by Tessa Candle
"What do you mean? Has he taken something of yours?" Frobisher could not explain why this relatively small infraction made him feel suddenly protective. More of his madness. Mr. Hatch could not have much worth stealing.
"Not of mine, my lord. Only, I believe your lordship left a kerchief on the hat rack yesterday evening. I saw it this morning and thought it must belong to your lordship."
Frobisher's stomach dropped. "Yes, it is mine." He hesitated. "Or, rather, I am holding onto it for another." He did not wish to confess that he had, himself, stolen it from the lady he was searching for.
Mr. Hatch nodded. "Well, after this man's call—Screwe, as your lordship calls him—the kerchief was suddenly gone."
Frobisher berated himself for leaving the clue out so carelessly. What if it somehow helped Screwe? Led him to his quarry? But that was unlikely. No, he had to admit that what really bothered him was having lost that sweet treasure—that one connection to the widow which he had clung to.
His pain at the loss baffled him. His head and his heart were becoming such an inscrutable maze of folly that he could not tell where he might end up: in love with another man, or in pursuit of a woman more desperate than any of the debutantes that he had spent his adult life fleeing. Only she was desperate to get away from him—or from anyone that might expose her. Her secretiveness and evasions made perfect sense to him now, but he so fervently wished recover her and keep her safe.
"Was it valuable, my lord?"
"Hmm? Oh no. Well, yes, it was to me, I mean. Precious, really." He passed a hand over his face. How could he have been so incautious? "But desperate as Screwe may be for money, I doubt he stole the kerchief so he could fence it at a rag stall. The good news is that it will convince him that the woman he seeks is near at hand. It belongs to her, you see." Frobisher fell into rumination.
It might be a good thing, if it misled Screwe. And yet, he wanted his memento back. "But it does not matter now." He looked pleadingly at Mr. Hatch. "Will you not come with me and assist me? I do not know why, but I believe what you told me last night—that I will not find her unless I bring you along."
Mr. Hatch would not meet Frobisher's eye. "I did say that, didn't I, my lord? I think I already was well into my cups at that point." He fell silent.
Frobisher's heart waited to beat. What was Mr. Hatch thinking? Was he repulsed? Why was this man's company so important?
Chapter 53
Rosamond faltered when she found Frobisher on her doorstep.
She had planned to flee, probably back to London. She could feel Screwe's net closing in on her. It could only be a matter of time before he discovered her ruse. And Frobisher's own feelings—whatever their true nature—were creating a degree of interest that made it more likely every day that he would come across her in an unguarded moment, or make an advance that would reveal her disguise. Or perhaps she would make the advance. Stop it, you fool!
There was nothing to be done for it. She had to leave. And yet, here he stood on her stoop, looking miserable, vulnerable, embarrassed and genuinely concerned. It wrung her heart. But then for one moment, hope beamed from his face. This ray of joyful optimism almost bowled her over. Could he really be so happy to see her?
"Mr. Hatch!" He paused. "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."
He thought she was coming with him to London. Of course he did. This was so very bad. How could she get out of it? "Oh…Well…"
Her reservation and confusion had immediate effect on Frobisher. His face turned bright red, and he launched into a torrent of babbling information. He knew who the Widow Colling was. Her heart thundered to hear him describe her circumstance, her peril.
A sudden wave of happiness swept her up. He knew and yet he wanted to help her. He was aware of her past as a swindler, but he forgave it entirely now that her circumstances were clear, and still he wanted to find her and protect her. A giddy possibility rose like a blushing pink dawn, dazzling her with beautiful prospects. What if she told him all? What if she revealed herself and he protected her for the remaining time until her birthday, then helped her to prove her true identity and claim her birth right? And then, what if maybe, possibly, he might like her at least a little bit? What if he got to know the real her and…
Rosamond felt like she was about to faint. She mentally closed the shutters on this dreamy, improbable sunrise. It would end badly.
First, no matter how noble their intentions were, she could not rely on him and Rutherford to protect her. They were noblemen, and inherently incapable. They could not even help themselves. Neither Frobisher nor Rutherford had managed to stop Screwe from sneaking into Blackwood Manor with a gun during Rutherford’s own wedding.
Second, what if Screwe found them out and Frobisher was harmed when the rabid murderer came after her? She did not think she could live with endangering him, exposing him to the perils of such a ruthless enemy.
And then there was the third thing. However engaged Frobisher was in the cause of helping Rosamond, the wronged and persecuted heiress, he was falling for someone else entirely. It was a mad situation, but the second he discovered who Mr. Hatch really was, all attraction would be gone. And in its place might not a strong feeling of resentment and betrayal spring up? Of course it would. Frobisher would have to be more than a mere mortal, if such a discovery did not make him hate the very sight of Rosamond.
These horrid ruminations were suddenly stopped dead in their tracks by the words, "And she, it turns out, is the old governess of the woman Screwe is presently trying to kill."
Her governess. The woman she had helped to save was Mrs. Johnson? Good lord! If only she had known this before. The fates certainly were toying with her mercilessly, making it impossible for her to leave this place. It was all too much. She felt a wave of fog come over her, and she dropped her pack and leaned against the door.
Frobisher responded with concern. She made up some excuse about too much to drink the night before, but it was more like too much to think. She had ceased to notice her headache and nausea.
She scarcely attended as she asked the sorts of questions that the situation required. She had to appear to know nothing.
But all the while she was trying to plan her next step. What should she do? She needed to speak to Mrs. Johnson. If she left with Frobisher to London, she would be out of the frying pan and into the fire—for Screwe would be sure to discover where Frobisher had gone, and would follow… unless he believed Rosamond remained at Fenimore.
She knew some reply was expected of her. "I wonder if that could be the same gentleman who just paid me a call."
Frobisher was all curiosity as she relayed that the man had shown up on her stoop, enquiring after a woman who was missing—a female relative. Frobisher told her it was true that the woman was his cousin and his ward, and that if he killed her he would get all her inheritance. Then he reassured her that Screwe was capable of murder. If only he knew how well acquainted with that fact Rosamond was.
Rosamond wondered how he would react to learning that Screwe had stolen the handkerchief. As she told him of item’s disappearance immediately after Screwe had called, she had her answer. His face blanched and his eyes sank in despair. Then his jaw clenched with anger and, she thought, self-reproach.
Well, it was wrong of him to steal it from her in the first place, so a little self-reproach was called for. And yet, she wanted more. She wanted to know if he only berated himself because he had been careless, or if perhaps the item held some special charm because it was hers. She knew it was foolishly self-indulgent, but she asked anyway, "Was it valuable, my lord?"
"Hmm? Oh no. Well, yes. It was valuable to me, I mean. Precious, really."
Her heart surged, but she would not permit herself to ask why. She now felt sorry for him in his self-blaming mood. He must care for her a little, mustn't he? No. A woman he does not know? How could he?
"But desperate as
Screwe may be for money, I doubt he stole the kerchief so he could fence it at a rag stall. The good news is that it will convince him that the woman he seeks is near at hand."
This cold truth returned Rosamond to her senses. Yes, she well knew that handkerchief would convince Screwe he was on the right track. And he would come sniffing around her cottage again, like a wolf at the manger door.
Frobisher looked at her in desperation, his heart shining in his eyes. "Will you not come with me and assist me, Mr. Hatch? I do not know why, but I believe what you told me last night, that I will not find her unless I bring you along."
Rosamond looked down at her feet. She could not go to London. She should never have said that. This mess was what came of letting her heart do the talking. "I did say that, didn't I, my lord? I think I already was well into my cups at that point."
Frobisher remained silent. She did not meet his glance but she could feel his expectation, his hope. She wanted… so much from him that he could not give her. And continuing this pretence of a—whatever it was—was becoming dangerous for more than just herself.
What she longed for did not matter. She could not go to London. She had to stay and take care of matters herself—starting with Mrs. Johnson. Rosamond knew what she had to do, but it broke her heart. It was such a cruel thing, but she had to drive Frobisher away to London without her in the only way she knew how.
"I believe," she said, keeping her gaze cast downward in real shame and feigned embarrassment, "that both parties might have drank more than they ought… and have thought and said and done things they might now regret, but which, in short, would make a trip to London very uncomfortable."
Rosamond did not look up. She could hear the humiliation, the mortification, in the one syllable that first slipped past his lips, as he deflated like a man with the wind knocked out of him. "Oh."
There was a pause, and she could hear his breathing become shallow before he swallowed and said, "Then I must depart. I bid you good day, Mr. Hatch."
And he was gone.
Rosamond covered her face. She had broken her own rule and hurt a good man with her trickery. She felt utterly wretched, but could not waste time feeling sorry for herself, nor even for Frobisher, though her heart was aching for him. She had to act quickly.
Chapter 54
As he waited in the parlour at Blackwood for Rutherford and Mr. Borland to be ready to depart, Frobisher stewed in his own personal hell of guilt, humiliation and gloom. Mr. Hatch thought he was a—he couldn’t make himself name it. In short, the man no longer wished to be in close company with Frobisher, and it was maddening. But at the same time, Frobisher's own desire to be around him remained undiminished, even by the embarrassing knowledge of what Mr. Hatch thought of him.
But Frobisher could not bring himself to believe that he had unnatural attractions for another man. It wasn’t that he held such men in contempt. Some of his favourite people were…of that persuasion. But that was them. This was Frobisher. Good ole Bish. Good God, even his nickname sounded effeminate. How could he not have noticed this before?
Thinking this way would drive him to lunacy. He must focus on something else. He stood and paced the room, observing with envy how neat and tidy everything was kept. Soon his own house would be in order, thanks to Mr. Hatch. He cursed under his breath. It was maddening how quickly his thoughts returned to the topic he was trying to avoid.
He tried again. It would be lovely to entertain dinner guests without smudges on the stemware and dust stirring up every time a footman walked by.
Frobisher realized with fresh terror, that the dinner guest he was thinking of was Mr. Hatch. He went in desperation to the sideboard and fetched himself a brandy. The thought of drinking was still repulsive after last night's revelry, but he needed something to make him forget.
Mr. Borland and Rutherford arrived just as he downed a finger of brandy in a single quaff, wincing at his quavering gut.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Frobisher. I had to go speak with Tilly." Rutherford looked sheepish. "Is that brandy?"
Frobisher poured himself another. "I had the pleasure of ejecting Lord Screwe from my property this morning."
"Never! The man has the gall to show his face in the neighbourhood? Did you shoot him?" Rutherford looked hopeful.
"No. I warned him off. Next time I will have him shot as a trespasser."
"Do you think there will be a next time?"
"He is looking for his cousin, apparently." Frobisher gave Rutherford a dark look over the rim of his tumbler.
"Of course he is. Black hearted bastard!"
"And he somehow surmised that I am also looking for her. So he thinks she is at Fenimore, and he will be back. I am sure of it. He claims to have taken up residence at Brookshire."
Rutherford groaned. "It is a property within the estate trust."
Frobisher snorted. "Well, how cosy and convenient to use the rightful property of the woman you are trying to kill as a camp from which to wage your campaign against her. I should have shot him and buried the body under the rosebushes."
Rutherford pursed his lips. "One wonders if anyone would come looking for him."
"You know, I have been thinking." Frobisher set his tumbler down and spoke abruptly, as though he had not heard Rutherford. "Why can we not take your prisoner into town and have him give information against Screwe? If we have the lordly bastard arrested again, that should at least keep him busy for the few days we need to find the wid—to find Miss Delville."
"I have already discussed the possibility with Mr. Borland, who has only hypothetical knowledge of anyone we might be unlawfully imprisoning in our home, you should understand." Rutherford gave Frobisher a significant look.
Frobisher rolled his eyes. "Very well, let us pursue the hypothetical. Why not remove Screwe from the battlefield?"
"In short," replied Rutherford, while Mr. Borland strode to the far end of the room and pretended to examine a book intently, "because there is no guarantee that our prisoner will be willing to give testimony. He is afraid of Screwe, you see. Though Tilly thinks that he hates his master as much as any of us do, his hatred has not overcome his fear. If we hand him over, and he refuses to tell all, we will be left with nothing. We cannot take him back into our custody, and we run the risk that he will lay charges against us for keeping him here against his will. Though Tilly thinks he would never do that, and as you witnessed his attempt at murder, no one would probably attend his claims, if he did."
"She takes a rather sympathetic view of your prisoner." Frobisher frowned.
"Yes. I should have known she would get attached. If you ever have a wife, never permit her to keep any pets larger than a foxhound."
Frobisher swallowed back a biting comment. He was in no mood for even a sporting reference to the marital estate. It was apparently as remote a possibility as ever it had been, though he could not quite put his finger on why this should bother him now, when it never had before. Desperate to stop his thoughts from ambling further upon that perilous path, he spoke too sharply, "Well, I have heard a great deal about Tilly's opinion, but she, as you say, is biased. What about you? Are you not the man of the house?”
Rutherford shrugged. "Someday you will understand."
This infuriated Frobisher, but he reined in his emotions. There was no time for squabbling about the irrelevant. "Fine then. If we are not to do the most sensible thing, let us at least not delay with the second most sensible thing. Shall we depart?"
Rutherford breathed a heavy sigh and looked meeker than Frobisher had ever seen him. "Look, old boy. I know I said I would come, but now that we know Screwe is in the neighbourhood, I have some scruple about leaving Tilly and Mrs. Johnson unguarded."
"So set up armed guards. I am bringing some along myself." Frobisher wondered if he should have left a few guards for Mr. Hatch, then shook his head. He did not know what was more absurd, his impulse to protect Mr. Hatch or the notion that Mr. Hatch needed protecting. "You cannot mean t
o abandon your responsibility to Miss Delville a second time."
"Only, I also have a responsibility to my wife, Bish. Look, I know it is asking much of you, but you do not have a wife to look after, and Tilly is in a delicate condition. Can you not go find Miss Delville without me? You are good at these sorts of things, and I shall send Mr. Borland along to assist you."
"Very well." Frobisher should have known Rutherford would abandon the cause as soon as his wife raised the least objection. Poor helpless shadow of a man. He supposed it was only sensible, for Tilly was with child, and Screwe had already tried to kill her twice. But Frobisher wanted to think little of someone besides himself for a change, so he permitted himself a peevish huff of reproach. "Shall we be off then, Mr. Borland?"
At that moment, Tilly entered the room. "I see I was right." She fixed her husband with an accusing stare. "You are trying to use me as an excuse for not assisting Frobisher, are you not?"
"My darling, Frobisher does not mind." Rutherford held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "He understands that you and Mrs. Johnson need my protection."
Tilly's lips flattened. "I want you to go to London and find Miss Delville. It was my small-minded prejudice that made me discourage you two from trying to find her, when I should have been doing everything in my power to help that poor woman. If you now refuse to do your duty because of me, I shall die of shame."
Frobisher smiled at Tilly. "Do you know, Tilly, I like you better by the minute."
Chapter 55
Rosamond rushed down the path to Blackwood. She was in no hurry to get there, but she was spurred on by a need to get away from the hermitage. It was the first place that Cousin Peter—Lord Screwe sounded more apt—would go looking for his prey, whenever he got around to making the connection between Mr. Hatch and her. The only place she could think to hide was her old cottage at Blackwood. She could only hope that Rutherford had not yet let it out to someone else.
