by Tessa Candle
She put her head in her hands in despair. This incendiary scheme was meant to entice Screwe, but she could now see her own ulterior motive for it. She would conveniently destroy her rival, Mr. Hatch, and the evidence of her heartless fraud all at one fell swoop. Was she not, then, one of the evil-doers who loves a fire?
Rosamond wanted to slap herself. She looked down and realized that she had finished all the food and drink without hardly noticing or tasting it.
She stood and forced herself to go about the business of properly staging the house.
Screwe could pick the lock, so he could gain entry without her leaving the door open. And she had to lock up, for an unlocked door might raise his suspicion.
She was staring at the portal, when a knock sounded upon it.
Bloody hell. How could she not have heard a caller approaching? Too incautious. What if it was Screwe? What if the man had gone early for his ride to deliver the message, and Screwe was already here, meaning to kill her. But then she shook her head at her own stupidity. Screwe would not knock.
She crept to the front widow and peeked around the curtain to see a servant standing near the cottage with a covered tray.
She opened the door. "Yes?"
The footman nodded in friendly greeting. "Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Hatch, sir. Only his lordship asked us to be sure to take special care for your comfort while he was gone, and to bring you meals."
Rosamond smiled, but felt another pang of guilt. It was very sweet of him, considering the implied insult and repulse she had delivered when last they spoke. "His lordship is truly too kind. I do not deserve such attention."
The footman only smiled. "You wasn't here when I called this morning, or at noon, so I hope you are not too famished. Only here is some very nice roast pork, and a bit of gratin of potato what the master is particularly fond of. Shall you have some dinner?"
She thought it would be better to simply accept the plate. "Thank you. I will come call in the morning to bring the tray back with me, so you need not return for it. Had a bit of a time of it last night, so I plan to retire rather early this evening."
He inclined his head. "Very good, Mr. Hatch. I shall make sure no one disturbs you." He held out a letter. "And this came for you today, sir."
Rosamond snatched the offered missive with too much haste. "Thank you. I have been hoping for this."
The servant bid her good evening and departed.
The letter was from Mr. Trent. She was excited to read what news the devious clerk might have regarding her inheritance, but at the same time chilled at the realization that, had they failed to deliver the note, and had Mr. Hatch been thought dead, a distraught Frobisher might have opened it and read something that would betray her entirely.
This gave her pause. Perhaps she should make a clean breast of things with Frobisher. He might never forgive her, but at least it would mitigate some of his grief over Mr. Hatch. And she would be starting her new life on the right path, not basing it on yet another lie.
She knew it was the right thing to do, but it went against her every instinct to reveal past sins. She feared judgement, and secrecy was her second nature. She locked the door, tucked the letter into her pack for later reading, and sat by the window to watch and wait.
It would soon be time for the prisoner's ride. She would see him pass on the path and know the plan was about to unfold. Or so she hoped.
Chapter 64
It was pitch dark on the road, and Frobisher knew they were driving too fast for the lamps. But he was in a dreadful hurry, and as they were nearing Blackwood, he hoped the driver would know the way well enough to manage.
Delville emptied the last dregs of the champagne deftly, despite the jouncing motion of the carriage. "Do not be so anxious, Bish. If all you have told me is true, she is a smart one, and has survived this long." He laughed. "Screwe may be evil, but I know him. He always mangles a plan, and he asked you about a woman, after all. He probably hasn't sorted it out quite yet."
But Frobisher would not be comforted by this line of reasoning. Screwe was not as stupid as Delville asserted. Though low-minded, he was a wily sort. And he had found the kerchief. If he had not put the whole case together by now it would be an act of divine intervention.
Frobisher did not much believe in miracles. But then again, perhaps it was as Delville suggested. After all, she was resourceful. She was amazing, in fact—marvellously clever and adorably devious. He would never have guessed that he would find artfulness attractive in any woman. Had he forgiven the humiliating deception she had wrought upon him? He thought he had. It was hard to remain angry at her when he was so petrified for her life. He shut his eyes in a moment of prayer that he had not found the true mate of his heart only to lose her.
They rounded a corner and Delville swayed unsteadily toward the carriage window. "I say, where is that light coming from?"
Frobisher leaned over and peered out on Delville’s side. An eerie orange glow lit up the night sky. He cursed. "It is a fire. Do you still feel so optimistic?"
"Damn." Delville gazed intently through the pane. "But perhaps it is coming from somewhere else."
This was as worried as the man had sounded the entire trip. Maybe Delville did have more of a heart for his cousin than Frobisher had thought.
But as they neared the road to Blackwood, Frobisher became convinced that the glow was not coming from there—which both relieved and alarmed him.
It was coming from his own property. He only wondered if the mad bounder had set fire to the whole estate. But his heart told him that Fenimore Manor was not the target, that it was the hermitage that burned. If Screwe had set a fire, Miss Delville was certainly at the centre of it. What chance did she have? Frobisher had left her alone and unprotected.
A sickening dread filled his chest and he grasped his head in both hands. This was all his fault. He had led the murderous bastard right to her.
When they rolled into the drive at Fenimore, it became obvious where the fire lay. As soon as the carriage halted, Frobisher was out and running toward the hermitage.
"Hold up, Bish!" Delville pitched about on drunken legs and toddled helplessly behind. "Do not go rushing in there!" he called after his friend. "Let the servants manage things!"
But Frobisher was indifferent to these words of caution. He only paused long enough to yell, "Make yourself useful, and wake the house! Have them bring water and shovels!" before hurtling onward.
He heard the front window burst as he passed through the gate. Flames were licking the broken glass with infernal glee. He reached the cottage door only to find that several boards had been nailed over it.
"Bastard!" He began to pull them off with his bare hands. After a few minutes, he had loosened the middle plank, but it was taking too long. He ran to the shed and fetched a heavy axe.
Frobisher had never split so much as a piece of kindling, and his aim was not true. He quickly realized that hacking at the wood was not the best way to use the tool and resorted to prying the thin edge under the board where the nails were, and loosening them with leverage. When he got one end free, it was a simple matter to rip the other end clear of the door.
But the extra air from the broken window was feeding the fire. The heat was hellish by the time he had the third board free. He thought about hacking his way through the door, but realized that he still held the key in his breast pocket. It was intrusive and wrong of him to have kept a spare key to Mr. Hatch's dwelling, but he was now thankful for it. He unlocked the door, burning his fingers on the metal, and kicked it open.
Without thinking, he ran into the burning cottage.
Chapter 65
Rosamond scrambled down the last stretch of the path and into the cottage at Blackwood. She closed the door, locked it, and collapsed, gasping and laughing on the floor.
It worked. She had seen the man pass on the horse. He would certainly deliver the note. Now she only had to wait for Screwe to go and murder Mr. Hatch in his bed. By this
time tomorrow, she would have assumed a new disguise and Screwe would believe her deceased and out of his way.
She was not relieved for only herself, but also for Mrs. Johnson. If Rosamond were dead, Screwe would have no reason to kill the governess. She only posed a threat to him as a witness to Rosamond's identity, if Rosamond should come forward to claim her inheritance. And dead women could not make claims.
It was a guilty thought she had long carried in her heart that Mrs. Johnson and Catherine would never have had to run and hide from the murderous Screwe, if Rosamond had not run away before her sixteenth birthday. Of course, if Rosamond had not run away she would certainly be long since dead.
But they were all free now! Or very nearly. She stood and went to the bedroom where Mrs. Johnson had agreed to leave a new dress and other things. She would have to wear her natural hair, but Mrs. Johnson had left some herbs that would darken it slightly, to permit some small degree of disguise, and a bucket of water and flannels for washing.
Rosamond lit a single candle and began to strip down. She would have to bathe in cold water, and by as little light as possible, but she did not care. It felt so good to be shedding this old skin.
She removed her beard and brows and rejoiced at the feeling of soap and water on her cheeks. When she had cleaned her face, she moved on to her body, wiping away the grime and sweat.
An idle thought of Frobisher slipped into her head, and her heart danced. Would he approve of the newer, cleaner Mr. Hatch? Was there any chance that he could find a woman attractive?
She ran the flannel teasingly over the skin of her thigh. If he were here, would her naked form arouse him? Her mound grew warm and her nipples hardened. If only he were, she would discover very quickly whether he was entirely resistant to a woman's charms.
It was maddening to think this way. She began to dry herself with another flannel, and decided she would indulge in a splash of celebratory perfume. After all, she was a woman again now. What could it hurt? She withdrew the bottle from her pack and unwrapped it.
The scent teased her even more as she dabbed it on her thighs and wrists. Immediately she was beset by thoughts of Frobisher's scent and her own mingling as their naked bodies locked together in a long kiss…
She roused herself from the reverie and put away the perfume. There was no justification for such fantasies. Her damp skin shivered in the cool air, and she began to dress.
Her passions did not entirely fade away, even when she was attired in the slightly too large blue muslin dress. She directed her thoughts to more practical matters, however, as she pressed the absorbent towel into her hair, trying to dry it as best she could. She wished that she could see whether it was any darker, but one candle was risky enough. She dared not light a fire in the hearth to better see her locks and help them dry.
She wondered how long Screwe would wait by the burning hermitage before he made his escape. Surely he would only stay long enough to be satisfied that the fire was well established. He would certainly block the door to prevent escape, but staying for any longer than was necessary would be risky. Though it was dark, fires were highly visible and the smoke could easily draw attention from the main house.
Rosamond's conscience pricked. What if the fire spread to Fenimore? Frobisher was away, but his servants were still there.
Propelled by this new horror, she stood and paced. What had she done? It had seemed like such a good plan when only Mr. Hatch was to be murdered. But what if someone real got hurt?
She ran to the door and out into the night. She had to be sure the manor was safe from the flames and that the servants were alerted.
She went as fast as she could in the dark, but the path to Fenimore was no longer lit by moonlight. It was an endless journey through the dark, and she feared she would be too late. When she reached the final stretch, the unnerving glow of the house fire lit her way.
As she drew nearer she spotted a figure near the front of the cottage. She paused. Could it be Screwe, still lingering? No, he was pulling a board off the door. Screwe would not do that.
The white flash of a lace cuff made her blood run cold. No. No. No. He was not supposed to be here. She dashed forward, yelling, "No! Stay back!" as he freed the door and dove into the house.
"No!" She flew down the path to the hermitage. Smoke billowed around as she poked her head inside. "Frobisher come back! Mr. Hatch is safe! I am here. Come out for the love of God!"
A great surge of heat and smoke drove her back from the door. She ran to the water barrel and soaked the skirts of her dress, coughing violently, then filled the bucket and flew back to the cottage. She thought she could make out a figure in the flames. "Frobisher!" Her voice was a screech. She hurled the water at the figure, then shrieked again. "Mr. Hatch is not in there. Come!"
He staggered toward her, hacking and gasping from the smoke surrounding him. She grabbed his arm and pulled him along. They both ran to the water barrel. He immersed his head and shoulders in it, then stood up again, panting and dripping, to stare at her.
"Do you know who I am?" She felt suddenly more timid and exposed than at any other time in her life.
"Miss Delville, I presume. You are alive." He coughed a few minutes, then exhaled and closed his eyes. "Thank God."
"And so are you." She knew she was crying like an idiot, but could not stop herself. Then she laughed and reached out to rip both of his ruined lace cuffs off of his shirt. "I have wanted to do that for a long while now."
Frobisher shook with laughter, then stepped closer to her, gazing into her eyes. "Well turn about is fair play, Miss Delville. I have wanted to do this for a very long while." He drew her into his arms and kissed her in the light of the burning cottage.
His mouth was salty and tasted faintly of wine and smoke. She never wanted him to stop. His tongue teased hers and took her breath away, but she would not come up for air.
Frobisher finally did, gasping, "Oh thank God, thank God, thank God! You are alive, and you are here, and you are… a woman."
She bit her lip nervously. So he knew all. He was aware of her whole deception. "Yes, I have never felt more like a woman than right at this moment. But tell me…" She looked at him earnestly, desperately willing him to allay her fears. "Can you ever forgive me for lying to you? Please believe me when I say I never wished to cause you any pain—especially not in such a deplorable way."
"I was more confused than hurt. But what else should you have done? You were running for your life, and I nearly got you killed. It is you who must forgive me. I beg it of you. I have been a selfish, egotistical fool, flying off to pursue my own amusement without stopping to think that you might have very good reasons for wishing to remain hidden. Only know this: you have changed me. I want to be—will be—a better man."
Her eyes filled with fresh tears. "To me, you are already the best of men."
"You make me very happy, dearest Rosamond."
She gasped. He had spoken her true given name. The sound of it rushed over her like a thousand fingers unravelling all the old layers of falsehood. She felt like the girl awakening from a spell broken by a kiss. "My real name. You do not know how good it feels to hear you call me Rosamond." She looked around, half expecting Screwe to leap out of the trees and attack her. But there was no one in sight.
Frobisher grinned wickedly. "Lest you should give me more credit than is my due, I must confess a desire to change your name yet again—at least your family name. But I hope it will be for the very last time."
Her stomach fluttered. Was he proposing marriage? She rewarded him with a saucy smile. "We shall talk about all that later. At the moment, it is rather hot, and I think we should get away from this inferno."
"The servants will be coming soon to put the fire out. Come to the manor with me. You are soaked." His eyes raked over her body where the wet fabric clung to it. "And although I find your present attire utterly beguiling, I am sure you would be more comfortable in a dry dress. My mother must have left somethin
g."
A man approached them on the path, and Rosamond started, but quickly ascertained that it was not Screwe. His gait was unsteady as he idled his way along, a bottle of wine in one hand. "Frobisher! You found her! You see? I knew all would be well." He bowed to her and said, "You must be my cousin Rosamond. Yes, I know it is something of a shock to discover a new relative. I should have introduced myself sooner, only I was a bit dead. But I am recovering rapidly." He took a pull from the bottle. "And getting better by the moment."
Rosamond realized her mouth was hanging open and she closed it, but continued to stare at the man in disbelief. She had no idea who he was, but he must be lying about the connection, surely. Perhaps excessive drink had put him out of his wits.
"She is a quiet, shy little violet, isn't she?" The man gave Frobisher an elbow to the ribs. "I suppose I came just in time to protect her from the likes of you, eh?"
Frobisher snorted. "I believe she is merely shocked to be accosted by the likes of you." He turned to Rosamond. "I am afraid it is true. This man is your cousin, Mr. Delville. You have my deepest sympathies."
"Mr. Dee, Frobisher, Mr. Dee." He put a finger to his nose in a conspiratorial gesture. Then he nodded at Rosamond. "Mr. Dee. Enchanting to finally meet you, Miss Delville. What a fetching ensemble."
Rosamond looked self-consciously at her water-soaked, smoky dress.
"Nonsense!" Frobisher scoffed. "You are Mr. Delville, you incorrigible lying reprobate. And unless I am mistaken, that is a bottle of my best red. You had time for a detour to the wine cellar, did you? I hope you did not forget to rouse the servants."
"Oh, aye!" Delville waved his hand as if it were a trifle. "They are already at work on the other side of the cottage. That butler of yours is looking sharp, and was giving everyone orders like a ship's captain. I told them to begin by soaking down the areas outside the cottage to prevent the flames spreading to the manor. You have a rather nice wine cellar. It would be a shame to see it burn. They are all hard at work, and I am sure they will make their way to this side soon."
