The Spurned Viscountess

by Shelley Munro

  Rosalind’s gaze narrowed at his smug tone. “Did you murder Mary?” She closed the distance between them with two steps, her hands fisted. If he said yes, she’d scratch his eyes out. The idea of her friend suffering at the hands of this madman infuriated her. “What did you do to Mary?”

  His brows rose and he moved back. “Such an outpouring of emotion is unbecoming, my dear. Do control yourself.”

  “I am not your ‘dear.’ Did you murder Mary?” Rosalind grabbed two handfuls of his embroidered waistcoat and yanked hard. Anger pounded through her veins and, for the first time in her life, she was tempted to injure rather than heal. “I knew she hadn’t run off with a lover. She wouldn’t leave without telling me. Did you kill her? Did you leave her in the tunnel?”

  Mansfield wrenched away, took several steps back and paused to smooth his crumpled apparel. “It was her fault. She shouldn’t have tried to escape.”

  “Why?” Fury vibrated through her body.

  Mansfield held out his right hand to examine his fingernails. “I believe she objected to joining a harem.”

  “You intended to sell her? To that sultan friend of yours in Constantinople?” Shock tore at her insides before rage whipped her upright. Mary in a harem. No wonder she’d tried to escape. She glanced at him and froze, suddenly uneasy with his intense scrutiny. “What do you intend doing with me?” she asked in a faint voice. Surely he didn’t intend to marry her, as he’d indicated earlier? She was married to Lucien.

  “You in Abdul Musa’s harem?” He laughed with genuine amusement. “No, my dear. I don’t intend to present you to my old friend. I have other plans for you.” His gaze lingered on her lips and traveled across her breasts in a leisurely manner. The expression on his face did little to halt her escalating panic.

  “I’d like to know.” A ripple of revulsion swept her body, and she fought the urge to hide behind the intricate Chinese screen in the corner of the room. Her chin shot up. “Tell me. Please.”

  “I told you. We’re going to marry as soon as I’m sure you’re not bearing Hastings’s whelp. And in time, you’ll present me with an heir. Sooner rather than later, I hope.” His eyes glowed with a fanatical light. “Bedding you will be no hardship. Finally, I’ll get to touch your luscious breasts instead of merely looking. I’ll taste you. Rosalind, my dear, we’ll be good together.”

  He’d watched her, seen her unclothed. She felt dirty and used, quite unlike the way Lucien made her feel. “I’m married to Lucien. I love him.” The words burst from her without thought, yet the minute she uttered them she knew she spoke the truth. She loved her husband. Now if only she had the chance to tell him.

  Mansfield stiffened as if she’d struck him. Rage twisted his features into an ugly mask, and she immediately regretted her outburst. She edged away unobtrusively.

  “None of this would have been necessary if you’d heeded the warnings I gave you of specters. You should have listened to your maid and left Castle St. Clare when you had the chance. She knew things weren’t right, that ghosts haunted your room. She saw me, you know, but instead of telling you, she confronted me. Ah, yes. I knew you’d be the key to my revenge.”

  Oh, Mary. “You? You crept into my room from the passage behind the wall.”

  “You were so brave,” he whispered, moving nearer to her. A flush suffused his face. His eyes glittered in a frightening manner. “No panic or hysterics when your hairbrush disappeared and reappeared. Strange noises didn’t spook you, and even when I crept into your room and shoved you from your bed, you didn’t dose yourself with laudanum or descend into madness. You made me proud—a woman worthy of the St. Clare family, a woman worthy of being my mate. It didn’t take me long to change my mind about you. I decided I’d keep you. You will be my wife. That other stupid bitch kept trying to kill you. She’s lucky my plans escalated, or I’d have taken care of her myself.”

  Rosalind stared, shocked into silence by his revelations. She squeezed against the wall when he advanced on her, his face red, his eyes glittering with passion and a hint of madness. The man belonged in Bedlam.

  “I’m afraid you sealed your fate when you entered Hastings’s bed. Once I’m sure you’re not bearing his child, you’ll marry me. I’m the oldest. You were meant to marry me, not my brother.”

  “Brother?”

  “Yes, brother.” His response held a note of impatience. He paced a tight circuit of the chamber, mumbling under his breath before whirling to face her. “Hastings is my brother. Have you not noticed the similarities between us? Our features?”

  Rosalind didn’t have to pretend confusion. “I don’t understand.” She didn’t understand at all.

  “My mother had an affair with St. Clare before she married. I was an eight-month baby,” he drawled.

  Rosalind felt her mouth drop open in pure shock. “But you were heir to Mansfield.”

  “Bah!” Mansfield scowled. “The man was a wastrel. Mansfield gambled away the family fortune. All we have are debts.” Hate burned in his eyes, strong enough for Rosalind to take a half step backward, her heart thudding with alarm. “I’m barely holding the estate together.”

  “So it’s you! You’re the one ransacking the castle for the treasure?”

  Mansfield laughed, but the sound held little humor. “The St. Clare treasure is long gone. If it ever existed. Charles believes in chasing dreams. Me, I believe in reality.” A heavy dose of sarcasm colored his voice. “Why would I bother to pursue myths when the St. Clare fortune is within my grasp? No, my dear. All I want is my due. St. Clare promised to marry my mother and reneged on the pledge. I want what’s due to my family.”

  “But none of this is Lucien’s fault,” Rosalind burst out. “Why are you set on destroying him? Why not St. Clare?” Fear slithered through her when she saw the barely controlled rage on his face. How did he think he could right the wrongs of the past by committing more atrocities? An illegitimate child would never inherit.

  He laughed, the devious, gloating sound scraping across her raw nerves. “St. Clare. He suffers each time I visit the castle, but he knows he can’t stop me. Why the hell do you think he wanted you to marry Lucien? He wants grandchildren, heirs in my way. Fool, as if he could stop me now. He knows I’m biding my time. But I intend to avenge the honor blackened by St. Clare. For once Hastings will finish second.” The light of madness grew in his brown eyes, a feverish need for revenge.

  Rosalind tried to keep a healthy distance between them, but continued to push for answers to her burning questions. “Why did you have Lucien’s wife killed? His unborn child? They had nothing to do with St. Clare.”

  “Ah, but you forget. Lucien was on his way home to England, and he was bringing a prospective heir. I never liked the way he disappeared in Naples. We left him for dead but no one recovered his body. I suspected he was still alive, so I paid a local man to watch, to listen and any information he learned he sent to me. While Hastings remained hidden in Italy with no knowledge of who he was, there was no danger to me. I kept tabs on him when I was in Constantinople, and later when I returned to England, content to bide my time. My claim on the St. Clare fortune is stronger than Charles’s.” His chuckle held pure evil. “It killed St. Clare knowing Lucien was dead and I, as his eldest son, could claim everything whenever I chose.”

  “One flaw with your plan,” Rosalind said.

  “Yes?” he drawled.

  “Lucien is still alive.” Satisfaction oozed from her voice. In truth, Lucien’s presence was one of many flaws in his plans. Mansfield made everything sound easy, very black and white, but Rosalind clung to hope. Lucien would come for her. And meanwhile she would grasp any opportunity to escape.

  A smug grin flickered across his face. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I met Lucien about an hour ago. It seems he came to Whittlebury to check on building supplies that failed to arrive.”

  “Lucien is here?” Hope surged inside Rosalind, until his superior expression dashed her optimism.

  “Yes, I m
et up with Hastings earlier. I tricked him and knocked him unconscious, so if you’re counting on your husband racing to the rescue, you’re wasting your time.”

  Fury lashed her. She launched at Mansfield and punched him. The first blow hit his stomach and the second snapped back his jaw. Rosalind prepared to strike for a third time but Mansfield captured her hand, his fingers a band around her wrist. Images poured into her head. A long narrow alley. Darkness. Mansfield hurrying ahead, hiding behind a corner and jumping Lucien.

  “If you’ve hurt him, I’ll never forgive you.” She struggled against his hold, determined not to give in to his demands. If he thought she’d follow his orders blindly then he didn’t know her as well as he thought.

  He subdued her by dragging her close to his body and surrounding her with iron-muscled strength. Rosalind stopped fighting, relaxed, and the instant he loosened his hold she stomped on his foot.

  “Damn hellcat.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook until her head rattled. “I’m going to enjoy taming you.” His brown eyes narrowed and appeared assessing.

  Rosalind tried desperately to block his licentious thoughts. They bombarded her like blows from a club—disgusting, despicable. Worst of all was the vision of her exchanging vows with him before a man of the cloth and offering her body to Mansfield. “No,” she cried. “You can’t make me marry you.”

  “By God, the rumors are true. You can read minds. I believe you’ll be very useful to me in Paris, my dear.”

  She would never help him. Never. And she’d never stop fighting him. She’d seize any opportunity to escape. “Where’s Lucien? What have you done with him?”

  “He’s stashed in a safe place until I can have him removed.”

  Until he killed him. She hadn’t told Lucien she loved him. Over and over the thought echoed through her head. “I suppose you recruited Lady Sophia too.”

  Mansfield glowered at her. “I told you Lady Sophia works alone.”

  The man spoke the truth about Lady Sophia and seemed irritated by the accusation. Obviously her assumption about them working together was a mistaken one.

  “Witch.”

  “I am not a witch.”

  “Not you. Lady Sophia. I wondered why you didn’t wear the clothes I left for you. She must have destroyed them. I knew she’d arranged to have you pushed over the cliff and of the stair incident. I would have stopped her if I’d known sooner. She always did have her eye on Hastings, but St. Clare wanted you for his precious son.” Mansfield laughed suddenly. “I’m surprised Hastings’s scarred face hasn’t scared her off. The incentive of a title and position in society must mean more to her than perfection.” At the striking of a clock, Mansfield pulled the chamber key from a pocket inside his jacket. “I’ll arrange a tray. Eat well and get some sleep. We leave early in the morn.”

  Mansfield had left those gowns for her. Horrified, she stared at his back as he sauntered out the door. Remembering how excited she’d been when she’d found them, and how she’d felt wearing the luxurious gowns, made nausea sweep through her belly.

  The door shut firmly behind him. The key turned in the lock, and she heard his receding footsteps. 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. She heard the drunken revelry from the bar, the noise becoming increasingly 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 were 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 seemed as though 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! Thinking of escape, was you?” Her face glowed a hot red and each breath came in a harsh pant, as if the climb up the stairs from the kitchens had taxed her strength.

  Rosalind ignored the taunt. Despite the woman’s bulk and poor breathing, she still towered over her and looked far too strong for Rosalind to deal with and escape. She’d have to think of 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 immediately 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, she heard the key scrape 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 accusingly. 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, not far from 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 saw 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.”

  Rosalind felt a flash of guilt. The old woman would likely beat the girl if she returned empty handed. Then Rosalind thought about 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 scarcely breathed, watching Annie closely even though she pretended disinterest in the tray and the girl’s presence.

  “Be it true yer a witch?” Annie blurted.

  Ah, gossip. Rosalind thought rapidly and 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 closely, measuring her reaction.

  Annie glanced over her shoulder in a furtive manner. 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 took a deep, shuddering breath and seemed to come to a decision. 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 some coins. How much do you charge?”