One Perfect Rose

by Mary Jo Putney

  The physician stared at the unlit fire. As he had feared, notifying Lord Michael had stirred up a hornet’s nest. Ashburton could be anywhere in Britain, and the chances of locating him were slim. It was far more likely that the duke would return on his own than that he would be found. But if Lord Michael managed to find his brother, the duke’s physician should be there as well.

  Blackmer stared at his cold hearth and wondered with deep foreboding what he had let himself in for.

  Chapter 12

  Rosalind awoke late to a sunny morning. Jessica had already gotten up, dressed, and gone down for breakfast. But then, Jessica had not taken a long walk by the river nor had she helped deliver a baby.

  Rosalind rolled over and stretched luxuriously. The high drama of the previous day had ended with a very successful performance at the local theater. Maria’s wildly emotional role in Isabella had reduced the audience to happy sobs. The farcical afterpiece had been well received, and she and Stephen had reached the point where they could kiss with pleasure and no danger—at least when they were in front of an audience.

  She thought of that kiss, and the others earlier in the day by the willow tree, and heat flooded her limbs. For a few moments she allowed herself to imagine what would have happened if they had continued. It would have been a rare and wonderful thing to share such passion with a man she cared for deeply.

  But caring for him too much was the problem. She sighed and swung her feet from the bed. Stopping before it was too late had been the right thing to do. And not stopping sooner had left her with lovely memories. Better than nothing, she supposed.

  After washing and dressing, she went downstairs. To her disappointment, Stephen had already gone out. In fact, he did not appear until after luncheon. Rosalind had finished a lunch of bread, cheese, and ale in the private parlor, and was making lists in her notebook. Seeing Stephen go down the hall, she waved for him to join her.

  He changed course and entered the parlor. “What mischief are you up to?”

  “Nothing very exciting.” She indicated her lists. “In a couple of days we’ll be doing a private performance at an estate near here. A very prestigious engagement, so I’m taking extra care to make sure we have everything we need. Unfortunately, the one thing we need most, good weather, I can’t arrange.”

  “An outdoor stage?”

  She nodded. “There’s a lovely little Greek-style amphitheater, perfect for performing A Midsummer Night’s Dream. If the weather is awful, we can move indoors, but it won’t be anywhere near as nice.” She set aside her notebook. “Have you eaten?”

  Stephen shrugged off the question, as he often did his food, and unconsciously rubbed his stomach. She surveyed him critically. He was definitely getting thin, and she realized that she had seen that gesture before. Perhaps he suffered from indigestion, or even an ulcerated stomach.

  Before she could decide whether it would be impertinent to ask about his health, he said, “Would you like to visit Ellie Warden?”

  She smiled, forgetting about his lack of appetite. “I’d love to.” She went and got her bonnet, and together they left the inn.

  As they walked toward the far end of Whitcombe, he said, “In case you’re wondering, I went to Cowley this morning.”

  “Ah, of course,” she said, enlightened. “Were you able to talk to the head of the vestry council about Ellie’s future?”

  “Yes,” he said, but volunteered no more. Nobly Rosalind refrained from further questions. She’d find out soon enough.

  Mrs. Holt lived in a pleasant cottage surrounded by the brilliant, heavy-headed flowers of late summer. A perfect place for the cheery midwife. Mrs. Holt herself opened the door after Stephen’s knock. “Ah, here are the good angels!” She stood back so they could enter. “Ellie and her boy are doing just fine.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that,” Rosalind said warmly. “Can we see them?”

  “Right this way.” Mrs. Holt led them up a narrow stairway to a sunny bedroom at the back of the house. Ellie was sitting in an upholstered chair by the window, her baby sleeping in her arms. As Rosalind had expected, cleaned up and in a nice robe, she was a very pretty girl, with soft brown curls and a sweet face.

  She lit up when she saw her visitors. “I’m so glad to have the chance to thank you properly. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  Rosalind’s heart melted at the sight of the sleeping infant. He had a full head of silky dark hair. “May I hold him?”

  “Of course.” Ellie passed her son over carefully.

  Rosalind cradled the warm, malleable form and felt a terrible urge to run away and keep the baby for herself. She had expected to have children, and babies would have done much to compensate for the shortcomings of her marriage. But she was barren, and would never hold a child of her own in her arms. Huskily she said, “He’s lovely.”

  “So small and perfect.” Stephen touched a tiny hand gingerly, as if fearing that he’d damage it. “Will you name him for his father?”

  “Aye. And…” Ellie ducked her head shyly. “I never did learn your name, sir.”

  “Stephen Ashe.” His gaze never left the baby. Rosalind felt in him, as clearly as spoken words, the same hunger for a child that she had.

  “Then I’d like to call him Daniel Stephen, if you don’t mind, sir.”

  Stephen looked up with an expression of startled delight. “I’d be honored.” His gaze dropped to the baby again. “I’ve several godchildren,” he said softly, “but this is special.”

  Rosalind silently blessed the girl for giving Stephen a gift greater than she knew. Then she regretfully returned the infant to his mother.

  Stephen touched the baby’s petal-soft cheek. “Sleep well, Daniel Stephen.” He looked up, his expression businesslike. “Do you have any plans for the future, Ellie?”

  The girl’s happiness dimmed. “I’ll try to find a position where I can keep him with me. It won’t be easy, but I’m not afraid to work.”

  “This morning I spoke to the Cowley vestry council,” Stephen said. “They agreed that the amount of parish relief that went to you and your mother was much less than the value of your cottage, so you will receive two hundred pounds in compensation.”

  Ellie gasped. “Two hundred pounds! It’s a fortune!”

  “Not a fortune, but a good cushion against disaster,” he agreed. “I believe that I know of a suitable position as well. A friend of mine has an estate in Norfolk, and the place could use another maid. The housekeeper is a good-natured widow who likes babies.” He smiled. “A woman rather like Mrs. Holt. And perhaps you’ll find some relatives in the area.”

  Ellie stared, stunned, tears forming in her hazel eyes. “That would be perfect, sir. You and your wife have been so good to me. I shall never forget you.”

  Rosalind and Stephen exchanged startled glances. “We’re not married. Just…friends,” she said, knowing the words were inadequate.

  Ellie blushed. “I’m so sorry. I thought…the way you two are with each other…”

  “An easy mistake to make, because we’re very good friends,” Stephen said with a smile in his eyes. “Incidentally, when you go to Norfolk, if you wish to call yourself Mrs., with your Danny’s last name, no one need ever know differently. After all, you were married in your hearts, if not in the church.”

  This time she did start to cry. “So no one will ever call my baby bastard. Oh, sir, it’s…it’s like a miracle.”

  Looking embarrassed, Stephen said, “You’ve had your share of ill fortune. It’s time for a change.” He glanced at Rosalind. “And it’s time for us to be off.”

  She nodded, then bent to give Daniel Stephen a feather-light kiss on the cheek. His eyes opened, and he regarded her gravely. Knowing that she also would be crying if she stayed any longer, she squeezed Ellie’s hand and wished her well. Then they went downstairs. Stephen explained Ellie’s prospects to Mrs. Holt, who agreed to keep the girl until she was strong enough to take a coach to Norfo
lk. There was a discreet clinking of coins as he paid for Ellie’s expenses.

  Rosalind waited until they were well away before asking, “How on earth did you get the Cowley vestry to give Ellie money from the sale of the family property?”

  “Threats,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve some knowledge of the law, so I pointed out their misdeeds and said I’d get the lord lieutenant of the shire on them. In fact, I’ll do that anyhow. Ellie is not the only one they have abused.”

  Rosalind remembered how he had looked the day before when dealing with Crain, and she had no trouble believing that he had intimidated the vestry into fulfilling their responsibilities. He probably hadn’t even had to raise his voice. “Was the cottage really worth two hundred pounds?”

  He hesitated. “Half that, after they had deducted every penny that had ever been spent on her family, plus interest. I doubled the amount to give her some security.”

  “So you’re giving her a hundred pounds, plus expenses at Mrs. Holt’s. That’s incredibly generous.”

  “It’s only a hundred pounds,” he said, embarrassed. “Not a great amount.”

  If she’d had any doubt about his station in life, they were now resolved. “A small fortune by most people’s standards,” she said wryly. “Certainly to a Fitzgerald.”

  When he glanced at her, expression troubled, she said, “We come from different worlds, Stephen. Even more different than you realize, I think.”

  He turned and laid his hand over hers, where it rested on his arm. “But haven’t we built a bridge between those worlds?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “A frail one that will dissolve as soon as you leave.”

  His face tightened, and there was bitter regret in his eyes when he said, “Why do things have to be this way?”

  “They just are. You’re a gentleman, and I’m an actress. Most of the time, the only way people like us meet is behind closed doors.” She smiled at him. “And we’ve been lucky enough to have a little holiday from the usual way of the world.”

  He released his breath in a sigh. “You’re right. As always.”

  She resumed walking, keeping her hand tucked in his arm as she said aloud what she had sensed. “You’re running away from something, aren’t you?”

  He slanted a glance at her. “Am I that transparent?”

  “I’m enough of an actress that I watch people closely.” And because she cared about Stephen, she watched him very closely indeed.

  “Nothing illegal,” he said after a long silence. “I’ve been running from…life, I suppose. It’s time to go home and take up my responsibilities again. As soon as Edmund Chesterfield’s replacement arrives.”

  It was suddenly very important for her not to let him know how much she would miss him. Lightly she said, “It’s been a lovely flirtation.”

  He glanced at her, an indefinable blend of emotions in his eyes. “So it has.” He caught her hand and lifted it to his mouth for a brief kiss. Then, using a deliberately theatrical voice, “I shall remember you all of the days of my life, Lady Caliban.”

  As she would remember him. And someday, in a year or two or three, she would probably be able to think of him and it wouldn’t hurt.

  Chapter 13

  Day Sixty-two

  Stephen didn’t recognize impending disaster until the eleventh hour. The troupe was on the way to stage the private performance that Rosalind had mentioned. Most of the players were in the carriages and lead wagon, while Stephen followed, driving the wagon that contained the costumes and sets.

  The horses were nothing like his own highbred teams, which meant he could pay attention to his passenger. Rosalind had tossed her bonnet into the wagon and rode bareheaded, her face and hair full of sunlight. The warmth of her autumn-colored tresses made him realize that the first nip of autumn was also in the air. Time was passing by.

  Preferring to forget that, he asked idly, “By the way, where are we going?”

  “Bourne Castle, the seat of the Duke of Candover. I’m surprised that you haven’t heard Papa mention it. He’s immensely proud of the fact that for the last four years we’ve performed there at the duke’s personal request.”

  Bourne Castle? Christ have mercy! Stephen’s hands tensed involuntarily, and the horses whinnied in complaint. Automatically he loosened the reins, hoping Rosalind hadn’t noticed his shock.

  Rafe Whitbourne, the Duke of Candover, was one of Michael’s closest friends, and he and Stephen had known each other for years. Certainly they were well enough acquainted that Candover would recognize his fellow duke instantly. Stephen felt a powerful urge to hand the reins to Rosalind and bolt.

  For weeks he had been traveling with the Fitzgeralds in a magical world that was completely separate from his normal life. Now those worlds were about to collide. He might be able to escape detection if he were working behind the scenes, but tonight he was to play the Duke of Athens again. He and Rosalind would be the first people to step onto the damned stage. There was no way he could avoid identification.

  Keeping his voice rigorously even, he asked, “Is the performance just for the duke’s household?”

  “Oh, no. It’s quite a grand occasion,” she said serenely. Aloysius was traveling on their wagon, and he chose this moment to push his head between them. She stroked the dog’s shaggy head. “The duke and duchess invite all the gentry for miles around. Before the performance they feed everyone dinner, and even send the same dishes to us humble players. Excellent food and an appreciative audience. It’s the high point of our annual tour.”

  Wonderful. Stephen would know half the people there. He was probably godfather to some of their children. Dourly he asked, “How did this event begin?”

  “The duke and some of his grand friends came to see us perform in Whitcombe. I suspect they came to scoff, but they stayed to admire. It was The Tempest that night.” She smiled reminiscently. “Afterward Candover came backstage—he’s very handsome—flirted elegantly with every lady in the troupe, including old Nan, and asked if we were available for a private performance in his outdoor theater.”

  “Naturally, the answer was yes,” Stephen said hollowly. It wasn’t too late to run, but he couldn’t, not when the company was already shorthanded. Leaving Thomas without a Theseus would be unconscionable.

  “Hold on,” he warned as he maneuvered the wagon around a massive rut, wondering why the thought of discovery was so upsetting. After all, he was the Duke of Ashburton and could do pretty well what he pleased. People might laugh at his eccentric behavior, or they might scoff, but it certainly wouldn’t be to his face.

  Was he ashamed of performing onstage? Not at all. He was proud of his modest skill, and he greatly enjoyed being part of an ensemble.

  Then why was he concerned?

  The problem, he realized, lay in that collision of worlds. The last weeks had been a special time—a secret pleasure that would help sustain him in the difficult months ahead. Having his adventure become common knowledge among his peers would tarnish what had been rare and wonderful.

  Worse, the vulgar would assume that he was sleeping with one or more of the actresses. He could not bear for Rosalind and her family to be demeaned by ignorant gossips. But how the devil could he avoid being recognized?

  A possibility occurred to him. “I’ve been thinking that I’d like to play Theseus with a wig and beard, so I’d look less modern. That can be arranged, can’t it?”

  “Yes, but why would you want to wear a beard?” she said with surprise. “They itch—I’ve worn them myself when playing a man. And they cover so much of the face that it’s hard to project emotion.”

  He gave her a slanting glance. “The first time I played this part, you said yourself that all I had to do was convey authority, and love for my intended bride.”

  “And you can convey authority even with a sack over your head,” she said with a laugh. “Very well, indulge yourself with some false whiskers.”

  He relaxed a little. With a disguise and so
me alteration of his voice, he should be able to escape unscathed. It wasn’t as if anyone would expect the Duke of Ashburton to be part of a traveling theater troupe.

  The lead vehicles were turning between a pair of towering gateposts. After Stephen followed, Rosalind said, “Look. Isn’t it wildly romantic?”

  Towered and turreted and crowning a hill, Bourne Castle was indeed dramatic, though Stephen thought Ashburton Abbey more beautiful. As they started up the long drive, he pulled his hat down on his face and slouched lower in his seat. Luckily several weeks of living out of a pair of saddlebags had removed most of his aristocratic polish.

  Their route took them past the sprawling stables. Behind were parked a dozen magnificent carriages, many with noble crests on the doors. Rosalind gestured toward the vehicles. “Splendid, aren’t they?” She gave Stephen a teasing glance. “Though I suspect that for you, there is nothing special about such a sight.”

  She was right; he had not thought twice about the collection of expensive equipages. “Do you ever wish that you had that kind of wealth?” he asked seriously. “Gowns and jewels and carriages at your command?”

  She looked surprised. “Not particularly. I already have all of life’s necessities, a few luxuries, good health, and wonderful family and friends. I don’t need more baubles.” Her thoughtful gaze went to the castle. “Oh, I wouldn’t mind having a nice house, but wealth doesn’t make for happiness, and I suspect such riches carry many burdens.”

  Her words struck to his heart. Comfort, health, warm companionship. When all was said and done, what else was there? Riches, titles, and power were just another form of bauble. Quietly he said, “You’re a wise woman, Rosalind.”

  As he steered his wagon to the left, they passed a second row of carriages parked behind the first. His gaze went over them. The one on the end had a crest that looked familiar. Where…?