by Tessa Candle
After the pleasant distraction of horrifying his valet with his rumpled, unshaven appearance as he ordered coffee and calmly suggested the servant come back later, Frobisher settled into his study and returned once more to torturous reflections on his manliness.
He slumped over his desk with his head in his hands. Good God. Did he have unmanly appetites? Was it possible that all this time his pretended hatred of women was disguising a love of men?
He stood and paced the room. It was not so. It must not be so.
He tried to think back to Oxford, to Eton, even. Of all the handsome young men that had surrounded him, had he found any of them attractive? No, he was certain he had not. Surely if he had any such predilection it would have shown up then. And at the time he had been rather interested in sowing his wild oats with bar maids and the occasional widow. Surely that meant he was normal.
He scratched his head. "What about Rutherford?" He was a handsome fellow, witty and sporty, and his best friend. And Frobisher had felt a twinge of jealousy when Rutherford married his mistress. But he had never felt jealous that Rutherford had a mistress. No it must be a different thing, a sense that he was losing a comrade in the bachelor fraternity, not a—he shuddered at the term—potential lover.
Was he making excuses? He tried to think of Rutherford sitting across a dinner table from him, smiling beguilingly in the candlelight. Was there any interest there? He could not say that there was. In fact, if he were not in the middle of a bout of self-loathing, he would probably burst out laughing at the thought of Rutherford trying to muster up an alluring look.
A rap sounded on the open study door. Frobisher turned, expecting to see a servant delivering his coffee. But to his surprise, it was Rutherford. Frobisher was immediately mortified by what he had been thinking. He entertained a mad fancy that his guilty face might betray all.
But Rutherford was entirely unaware of the confusion rioting through Frobisher's head, and merely gestured another man forward into the room. "I am delighted to find you up and about, Frobisher." He paused and gave Frobisher a look. "Though you look like you have not yet been to bed. And your lace cuffs are filthy and squashed. Has country life made you go wild? Inspired you to give over your looking glass and to dispense with so much as changing your clothing?"
Frobisher was still contemplating how best to reply to this fair criticism, when Rutherford waved his hand as if such things could never really matter, anyway. "May I introduce Mr. Borland?" He did not wait for consent but rambled on, "Mr. Borland is my attorney. He has been working on the Screwe case for me, you see. I believe I mentioned he was coming, but he showed up early—or rather, yesterday evening, before we expected him. Mr. Borland, this is the Marquess Fenimore."
Frobisher was not quite following why the two should have called so early, but was grateful for the distraction. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Borland."
Mr. Borland bowed deeply. "A great honour, my lord."
"So," continued Rutherford, "You simply will not believe what Mr. Borland has been telling me. I was so astounded, I could not wait to tell you. If you had still been abed I should have ran to your chamber and hammered on the door until you came to hear all about it."
Frobisher regained some of his composure and levelled a dry smile at his friend. "Vastly glad to have spared you the inconvenience of exerting yourself. Incivility can be so exhausting." He was relieved to discover that even with the currently enlivened complexion and animated eye, Rutherford was not at all beguiling—not even a tiny bit attractive, in fact.
Rutherford scoffed. "That is nothing to the point. But I mean to say—I should apologize for being so wrong—you have been right all along."
"I am glad to hear it." Frobisher was still puzzled, but waited quietly for Rutherford to enlighten him.
Rutherford shook his head in self disapprobation. "I have been a very unjust fellow. I hope you can forgive me. I have discovered the true identity of the Widow Colling, and she is in grave danger. We must find her immediately and bring her under our protection."
The butler arrived with a tray of refreshments for everyone, including the requested coffee.
Frobisher reached for his cup like it was a lifeline. He was still a bit worse for the previous night’s wear and his brain needed the fortification. "Thank you, Jones."
The man bowed and left, and though his manners were impeccable, he nonetheless radiated joy. It must be a relief to have his father's fortunes restored. At least someone was happy.
Rutherford continued, "Come, Mr. Borland. Tell him everything you told me."
Frobisher swayed and took a long drink of his coffee. Finally he was about to learn something that might help him find Mrs. Colling. "Let the man have his tea, Rutherford. It is beastly early. Will you not both sit down?"
When they were all more comfortable and supplied with hot drinks, Frobisher scratched his stubble and listened to Mr. Borland.
His jaw dropped when Mr. Borland said, "Since speaking with the duke and duchess, I have discovered that this Mrs. Colling your lordship seeks is none other than the girl who posed as the debutante Miss Dervish while swindling several society men. And this young adventuress has lately been identified as Rosamond Delville—the very heiress that his grace has been looking for, and over whom Lord Screwe has guardianship."
The news filtered through Frobisher's mind like a cold draft. With Screwe for a guardian, no wonder she was desperate to remain hidden.
The lawyer continued to describe a testamentary trust which was so obviously ill-advised,Frobisher could only marvel at any father who would not have thought the better of it. It was utterly foolhardy, even if one of the men in line for the trusteeship were not a puss-filled boil like Lord Screwe.
"So you see," the man concluded, "Miss Delville's life has been at risk ever since she turned sixteen. Before that point, if she died, the estate went to some relative of her mother's, or alternately to charity. But after that point, if she died it would devolve upon the trustee, namely Lord Screwe. It was like putting a lamb under the care of a wolf."
Frobisher shook his head in disgust and stood up to summon a servant. He should never have delayed in returning to London. Not even for Mr. Hatch.
Chapter 51
Rosamond jumped back and stared at the face of Cousin Peter. It had always been menacing to her in her memory, but now it looked, though still evil-spirited, remarkably old and tired. His clothing was worn, and his body was more unhealthy and thin than usual. It was an appearance that might have inspired pity for a different man. In her cousin it only made him seem more dangerous and morally diseased, like a hungry spectre returned from the dead.
He lowered his cane and spoke through his nose in a manner that was meant to be ingratiating, but which made Rosamond's blood run cold. "Forgive the intrusion at this early hour, sir. Indeed I called before, but you were not yet risen. I am looking for a relative of mine, and I thought you might have seen her about these parts."
Rosamond felt unsteady. He did not recognize her! The thought came more as a prayer than a conviction, but he must not see through the disguise, or he would be throttling her instead of asking questions.
"Are you unwell, sir?" He made some attempt at feigning concern at Rosamond's peaked appearance.
"I—" Rosamond's survival instinct got the better of her petrified brain. "Um. Too much wine last night." It was true enough, and she probably still reeked of it—at least she hoped she did.
"Ah." Screwe's chuckle was mirthless and familiar. "Well, I shall not intrude long. Only my cousin is missing, you see. I had some inkling that she might be around these parts. Beautiful woman. You cannot miss her. Blue eyes and auburn hair—though, she sometimes like to wear a wig." His unconvincing laugh came out as a mere hmm hmm. "Such a playful girl. But I am concerned about her. Has she been here?"
"No. I've not seen her." Rosamond's gaze fell upon a familiar object sitting on the hat rack by the door. She swallowed. It was her monogrammed kerchief. She thou
ght it was gone—that Frobisher had stolen it from her old cottage at Blackwood. Why the ruddy hell had he placed it there? She tried very hard not to look at it.
"Not even, perhaps, at the manor? Only I had some notion that she might be in the company of Lord Fenimore."
"No. But I reckon his lordship is at home, so you may ask him yourself." Rosamond needed to get him away from the door before he spotted that kerchief. She should have lied. What if she sent him in another direction? She grasped desperately at the idea. "But, come to think of it, there was a young woman visiting him recently—didn't much remark upon her looks. She was with another woman—a lady." Rosamond feigned unconcern and shrugged. "Maybe you should ask his lordship."
He looked at her for a couple of moments. It was an unnerving pause. Was he trying to see if she were lying? Was he detecting her disguise? He took a single step forward to stand right at the door frame. Don't look at the kerchief. Don't look at the kerchief.
Rosamond felt sick. She dropped her sack and pushed past him, rushing out across the path to vomit noisily in the bushes.
"Well." She heard her cousin say with some distaste. "This is a cosy cottage you have here."
She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and turned around to behold him standing inside the house, surveying his surroundings. She held her breath, almost vomiting again at the taste of her bile.
"Quite nice indeed." He stepped back out and smiled at her. "But I see you are ill, sir. I am sorry to have taken up so much of your time." Then he strolled off down the path.
Chapter 52
Jones arrived promptly, but Frobisher was already heading out of the room with Rutherford and Mr. Borland. He pushed past the butler and called over his shoulder, "Have someone pack a few things for London and make the carriage ready. Tell everyone I am in a great hurry. Also, I need a couple of large, intimidating lads and a few good shooters to accompany me—find some, will you? We will need a separate conveyance for them. Hurry!"
There was no time to waste. They had to find her before Screwe did—if she was not already dead. He gritted his teeth and hurtled down the stairs. He simply would not let himself think such things. Only she must be found immediately.
Within minutes he had waved to his guests and was out the door, rushing across the lawns toward the hermitage. As he made the edge of the copse of trees that demarked the hermitage, he nearly ran into a man who stepped out of the gloom of the woods and onto the green.
"Lord Fenimore." The man's eyes glinted.
"Screwe." Frobisher could not disguise his shock and displeasure at finding this miserable blood-sucking leech of a man upon his property. "You have a lot of nerve showing your face here. Shall I be compelled to have you forcibly removed, as my friend and neighbour so recently had to do?"
"Now, now." Screw held up a placating hand. "I am only paying a call on my neighbour. There cannot be a law against that, can there?"
"Neighbour? I think not!"
"Oh, but it is true. My wife and I have moved to the charming little plot down the way—Brookshire they call it." Screwe pursed his lips in an expression of repugnance. "We thought the country air might be healthful."
More like you were thrown out of your old den of iniquity and could not scrape together so much as the price of a stable stall to sleep in. "I wonder at it. But where you are living is of no import. As I apparently need to be explicit: anyone who is not received at Blackwood is not received at Fenimore. You are not welcome here. And the next time I find you on my land, unlike the duke, I will not confine myself to merely hauling you before a magistrate."
Screwe laughed as though Frobisher were only making a jest. "Very well, I shall leave. But before I go, may I inquire if you ever found the young lady you were looking for in town? Mrs. Colling, I believe, is the name she gave."
Frobisher's blood froze, then immediately thawed into a hot torrent of protective anger. How had the insidious snake discovered that he was looking for Mrs. Colling? Knowing what he now knew, he longed to smash the man's face in. But the law would not be with him if he did, and his fist was still swollen from punching Screwe's henchman. He restrained himself. "I do not discuss my affairs with insolent bounders."
"Affairs. Oh I see. So is the lovely lady here, then? Under the protection of a marquess? My, how she has fallen on her feet! Just like a cat."
Sore or not, Frobisher's fist clenched. "This is your last warning, Screwe. Get off of my land and never let your poisonous shadow darken my lawns again."
Screwe inclined his head, laughing, then turned and strolled back to the path connecting Fenimore to Brookshire.
Frobisher had never before been tempted to attack a man from behind and beat him senseless, but it was all he could do to restrain himself now. It was no more than what the creeping, sneaking, contemptible little maggot of an assassin deserved.
He stood shaking until Screwe disappeared into the woods. Then he continued his march to the hermitage. As he walked and calmed himself, he contemplated what he should have done. Screwe was looking for her and if he found her, he would kill her. But he had clearly come to Fenimore because he thought she might be here, living in sin with Frobisher.
He scoffed in disgust at himself for not taking better advantage of Screwe’s misapprehension. If Frobisher had been thinking strategically instead of thinking with his fists, he would have done something to affirm Screwe's suspicions. Then the man would have continued fruitlessly searching around Fenimore, instead of returning to London. And besides, if Screwe came back to Fenimore, Frobisher could have one of his groundsmen shoot the bastard.
He was only a few feet from the cottage when his thoughts turned to Mr. Hatch. What was he to do? On the one hand, he wanted to bring the man with him. He told himself that he needed the hermit's counsel, but that was a lie. Frobisher did not really believe in fortune telling mediums and such magical stuff. He just wanted to keep Mr. Hatch close to him. And on the other hand, his need to be near Mr. Hatch was the very problem from which he wanted to run away.
And even if it were not a problem for Frobisher, after last night, Mr. Hatch might very well take a dim view of Frobisher's motives for wishing to carry him off to London.
So what should he do? Should he flee from Mr. Hatch and hope to regain his sanity by distracting himself with the hunt for the widow? Should he try to persuade Mr. Hatch to accompany him, and by comporting himself as a gentleman should, convince them both that he was capable of having a normal sort of friendship with the man?
As he approached the front step of the hermitage, the question was still before him. He stared in confusion at the door. Was he there to take his leave, or to hasten Mr. Hatch to pack his things?
To his shock, the door opened and Mr. Hatch rushed out, almost into Frobisher's arms. Seeing Frobisher, he lurched backward to put some distance between them. His sack hung upon his shoulder and his hat sat low over his eyes. Was he preparing to depart for London?
"Mr. Hatch!" Frobisher paused awkwardly. "I am glad to see you up. I was afraid I might disturb you, calling so early. But I see you are already packed for the trip."
It was a relief to see him at the ready. Surely that meant that all was well. He could not believe Frobisher guilty of any… unbecoming appetites if he meant to go to London.
"Oh…" Mr. Hatch sounded confused. "Well…"
Frobisher crimsoned. He must have misunderstood. What if he had simply caught Mr. Hatch in the act of trying to escape? Perhaps he did recall something from the night before, after all, and was now planning to get away from the unwanted attentions of his perverse new employer. This was so humiliating.
"I beg your pardon. You had something else planned. I see. Yes, I see." Frobisher was prattling on and stammering so quickly that he hardly knew what he said. "Only I have heard some outrageous news from Rutherford—I mean the duke next door whom you have not yet met—about the woman I am looking for. You will scarcely believe it, but she is in great danger and I must find her. And it is ever so
vexing, but the man trying to kill her—only we cannot prove it—has just moved in next door. I mean the other next door. The woman Screwe already tried to have killed is moved in on the other side, um…" He gestured toward Blackwood, trying to make himself understood, and for a moment became conscious of how stupid his rumpled lace cuffs looked flapping in the wind. "She is at Blackwood, the duke's estate. And she, it turns out, is the old governess of the woman Screwe is presently trying to kill. And it is all…" He took a deep breath and tried to gather his wits about him and stop talking incessantly. "All a great mingle-mangle."
Mr. Hatch gasped and steadied himself against the door frame.
"What is the matter? Are you unwell?" Frobisher repressed an impulse to go put an arm around him.
"I um…" He set his sack down. "I have not quite recovered from all the wine. Apologies, my lord. But is your lordship saying that there is a man trying to kill both this woman you seek and another woman, who is living at Blackwood?"
"Yes, so we must find Mrs. Colling, and soon."
Mr. Hatch fell into deep thought for a few moments, then said, "I wonder if that could be the same gentleman who just paid me a call."
"He came here? What did he want?"
"He was looking for a woman—a relative he claimed."
"That much is true. She is his cousin, and he has trusteeship over her estate, but if she should conveniently die before coming of age to inherit, the entire thing will become his. So you see the urgency of the situation."
Mr. Hatch hesitated, as though formulating what he should say. "And you think he intends to murder her, my lord?"
Frobisher wondered if he was thinking of the night before, trying to come up with a polite excuse for declining to accompany Frobisher. "Most certainly. Do not think me given to mad fancy. The man is up to anything, and I know he has attempted murder before, both by proxy and with his own hand."
"And he is also a thief, it would seem."
