Anne Herries

by Rosalynand the Scoundrel

  ‘I would as soon wed a snake,’ Rosalyn spat at him. She kicked out hard at his shins, making him curse and let her go. She retreated but, instead of running, from a safe distance she turned to face him, her eyes bright with anger. ‘Do your worst, sir. I care nothing for your blackmail or your threats. I shall be married as soon as Freddie’s wedding is over. Damian is coming for me and—’

  ‘Damian…’ His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. ‘You mean Wrexham—that murderer? Patricia told me she had seen him here in this house…that you had invited him.’

  ‘Damian is not the murderer,’ Rosalyn cried shrilly. ‘You were your brother’s murderer, sir. It was you who raped that girl—you who drove her to take her own life because she was so ashamed…ashamed of what you had done to her. Your brother kidnapped the girl, but you were the instigator of that foul deed. Damian killed your brother fairly in a duel—but it should have been you, not Roderick, who died that day. You let him die in your stead rather than confess your guilt. You killed your brother, sir—his blood is on your own hands.’

  ‘What do you know of this?’ Harrington’s voice was a dry rasp. ‘What lies have you been spreading, bitch?’

  ‘I have spread no lies,’ Rosalyn said, lifting her head proudly. ‘You will be brought to book for your crimes, sir. If not for rape, for—’ She broke off as he snarled and lunged at her, retreating before the fury in his face. ‘When I tell my brother of your attack on me, he will request you to leave our house at once. You are no longer welcome here, sir. Besides, Freddie knows that you tried to abuse Beatrice—that you went to her room and attempted to get into her bed. Her maid drove you off, but you threatened to tell your sister that Beatrice had encouraged you, thereby ensuring she would not dare to speak out and accuse you. You are everything despicable, sir. Everything any decent woman would revile and refute.’

  Bernard hesitated, staring at her in frustration. How dare she defy him? He would have liked to take the bitch by the throat and break her neck, but her screams would rouse the household. Besides, he had other more important business for the moment. He had known when the lawyers began to press for payment that he must have an enemy, but had not suspected the man’s identity until this moment. He needed to confirm who held the notes that would send him to the debtors’ prison, and to teach that person to keep his nose out of his affairs—time enough to take care of this woman when he had dealt with the instigator of his troubles.

  ‘There is no need for your brother to ask me to leave,’ he said with a curl of scorn about his mouth. ‘I cannot wait to shake the dust of this accursed place from my boots. Be damned to you and your brother, Miss High-and-Mighty Eastleigh! I came here only because Patricia commanded it, but for all the help she’s given me I might as well have stayed in London. She clings so tightly to that damned money of hers, I doubt I’ll see a penny of it until she’s dead. And the sooner that happens, the better as far as I’m concerned.’

  He walked off, fuming. Be damned to the bitch and to his own sister! Patricia could have given him the money and not missed it, but she was too tight-fisted. He needed to cool his temper before returning to the house or God only knew what he might do!

  Rosalyn stood where she was for several seconds after he had walked away from her. She discovered she was trembling; the encounter had upset her more than she cared to admit. When he’d held her imprisoned in his grasp, she had feared what he might do. His strength was such that he could have killed her if he had chosen to do it, and she could feel the imprint of his steely fingers on her flesh. She would no doubt have bruises to show for his rough handling of her.

  Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Rosalyn lifted her head and looked up at the windows of the house. In that moment, she saw something move. Someone had been watching and—since the window had been opened slightly at the top to let in air—they could also have heard every word she had exchanged with Mr Harrington.

  It was the window on the landing at the top of the stairs, not one of the bedchambers—so it could have been anyone: a servant, Maria, Freddie…any one of them. Rosalyn went quickly into the house. She must hurry. Her most urgent thought was that she must stop whoever it was from speaking of this if she could…but when she reached the top of the stairs whoever had been standing there had gone.

  She was too late. She had hoped to prevent any gossip reaching Mrs Jenkins’s ears, but there was nothing she could do about it now. Any mention of that unpleasant scene in the garden to other members of the household would only bring about that which she hoped to avoid.

  Who could it have been? Rosalyn looked about her. It had taken her a few seconds to come in from the garden, plenty of time for the person who had been observing her quarrel with Mr Harrington to have gone downstairs or into one of the bedrooms.

  What a nuisance! She frowned in annoyance. If only she had been in time. She must simply pray that whoever it was, would have the sense to keep what they had seen and heard to themselves.

  Rosalyn sighed. The damage had been done. She dare not think what Mrs Jenkins would make of it if she learned of the unpleasant incident. She was bound to blame her—or Damian, of course. Beatrice had spoken of her aunt’s fondness for her brother, so it was unlikely Mrs Jenkins would believe a word of what Rosalyn had said, even after his harsh words concerning his sister—but it could still cause trouble. She would be very angry that the accusation had been made, and might even call off the wedding as she had threatened once before.

  Thinking of Mrs Jenkins made Rosalyn remember how sick the poor woman had been. The doctor had visited earlier, but perhaps she would just look in and see how she was now. She glanced at herself in a wall mirror, smoothing her gown and a few stray wisps of hair, then she went down the hall and knocked at Mrs Jenkins’s door.

  Several seconds passed and she was about to turn away when she heard something and then the door was opened. Mrs Jenkins was dressed and, although her skin still looked slightly yellow, seemed better, more like her usual self.

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ Rosalyn said, startled by the look of anger in the other woman’s eyes. She was clearly very disturbed about something. ‘I just wondered how you were feeling—if you needed anything?’

  Mrs Jenkins gave her a cold, proud stare. ‘Thank you, no,’ she said. ‘I am much recovered, Miss Eastleigh. I believe I shall come downstairs in a little while.’

  ‘I am very pleased to hear that,’ Rosalyn said and hesitated. ‘Without wishing to intrude, may I ask what the doctor said was the cause of these unfortunate attacks?’

  ‘He said the powders I have been using for my indigestion had a peculiar smell to them and might have gone bad,’ she replied, a very odd expression in her eyes. ‘He took them away with him and gave me something different to use.’

  ‘Then I hope you will find an improvement in your health,’ Rosalyn said. ‘It would be a shame if you were ill and we had to postpone the wedding. Beatrice would be so upset.’

  ‘You need not fear that,’ Mrs Jenkins said, surprising her. ‘I am determined that nothing shall stand in the way of Beatrice’s happiness.’ She saw Rosalyn’s expression and smiled strangely. ‘I dare say you may find that difficult to believe, Miss Eastleigh—but I happen to be very fond of my niece, regardless of what either she or anyone else may think.’

  ‘I am sure…’ Rosalyn found it almost impossible to answer. ‘I am sure she knows it, ma’am.’

  ‘No, do not lie to me,’ Mrs Jenkins said. ‘I have come to appreciate your honesty, Miss Eastleigh. I know I am a difficult woman, but I do care for Beatrice and I shall do nothing that might harm her. She will be happy and safe with your brother, and that is all that I desire for her.’

  Rosalyn smiled, making no comment; it was best to leave the conversation there for the moment. She merely repeated her hope that Mrs Jenkins would soon be fully recovered and said that she was about to take tea in her parlour.

  ‘We shall all be very happy if you were to join us, ma’am.’ />
  ‘Thank you. Perhaps a little later…I have something I need to do for the moment.’

  Rosalyn went away. She was thoughtful as she walked down to the parlour. What had changed Mrs Jenkins? She had seemed very angry when she first opened her door, but her manner had softened as they talked—and she had so far unbent towards Rosalyn as to become almost friendly. Her promise that she would do nothing to spoil the wedding was reassuring.

  At least one thing seemed clear: she could not possibly have been at the window to witness the quarrel between Rosalyn and Mr Harrington. No, that must have been someone else. Who? Rosalyn wrinkled her brow. One of the servants—or Maria? Perhaps it did not matter. Providing no one said anything to annoy Mrs Jenkins, the wedding would go ahead without any further upsets.

  Rosalyn sighed as she recalled her brief meeting with Damian that afternoon. How she wished she had been able to go away with him at once. She felt a coldness pass over her skin, a premonition of something frightening making her shiver.

  Now she was being silly. Nothing was going to happen. Damian would only be away for a few days, and then they would be together for the rest of their lives.

  Very early the next morning, Rosalyn woke suddenly. She had been dreaming, a dream so clear and vivid she could recall it as if it had been real. She had been lost in a mist, running, trying to find…Damian.

  Her cheeks were wet with tears. In her dream, she had seen him but she had not been able to reach him. He had been somewhere in the mist, so near that she knew if she just reached out she could touch him, but something was stopping her, holding her back. Invisible chains…the chains of duty.

  Rosalyn got out of bed and went to the window, looking out at the garden, which was shrouded in a fine morning mist. A shiver went through her. She longed for Damian, wished that she had gone with him when he asked.

  ‘Damian, come back to me, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘I love you so—and I am so afraid…so afraid of losing you.’

  What a very foolish woman she was, to be sure! Rosalyn laughed at her own fears as the sun began to break through the mist. It was just a dream…nothing terrible was going to happen, nothing that could prevent her leaving with Damian when he came for her.

  It seemed that Mr Harrington had departed without a word to anyone, except perhaps his sister. He did not come in for dinner that evening and Rosalyn took it for granted that he had left as he intended. As no one asked her, she did not speak of the incident in the garden, preferring to put it out of her mind as though it had never happened. Beatrice and Sarah confided privately that they were glad he had gone, and Freddie seemed distant from everyone except his fiancée.

  Mrs Jenkins made no mention of his departure to anyone, so if he had taken leave of his sister, whatever had passed between them could not have included a revelation of the quarrel between him and Rosalyn. Indeed, Mrs Jenkins seemed to have made a remarkable recovery—of her health and her manners. She went out of her way to be pleasant to Rosalyn and her aunt, revealing a side of her that no one had previously guessed was there.

  ‘You might almost think her a different woman,’ Mrs Buckley remarked in private. ‘Now, what do you suppose could have brought about such a change?’

  Rosalyn laughed. ‘I have no idea. I am just glad of it for Beatrice’s sake, and Freddie’s, of course.’

  The next few days passed so pleasantly that Rosalyn was able to forget her fears of exposure and enjoy all the celebrations leading up to the wedding itself. The only altercation was when one of Mrs Simmons’ staff upset Monsieur Maurice and caused the great artist to throw a tantrum in the kitchen, as well as several heavy copper-bottomed pans, which were aimed at the unfortunate maid who had aroused his wrath, but happily they missed and caused nothing more than a few tears.

  His threats to resign immediately threw Freddie into a panic, for how could the wedding reception go ahead without him? Rosalyn was called, and, after several minutes spent soothing feathers and tending injured pride, was able to restore a smile to the chef’s face.

  ‘You understand me,’ he said, placing a hand on his heart. ‘You understand what a great chef must suffer in the cause of his art—and if that stupid woman does not understand when I say the onion must be chopped just so, she has no soul.’

  ‘She is young and silly,’ Rosalyn said to placate him. ‘You who are so much wiser must find it in your heart to forgive her.’

  ‘So beautiful and so wise.’ He bowed over her hand, kissing it and sighing. ‘If only you did not live in the country, Mademoiselle Eastleigh—what a joy it would be to serve you.’

  ‘Sir Frederick would be devastated if he lost you,’ Rosalyn said, smiling inwardly as she imagined his reaction if the chef transferred his loyalties to her. ‘You must not think of deserting him. Besides, you will have far more opportunity to practise your art in his service than you could in mine. No, no, you would be wasted here.’

  As Monsieur Maurice nodded over the wisdom of this, Rosalyn made her escape. No matter how wonderful his food was, she thought she could not have put up with his tantrums for very long. She apologised privately to the kitchen maid, and told her she could have the afternoon off to recover from her fright.

  ‘You should be the mistress of your own home,’ her aunt told her when they laughed together over the incident in the privacy of her parlour later that day. ‘I wonder how Beatrice will cope with the artiste’s tantrums when she is mistress of Freddie’s household.’

  ‘I dare say she will manage better than you may imagine,’ Rosalyn replied. ‘I think there is more to her than any of us yet guesses. Poor Freddie may well be in for a surprise.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps…’ Her aunt smiled and nodded. ‘Well, tomorrow is the big day. It will soon be all over.’

  Rosalyn smiled happily. Every day that passed brought her closer to the moment Damian would return to claim her.

  ‘Yes, tomorrow is Bea’s wedding day. I was sorry Celia did not feel up to coming—but I am glad you and Sarah stayed on, Aunt Susan.’

  ‘I wanted a little time with you,’ her aunt replied. ‘I know we do not often visit one another, but I shall miss you. It would have been much nicer if you had married Mr Wrexham here amongst your friends and family, my love—but I do understand how you feel. I hope you do not mean to desert us altogether? You will visit from time to time?’

  ‘I shall write, of course,’ Rosalyn said and touched her hand affectionately. ‘But I am not sure whether we shall visit England again. I dare say it may not be for some years.’

  Rosalyn hugged her thoughts to herself. Damian had told her to meet him in the garden that night. He would come if he could, and if not he would be there the following night or the next. There was not long to wait now. Soon she would be with him, and then they would never part again.

  ‘Freddie has some visitors,’ Sarah Jane announced as she came into the parlour just before tea, and flopped down on the sofa. ‘They looked very odd when they arrived, very serious and grim, as though something unpleasant had happened.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Rosalyn said. ‘I do hope it isn’t bad news.’

  ‘No, I’m sure it isn’t,’ her aunt reassured her. ‘What could possibly go wrong? Unless they have come to arrest Monsieur Maurice for attacking the kitchen maid?’

  ‘Oh, Aunt,’ reproached Rosalyn with a smile. ‘How can you make a jest of…?’ Her words died on her lips as the door opened and her brother walked in. One look at his face told her that something was very wrong. She rose to her feet, her heart beating very fast. ‘What is it, Freddie? What has happened?’

  ‘Sarah Jane,’ he said, his expression that of a man struggling against his emotions. ‘Would you be kind enough to go and find Beatrice for me, please? I believe you will discover her in the garden picking roses.’

  ‘Must I?’ Sarah Jane hesitated. It was obvious to her that she was being sent away because Freddie had some important news to impart—news he did not want her to hear. However, the unusually stern lo
ok on his face made her obey without further protest. ‘Oh, all right, if you like…I’ll go, I am going now.’

  Rosalyn waited until the door had closed behind the girl. ‘Tell us,’ she said, sitting down next to her aunt on the large sofa because her legs had begun to shake. ‘Something awful has happened, hasn’t it? It is bad news, isn’t it, Freddie?’

  ‘I have just received a visit from an officer of the law, Rosalyn,’ he said and she saw his hands clench at his sides. ‘It appears that…there has been a murder.’

  ‘A murder!’ Mrs Buckley cried, her face draining of colour. ‘Who has been killed? For goodness’ sake, Freddie. Explain yourself. Who has been murdered and why did those men come here? What can this possibly have to do with us?’

  ‘The body was found yesterday by a man walking his dog along a seldom-used country lane between the village and the boundary of our estate,’ Freddie said, a flicker of something that might have been disgust…or fear…in his eyes. No, surely not fear, thought his sister, dismissing such a ridiculous idea immediately. ‘It was the body of a man who had been shot at close range…at least two or three times. There was no doubt it was murder; it could not have been anything else.’ Freddie seemed to look at Rosalyn in a very strange way as he paused.

  ‘Who was it?’ she asked, but the coldness seeping through her was already warning her that she would not like the answer. ‘Please tell us, Freddie. Who has been murdered?’

  ‘Bernard Harrington,’ Freddie replied hoarsely. ‘It appears he has been dead for several days…perhaps since the day he left here. They cannot be sure, naturally, but he has been dead for some time.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Apparently…’ Freddie looked sick and avoided looking at her or their aunt. ‘This is the countryside, Ros. We have foxes. I shall not go into details. Sufficient to say that it was not a pretty sight for those who had to deal with it. Identification was only possible from certain personal items—which I was able to say quite positively belonged to Mr Harrington.’