars broken. It could have been worse.

  “My lady.” The footman waved with excitement. “Come and see what I’ve discovered.”

  Rosalind hurried to his side as fast as her throbbing knee allowed.

  “Poor Sambo was stung. Look!” The footman peeled back the harness. Sambo danced uneasily, rolling his eyes and snorting. The footman held him steady.

  Rosalind bit back a gasp as she saw several wasps trapped under the leather strap. Some of them were still alive. “No, don’t pick them up with your bare hand. They’ll sting. I have gloves. Let me.”

  She brushed the insects away rather than picking them up. Some fell to the ground dead while others flew away once released. “Who harnessed up?”

  “I don’t know, my lady, but I intend to find out. If this were a joke, it’s not funny. We could have been killed.”

  The footman’s face echoed her anger. An accident was probably the desired outcome. They’d been lucky. She pushed aside her uneasiness for practical considerations. “Is Sambo all right?”

  “I won’t hitch up the harness again, but we can manage right enough if I lead him. It’s not far to the village.”

  “Thank you, Matthew.”

  They arrived at the village fifteen minutes later without further mishap. The usual assortment of children, dogs and chickens greeted them on arrival. Matthew helped her down from the cart.

  Billy shoved his way to the front of the crowd. “I’ll carry the lady’s bag.”

  “Thank you, Billy. How is your brother?”

  “He swore today,” Billy said.

  Rosalind bit back a smile. “That must mean he’s on the mend.” Against all her predictions, the boy’s injuries had responded well to treatment. Billy’s brother was the perfect person to question.

  The chickens and dogs soon lost interest in her arrival, but the children tagged along behind. One small girl with plaits and a missing front tooth tugged on her hand.

  Rosalind slowed her steps to smile down at her. “Hello.”

  “Are you the witch lady?” she asked.

  Rosalind came to an abrupt halt. She gasped at the shooting pain in her knee but didn’t take her gaze off the girl. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Of course she’s not a witch,” Billy declared.

  “Who said I was a witch?” Rosalind asked icily, drawing herself upright.

  A frightened look flashed across the girl’s face. She cowered as if she expected Rosalind to strike her. “I heard ladies talking.”

  “When? Have you heard the same thing, Billy?”

  He hesitated before nodding. “Aye. I’ve heard talk.”

  “Today?”

  “Are you going to burn?” the little girl whispered.

  Rosalind flinched. “Who told you that?” She looked askance at Matthew.

  He gave a clipped nod. “I’ve heard rumors too, my lady.”

  “No, I’m not a witch. I’m the same as you.” Nonetheless, apprehension laced her forced smile. “Billy, let’s see how Harry is getting along.”

  Rosalind and Billy left the small group of children to continue with skipping rope and their game of tag.

  “Witches are evil,” Billy said without warning. “They keep frogs and cats for pets and ride a broomstick.”

  Grim amusement fought with horror. Lucien had been right. The rumors were flying as fast as the fabled broomsticks. She considered the visits she’d made to the sick, the treatments she’d given, and the reactions of the people. She’d been so careful. She knew she had, especially after her experience in Stow-on-the-Wold. How had the rumors started? Who’d started them?

  Billy led Rosalind inside the small cottage. Harry lay on a pallet in front of the fire. Smoke filled the single room, making her eyes water. Billy’s mother stood at the fireside, stirring the contents of an iron cooking pot. On their entrance, her head jerked up. Her eyes widened and her spoon dropped from shaky fingers. Liquid splashed from the pot into the fire with a loud sizzle.

  “Good day, Mrs. Green,” Rosalind said, smiling despite the other woman’s reaction.

  “Billy, where have you been?”

  “With my friends.” He cast a quick look at Rosalind. “Lady Hastings has come to see Harry.”

  Mrs. Green glanced at Harry. Her face softened for an instant but the tenderness had disappeared by the time she gave her attention to Rosalind. Her expression and the whispered chant under her breath indicated she’d heard the rumors and believed them.

  Rosalind held the woman’s gaze, refusing to show guilt or uneasiness in any form. She wished Mary were here. Her friend would stick up for her and give the woman the sharp end of her tongue for even thinking about witches and black magic. Sorrow pierced her then—a gloomy foreboding. Swallowing rapidly, she forced aside the lump of terror blocking her throat. “Is now a good time for me to look at Harry’s wound?”

  Mrs. Green hesitated. “Since yer here,” she said finally. “I have to go. Billy, show the lady out when she’s ready to leave.”

  Billy nodded, and Mrs. Green hastened from the cottage, her lips moving in silent voice. The woman was probably murmuring all sorts of superstitious chants under her breath so Rosalind didn’t do anything to her precious son. It was obvious Harry was the favorite.

  Rosalind smiled at Billy. “Why don’t you go back and play with your friends? Harry and I will be fine.” Best if Billy didn’t witness her interrogation of his brother.

  “No,” Harry croaked. “Don’t go.”

  The boy hadn’t uttered a word the whole time, but Rosalind was aware of Harry’s wide, anxious eyes. He’d heard the rumors of witchcraft too.

  “Billy,” Rosalind said.

  After another stern look, Billy left. Rosalind tugged back th
e blanket covering Harry’s skinny chest. The boy’s hands trembled. She smiled, hoping to reassure him. “Let’s see how your leg is coming along. Have you tried walking?”

  Biting his lip, he shook his head.

  “You didn’t tell me how you were shot. Did Hawk shoot you?” She knew he hadn’t because she’d read him earlier in his delirious state, but she hoped he’d offer her more information.

  “I don’t know no Hawk.”

  His chest tensed under Rosalind’s touch and his breathing hitched. He lied.

  “You know Hawk,” she murmured. “He’s the man who runs the smuggling ring. The men of St. Clare work for him. Did he shoot you?”

  “No.” Harry’s reply was whisper soft as if he didn’t want to answer but couldn’t help it.

  Rosalind decided to push harder before Mrs. Green returned. “Tell me about Hawk.”

  Harry’s gasp was loud. “He’ll kill me.”

  “He won’t know because I won’t tell. What does he look like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me.” Rosalind placed her hands on Harry’s leg. The vision poured over her. The boy mightn’t tell her, but when she asked questions, he thought of Hawk. A moment’s sympathy stirred before she forced it away. She needed answers. Hawk was dangerous—to both her and Lucien.

  “Is he big? Small? What color hair does he have?”

  Harry groaned, trying to move away, but the fever from his leg had left him weak. Even though she felt like a bully, she maintained a firm grip.

  “I don’t know what he looks like.”

  “How do you know the man is Hawk?”

  “He wears a mask.”

  A mask? Her mind probed Harry’s thoughts. She saw a tall figure dressed in black, a cape swirling about him in the wind. Rosalind sought his face. Dark hair. Long, tied back with a black ribbon. Frustration made her want to weep. Harry wasn’t lying to her. Hawk wore a mask. He had no idea of the identity of the man under that mask.

  A shadow moved in the far corner of the room. Rosalind gasped in fright, her hand jerking off Harry’s leg.

  The shadow separated from the wall. “Rosalind, what are you doing?”

  “Lucien. What…what are you doing here?”

  His eyes flashed impatience. “My question, I think.”

  “I’m treating Harry’s leg.” Bother, she hadn’t had a chance to question the boy about Mary, but she’d wanted to ask about Hawk before someone like her husband arrived.

  “That’s not what it sounded like to me.” Lucien’s voice held sharp disbelief.

  “Then why are you asking?” Rosalind snapped.

  “So you could do a good job of incriminating yourself. Have you finished here?”

  Rosalind folded her arms and gave a small mutinous huff. She tugged the blanket back over Harry’s leg. “You need to start walking about to regain your strength.”

  Harry stared at them with huge frightened eyes.

  Lucien took her arm, his grip firm. “Come, Rosalind.”

  “I have other people to see.”

  “Are they sick or are you going to interrogate them?”

  Rosalind sniffed and didn’t bother replying. Drat the man. It was almost as if he could read her mind. She darted a look in his direction and discarded any idea of evading him. “I’m treating the ill,” she said, her tone lofty. “I have a footman escorting me just as you instructed, so you don’t need to wait.”

  Lucien bit back a grin, once again wondering why he’d dismissed his wife as a boring brown mouse. She had more determination than most men. But he knew she wasn’t going to treat the sick. The angle of her chin gave her away. She planned to question more of the villagers about Hawk.

  He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “I’ve talked to Matthew already. I know you were the subject of another suspicious accident.”

  “But—”

  “We will discuss this at the castle.” After a nod at Harry, Lucien propelled his wife from the small cottage. “I sent Matthew back to the castle,” he said, taking her medicine bag from her.

  Rosalind stopped. An indignant frown creased her brow. “How am I meant to get back?”

  “I will take you.” Lucien led her to the stables. Oberon whickered softly in greeting. He stood back to let Rosalind enter first.

  “I’m not getting on that brute.” Rosalind backed up rapidly until she collided with Lucien’s chest.

  “Yet I found you hiding in Oberon’s stall the other day.”

  “That was…” she trailed off, caught in half-truths.

  “You lied to me, perchance?”

  “I—”

  “Come, Rosalind. There’s nothing to be frightened of.”

  “Have you checked under the saddle?” she asked, still stalling.

  “I intend to do it right now.” Lucien led Oberon from the stall and deftly undid the girth. He checked beneath the saddle and saddle blanket and refastened the girth again. After examining the reins and bridle, he tossed his wife up on the saddle and handed her medicine bag to her. Lucien swung up behind her and wrapped one arm around her waist.

  “I’ll fall,” she gasped, wriggling about uncomfortably.

  “I won’t let you fall.” Lucien pulled her slight body close and used his knees to urge Oberon into a walk. Rosalind trembled, and he felt a moment’s misgiving. He still had bad news to impart.

  “What if Lady Augusta sees me sitting on the horse like this? It’s…unseemly.”

  He tightened his hold, drawing her close so she was almost sitting on his lap, and signaled Oberon to increase his pace. “Close your eyes,” he murmured, looking down at her pale face. When her eyes snapped shut, he smiled.

  The scent of flowers rose from her hair and suddenly he wished they weren’t atop his horse. The need to kiss her lips was an ache in his soul. It wasn’t because he’d forgotten Francesca or that he no longer loved his first wife. She resided in his heart still, but to his surprise, he’d found there was room for Rosalind too.

  The trip back to the castle didn’t take long enough. In the courtyard, Lucien reluctantly released his wife. A stable lad appeared, and he gave Oberon into his care.

  Rosalind was still limping so Lucien swept her into his arms, bag and all, and hustled up the flight of stairs.

  “I can walk,” she protested.

  His wife was predictable when it came to independence. “If I waited for you, I’d miss my next meal.”

  Rosalind huffed indignantly, but Lucien could tell she wanted to laugh. He strode through the entranceway into the Great Hall. It was warmer inside and a welcome respite from the stiff breeze outside. A maid bustled about with a tray of drinks at the far end of the hall. His cousin Charles stood with Mansfield, Lady Sophia and two young women. They looked familiar but Lucien couldn’t recall their names.

  “Hello.” Charles’s greeting held a note of surprise.

  “Hastings. Lady Hastings,” Mansfield said. His languid gaze swept over Rosalind. “Anything wrong?”

  “We’ve been to the village,” Lucien said. Instinct told him not to talk to his cousin and friend about Rosalind’s activities in the village. Rosalind wriggled, and he reluctantly let her down but kept a steadying hand on her arm.

  “Are you hurt, Lady Hastings?” Lady Sophia asked.

  Lucien frowned at her honey-sweet tones. He’d already noticed the three young women whispering amongst themselves while he spoke to Charles and Mansfield. Not one of them could bear to gaze upon his face.

  “A twinge in my knee,” Rosalind said.

  “Did you fall?” Lady Sophia’s face held concern yet Lucien sensed the girl didn’t feel the slightest hint of sympathy. “Your gown is grubby.”

  Rosalind’s lips firmed, and Lucien noted her chin lifted in defiance. She opened her mouth, but he spoke first.

  “We intend to retire to our chambers to rest until the evening meal.”

  “We’re going for a stroll in the garden. It’s sheltered from the wind. Are y
ou sure we can’t tempt you to join us?” one of the young women said, her mouth stretching into a moue of disappointment.

  “It’s more fun with lots of people,” Lady Sophia said. “Are you sure you won’t come, Hastings? Lady Hastings could rest so she is refreshed for tonight.”

  Lucien decided it was time he put Lady Sophia in her place. Since the first, she’d made veiled comments about Rosalind. He hadn’t stuck up for his wife then, but he could do the right thing now. Rosalind was lady of the castle and, as such, had his full support.

  “We will see you later.” Lucien scooped Rosalind off her feet with a suddenness that made her squeak. He chuckled as he strode away with her tightly held in his arms, despite her muffled protests. “I have bad news,” he murmured.

  Foreboding struck her face, and she ceased her struggles immediately. “Mary?”

  The faint tremor in her voice brought all his protective tendencies to the surface. He wished he didn’t have to tell her the grim truth but knew she’d settle for nothing less. “I’m afraid so. Wait until we reach my chamber. I’ll tell you everything then. We don’t know who might eavesdrop on our conversation.”

  At his chamber door, Lucien used his shoulder to nudge it open. He deposited Rosalind on his bed and instantly, his arms felt empty. An uncomfortable thought lodged in his mind—he was becoming used to seeing her in his bed.

  “Tell me about Mary.” Rosalind’s eyes glittered with stark, vivid fear, and it tore at Lucien’s heart. He wanted to lie, to tell Rosalind her fears were premature, but he couldn’t leave her with hope Mary would return when there was none.

  “She’s dead,” he said, his bluntness making him wince.

  “How do you know? Are you sure it was Mary?” Tears throbbed in her voice and glittered in her pale blue eyes. Her hands fisted in her lap, and she looked like a broken doll. “It’s exactly six years since…since Mary started work…looking after me.”

  Lucien was unsure of whether to make an offer to comfort her or not. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, feeling inadequate and useless. More questions would come and he’d have to tell her the worst.