In the drawing room after dinner, Rosie couldn’t help fidgeting and took a turn about the room several times. Her blood boiled to see him lounging in her father’s chair. She’d never thought herself capable of violent thoughts. Until now.
She had to force her fingers to stop curling into fists. If only she were a man. She would deal with him then.
He had not denied killing her father and she suspected he felt no remorse. She believed him to be truly evil.
She left her chair to walk to the fireplace. “That gown is not equal to your charms, my dear,” Rupert said. “You shall have new prettier gowns made.”
He left the room but soon returned with a jeweler’s box. “I took the liberty of retrieving these from the bank.”
Nestling in satin were the Merryville sapphires, set in a circlet of sparkling diamonds.
Rosie bit her lip to stem the need to berate him. She tried not to shudder as he placed the cold stones around her neck. He stood back to admire her.
“Perfect,” he said. His hands cupping shoulders he leaned down and kissed her lips.
Prickles of revulsion ran like fingers up and down her spine.
She must leave. If she stayed even one more day, she would kill him or he would kill her. Rosie moved away from him to pick up her embroidery she’d begun in the hours spent at her father’s bedside.
As her needle stabbed the fabric, she sought to calm herself. These jewels would serve her well. She would need money too, and would search Rupert’s room before he came upstairs.
Then, God willing, she would leave here with Jim and not return until she had the support of Mr. Barrett, the family solicitor in London. With his assistance, Rupert would be removed from the house. She glanced up at him. He smiled, content, drinking a glass of port and witlessly carrying on a one-sided conversation with her.
When she didn’t reply, he sought her advice. Was the new cook’s dinner up to scratch? Did she think the worn upholstery on the chairs could be mended, or should they be replaced?
“I don’t know,” she uttered. “You decide.”
Such was his interest with every minute detail at Merryville House. His obsession with the family seat had been obvious even as a child. If he’d been a different man, a decent man, she might have welcomed him here.
“You can’t leave it all to me, Rosie. As man and wife, we must begin refurbishing Merryville House together.”
She wanted to scream, to fly at him and rake deep wounds into his smirking face, to shout that it was all a sham!
Instead, she merely sewed. She formed the stitches flawlessly, a skill brought about through many hours of practice. It required no concentration on her part, which was indeed fortunate. She needed her full attention to quell the rage threatening to overtake her, and plot her escape.
“Rosie? I want so much for us to be together. I have waited for this for so long, my love. Tonight will be a special night for us.”
She kept her eyes downcast to hide her fear and loathing.
She hoped he would take this for reserve and leave her alone for the few hours she needed.
Time ticked by interminably. He watched her constantly, barely blinking, barely speaking of anything besides his fantasies of their life together.
When the clock struck quarter to ten, Rosie stood. “I believe I’ll retire. Would you allow me some privacy, please?”
She hoped it would be taken for maidenly modesty.
“Of course, but not too long.” Rupert kissed her hands before she hurried from the room.
When she reached the landing, Rosie rushed along the corridor to the bedchamber Rupert occupied. He would keep some money about. She hurried to search his dresser, but found none in the drawers.
In the cupboard was an impressive row of coats. Rupert had never stinted on clothes.
Gentlemen such as Rupert bought practically everything on credit and many avoided paying their bills. But she was in luck!
Coins clinked at her touch from the inner pocket of one of his coats. She withdrew her hand to examine her find. There was enough for the coach and a night at an inn, if she was frugal. She opened the door, checked the corridor and finding it deserted, darted down to her chamber.
She went straight to the window. A few clouds drifted across a waxing gibbous moon. Enough light to aid their escape. It was just such a night when Hugh found her riding Molly through the woods at Vale Park.
The same moon, but another world. There was no time for such thoughts. After packing a carriage gown, stockings and a chemise in a bag, she threw on her warmest cloak, her brown poke bonnet, and her strongest leather half boots.
She tiptoed soundlessly down the back stairs. Growing up here had taught her where every tread squeaked.
Someone moved about in the kitchen. Surely not the cook at this hour?
Rosie peeked through the crack in the door. The big man, Rupert called Slattery, sat at the table with his back to her, eating a meal of bread and meat. Rosie hovered, uncertain what to do. If she delayed, Jim might be seen and questioned. She had turned to retreat when Slattery was summoned. He threw down the chicken leg and lumbered to his feet, muttering to himself.
After he left the room, she darted through the kitchen and out into the cool night air. A soft whistle greeted her from a shadowy corner.
“Follow me,” Jim whispered. Keeping to the shadows, they crept away from the house then ran through the orchard. “I’ve left the cart tethered a mile up the road,” Jim said. “We go to my brother’s house.”
They both knew the woods well, but in the dark, undergrowth slowed their progress. Brambles caught at Rosie’s skirt and branches scratched her face.
The moon toyed with them, shining brightly one minute and hiding behind clouds the next. Rosie kept her eyes on Jim’s sturdy back, listening for noise behind them. She stumbled in Jim’s wake, each fallen log or twisting root threatening to trip her up.
With a burst of relief, they burst out onto the road where a cart waited. Jim put his arm around her waist and hoisted her up.
He leapt onto the seat beside her. Then, all business, he whipped the horse into a canter.
Rosie kept swiveling to watch behind them, but no one followed. The moon emerged from the clouds again, turning night into day, but only a fox was their silent witness, his eyes gleaming, his body poised for flight.
Jim egged the horse on, the jingle of the traces and the clip of hooves seemed overly loud in the still air. “Just a few more miles,” he said, with a grim smile.
When Jim drove the trap into the yard of a small cottage, Rosie released her breath. Light spilled from the doorway as a man, looking like an older version of Jim, appeared.
Rosie hurried to him, taking his hand. “Bless you, Simon,” she said. “I pray this will not bring Rupert down on your head.”
“Have no fear of that, milady. You will not be here long.” He touched a finger to his nose. “I know an inn keeper in York who will keep close counsel. Your cousin will hear nothing of this. We go to there tonight. On the morrow, you leave York for London on the mail coach.”
Rosie took her sapphire earrings out of the box in her reticule. “I wish so much to repay you. Please, I want you and Jim to have these.”
Simon’s eyes went owlish. “Oh no, y’ladyship. We have no use for such things.”
“Jim, Rupert will suspect you’re involved, he will fire you. You will need this, please take it.”
Jim shook his head. “Those are no good for the likes of us. We lead simple lives. There’s other work for me in York. You may well need them in that God forsaken city.”
Rosie hugged them both in turn.
****
Rosie lay on a hard bed, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. In the taproom below, a rowdy group drank late into the night.
Giving up on sleep, she crept out of her room and halfway down the stairs to peer through the banisters.
A man pushed a woman over a table, and the others gathered aroun
d as he raised her skirt. The woman gave a peel of excited laughter.
Rosie rushed back to her chamber, her face burning.
As the hours passed, she slept lightly, waking at every step outside her door. She expected Rupert to burst in on her at any moment.
Hearing the cockcrow, she began to hope. A few people ate in the inn dining room. Rosie ordered a light meal, but found it difficult to eat. She wrapped bread and cheese in a handkerchief, and popped it into her bag for later.
Rosie remained in the inn until the very last minute, praying Rupert and his cohorts wouldn’t suddenly appear. The other occupants had settled in the coach when she finally climbed aboard.
A man and his wife sat with their daughter. Rosie squeezed in between a curate and an elderly lady on the opposite seat. Rosie said good morning then scanned the inn yard. She clutched her hands together in her lap, hardly daring to breathe.
The coach rocked as coachman and groom climbed on board, throwing the old lady against Rosie. An exhausting trip lay ahead, but she welcomed it. All being well, she would be in
London in seven hours.
At the sound of coachman’s whip and his call to walk on, Rosie breathed a little easier.
Not until they’d left York far behind, did the tension ease from Rosie’s muscles. She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.
****
The noise and smells of London were a shock to Rosie’s senses.
She alighted from the coach, crumpled, dusty and convinced she now smelt as bad as the drunkard who had replaced the curate on the journey and fallen into a stupor snoring in her ear.
Carefully counting out her coins, she hailed a hackney to take her straight to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where her father’s solicitor, Mr. Barrett, held a room.
After the peace of the country, the clamor in the streets amazed her. She had never seen so many vehicles and people. A sedan chair passed held aloft by two brawny carriers. Horse hooves clacked above the cries of the street peddlers selling their wares. The air was grey with smoke, and manure lay deep on the road and smelled worse than a stable-yard.
Thick, brown water mixed with refuse and straw gushed along the gutters, splattering women who held their skirts high as they picked a path through on their pattens.
The hackney deposited Rosie in a treed street in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The clerk’s eyebrows rose when she entered the law office.
“I’m rather travel soiled.” Rosie said, lifting her chin. “I’ve come on urgent business. Please inform Mr. Barrett —” Before she could complete the sentence, the door to the inner office opened. Portly Mr. Barrett appeared, dressed in his lawyer’s black garb. He looked at Rosie over the top of his spectacles.
“Can I help you?”
“Lady Rosalind Merryville, Mr. Barrett,” she said, straightening her shoulders, while aware of her woeful appearance.
“Lady Rosalind? Ah, yes.” He stood aside and gestured. “Please come in.”
Rosie sank into a chair. It was some years since Mr. Barrett had come to Merryville House. His hair had receded and turned white. It was fortunate that he recognized her after all this time.
“My dear,” he said, “you look just like your mama. I remember well. What has brought you here? You appear quite done in. I’ll order some tea.”
After the tray arrived, Rosie took a deep breath and related her long, sorry saga, stopping only to aid her dry throat with a sip of hot tea. Mr. Barrett offered her a slice of seed cake, urging her to continue. She talked herself hoarse, editing out the parts not suited to his ears.
Mr. Barrett sat open-mouthed for a moment before popping in the last piece of cake. “My dear Lady Rosalind, what can I do to help you? Merryville has behaved most unwisely, but to have him removed from your house permanently would be very difficult to do, and take an inordinate amount of time.”
“I need it to be done immediately, Mr. Barrett.”
“He hasn’t broken the law. Not in any real sense.”
“He kidnapped me!” she said, outraged. “He is living in my house and forced me into marriage.”
Mr. Barrett dusted the crumbs from his trousers. “He is your first cousin, and now the earl is he not?”
“Yes, that’s true but—”
“And now your husband, you say?”
Rosie frowned. “I have a strong reason to doubt the ceremony was legal, Mr. Barrett, which is why I’ve come to you.”
He sat forward on his chair. “If you are married to him, my hands are tied. There must be someone else in the family who can come to your aid, take you in perhaps, if you don’t wish to live under his roof.”
“I rather hoped my Aunt Rebecca, Lady Redcliffe, that is, might—”
“This is more like it. Yes, indeed.” The lines of his craggy face eased as a resolution to her dilemma presented itself. He seized on it eagerly. “Lady Redcliff is still above ground. I had some dealings with her recently. She lives in Park Lane. I have her domicile somewhere…Lawrence?” He rose, stuck his head out the door and muttered something to his scribe.
A few minutes later, the young man entered with a file. “Ah, yes. Lady Redcliff lives at number eight, close to Hyde Park. An exceptional address. I’m sure she will take you in.” He sat back and folded his arms, satisfied that he’d solved the problem.
“What about Rupert, Mr. Barrett? Can you proceed with his eviction?”
He ran his hand over his baldpate. “Well, to be honest, I always considered that will a travesty. Rare indeed for a Titled Estate to be left to the female line. The laws of Primogenitor were created for a very good reason. To ensure the entailed property continues in the male line and therefore protect a family’s wealth. Your father was remiss not to change the ancient earldom, created in fee tail general, that is to say, all heirs of the body, meaning both sons and daughters, by investiture and oral grant by the king. These family squabbles that erupt over a will.” He drew breath. “It is better you solve the matter between yourselves. Otherwise, it’s a long, sad business.”
“I am determined that he shall not have the Estate. I have reason to believe he killed my father!”
Mr. Barrett’s chin jerked up. “Oh, I say. That is quite another matter. How extraordinary. Did you see it happen? ”
“My father was ill. I left his bedchamber for a few moments. I saw Rupert come out of his chamber, as I walked down the corridor. When I entered the room I found Father dead.”
“You didn’t see it happen, then.” Mr. Barrett nodded and tapped his pen on his desk. “No servant witnessed an act of violence toward your father?”
“Rupert had dismissed them.”
“How did he die? Was there a wound?”
“I believe Rupert smothered him. I found a pillow lying on the floor when I came in.”
“The doctor was called?”
Rosie raked her hands through her hair. “I don’t know. I was dragged away by brute force and forced to take part in a marriage ceremony with a preacher. I then ran away.”
“Your father was gasping his last breaths? It’s entirely possible that he had chosen that moment to slip away.”
“He was ill, but he wasn’t dying.”
Mr. Barrett shook his head. “My dear young woman. How would you know? You might wish this to be true, but your father was long an invalid, was he not?”
“Yes, but—”
“Did Lord Merryville admit to the murder?”
“No. Although he didn’t deny it either.”
He held up his hand. “There is no way of pursing this matter without substantial proof.”
“Then, as my father did not change the letters patent, I would like you to write to Rupert, requesting he leave my house. And find out if the marriage ceremony, performed under duress, was legal.” She stood and held out her hand annoyed that it trembled. “Please begin as soon as possible.”
Mr. Barrett’s face reddened. He shook her hand with a curt nod. “If you insist, Lady Rosalind.”
“I do.”
Rosie walked along the street, gazing up at the magnificent dome of St Paul’s Cathedral. In London, it was not done for a woman to go about unescorted. There was no end to her indiscretions, it seemed. She clutched her bag, patently aware of the valuable sapphires. Her fragile reserves of energy were exhausted. It would take the last of her money, but she hailed a hackney and gave the jarvie her aunt’s address.
What would she do if Aunt Rebecca turned her away?
The carriage deposited Rosie in an elegant street facing the park. She walked to the elegant, three-story redbrick townhouse with stone trim, straightened her shoulders in front of the shiny, black door, and seized the brass knocker, rapping briskly.
Seconds later, a sober-faced butler dressed in black opened the door. His lips firmed when he eyed her disheveled appearance and noted she was alone. Before he could shut the door in her face, Rosie placed her hand on the doorframe praying he wouldn’t crush her fingers. She was not about to fail at the hands of a snobbish butler.
“Please tell your mistress that her niece, Lady Rosalind Merryville, wishes to see her.”
The butler’s gaze clouded with doubt. “Please wait,” he said and closed the door, failing to invite her inside. Rosie stood on the porch, a sharp wind making her shiver, her empty stomach gurgling with hunger and apprehension. To her relief, minutes later, the door opened again and the butler begged her enter. He led Rosie upstairs to the drawing room.
Her aunt sat alone by the fire, a marmalade cat on her knee.
“Aunt Rebecca it is so nice to meet you at last,” Rosie said, hurrying forward.
Her aunt looked up, but went on stroking the cat. “My dear niece, I had an inkling I would see you sometime, but not so soon,” she said ambiguously. “Your name is Rosalind? Not a family name. I imagine your father chose it.”
“I believe he did.” Rosie came to hug her. The cat stared at her even more disdainfully than the butler, and her aunt’s lorgnette, fan, and shawls all worked against her intention. Rosie managed an air peck close to the lady’s pale, crinkled cheek.
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