Debra Mullins

by Scandal of the Black Rose

  “Would you like to accompany me on a ride, Anna?” Haverford asked. “I have a mare that is spirited, but well suited for a lady.”

  Anna couldn’t stop the grin that spread across her face. “I would quite enjoy that, my lord. Thank you for the invitation.”

  “My pleasure.” The earl turned his attention to the Fellhoppers. “You are both invited as well.”

  “Excellent,” Dennis remarked, folding his paper. “I could use a good morning gallop.”

  “Thank you for the invitation, my lord,” Charlotte said quietly. “I would quite enjoy that.”

  Haverford stood. “Then let us all plan on meeting in the foyer in an hour. Is that enough time for you ladies to ready yourselves?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “Of course, my lord,” Anna replied.

  “Excellent! Until then.” The earl strode out of the dining room.

  Charlotte rose from the table almost immediately. “I must go change into something more appropriate for riding. Are you coming, Anna?”

  Anna indicated her half-full cup of chocolate. “Do go without me, Charlotte. I shall meet you in the foyer.”

  Charlotte gave a quick nod and hurried from the room.

  “My goodness, Mr. Fellhopper, but your sister is quite eager to be out of doors!”

  He never took his eyes from the front page of the paper. “She loves to ride.”

  Finally alone in his rooms, he took a bracing breath and pulled the black velvet pouch from its hiding place.

  Did he dare do it now? She was going riding. The timing would be perfect.

  But there would be other people around. He certainly didn’t want any witnesses to this particular act!

  Haverford met his own eyes in his looking glass. Anyone who looked hard enough might see the conflict he fought with his conscience. He hadn’t realized the truth about Anna until recently, hadn’t put together all the pieces of this intricate puzzle.

  But this new information changed nothing. He would do what must be done.

  He opened the bag and shook the ring out into his palm. The gemstone glittered in the morning sunlight, and he closed his hand around the cursed bauble. The responsibility and loyalty tied to it chafed like a noose around his neck. How could he have known it would come to this?

  He shoved the ring back in the bag, then tucked it away into its hiding place. Not yet. Later, he would summon the courage to take care of the matter.

  It would be quick and quiet. Then the matter of Anna Rosewood would be put to rest.

  Finally.

  He left the room, slamming the door so hard that it rattled the swords mounted on the wall.

  The docks were bustling in the morning. Food vendors called out to passersby, hawking their tasty wares. The aroma of fresh food mixed with the scent of aged wood and brine in the air. Beneath it all lurked the dank odor of things left too long near the sea.

  Rome stood with the sun shining its warmth down on him, taking some of the morning chill from the air. Shading his eyes, he looked at the place where Captain Morrow’s ship, the Mary Louise, had sat at anchor. All that remained was sea and sky.

  He’d awakened early and gone to Peter’s room to fetch him. There had been no answer to his knock. Finally, the innkeeper had unlocked the room, and Rome had discovered an empty bed. Curse his hide, but the proud young man had left without him.

  He’d hurried to the docks in hopes of saying good-bye, but the Mary Louise had already set sail.

  He hoped the stubborn lad found happiness and peace in America.

  He turned back toward his horse. With Peter safe, he could concentrate on bringing to justice the brigands who called themselves the Black Rose Society. He had an appointment tomorrow with Edgar Vaughn to talk about the diplomatic position, and while he was there, he intended to ask a few subtle questions of his own and determine if the man was indeed as guilty as he appeared.

  He mounted his horse and set about navigating the pedestrian-clogged streets.

  The traffic was worse than usual. He followed along behind a hired hack, using it to cleave a path through the throng that he and Sisyphus could easily traverse. But when the hack stopped abruptly, his gelding almost crashed into it.

  “Easy, fellow.” Patting the horse’s neck, Rome craned his neck to see what was going on. He noticed a crowd gathered outside the tavern where he and Peter had shared their last ale together, but the people pushed and shoved so close to each other that he could see nothing else.

  “What the devil is going on there?” he murmured, frowning. He didn’t like coincidences, and the fact that all the interest was focused on the tavern where he had last seen Peter sent his instincts tumbling over one another like hissing snakes.

  He tried to maneuver to a closer position through the mass of spectators, but the mob only pushed him aside. The jangle of alarm that pricked the flesh at the back of his neck would not go away.

  Frustrated, he dismounted and eased his way through the crowd, leading Sisyphus behind him. The closer he got to the tavern, the more tightly the masses pulled together, forcing him to push his way through with more roughness than he had originally intended.

  “Watch it there!”

  “Easy, guv!”

  A cold glare hushed up the complainers, and he continued to move forward.

  “—found him this morning, just like that.”

  “—lying in the alley like a sot—”

  “—killed by that gang of cutthroats what use swords—”

  Swords.

  Ice shot through his veins and froze his heart in his chest. Uncaring of the protests, he thrust forward through the onlookers. As he reached the front, he saw the man lying facedown in the alley.

  Familiar blue coat.

  Dark hair.

  Outstretched hand with the family ring of the Brantleys on one pale, still finger.

  “Peter!” He charged forward. The extended arm of a watchman halted him abruptly.

  “Keep back if you please,” the burly fellow said.

  “Damn you, let me through! Peter!”

  The watchman looked at him with interest. “You know the bloke?”

  “Yes, I know him!” Rome snarled. “Now let me through!”

  The watchman narrowed his eyes as if considering planting him a facer, then called over his shoulder, “Anson! This fellow says he knows the poor sod.”

  A tall, thin watchman pulled away from the group gathered around the body. “Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Rome said. “If I could but see his face…”

  Anson gave a short nod. “Let him pass, Higsby. But leave the horse behind.”

  Rome handed the reins to a startled Higsby, then ducked under the man’s arm and hurried to the body. As he got there, one of the watchmen rolled the victim onto his back.

  Dark eyes stared up at him, wide and empty, and a blossom of blood seeped through the fine blue material of what had once been an elegant coat.

  “Dear God.” The strength poured out of his body, and he sank to his knees beside the cold corpse of the boy he was supposed to have protected. “Peter, my God.”

  “Do you know the deceased, sir?” Anson asked, his face softening with compassion.

  “Peter.” Rome could barely say the word beyond the grief that choked him. “Peter Brantley.”

  Idling the day away on horseback was not conducive to her investigation, Anna thought. She hated being trapped in the countryside when she could be in London, searching for clues. But her mother had taken control of matters, and all she could do was go along.

  “You must attract his lordship’s interest and hold it long enough for him to offer,” Henrietta whispered as she walked beside Anna to the foyer.

  “Yes, Mama.” Dressed in her favorite dark green riding habit, Anna gripped her riding gloves tightly in her hand. She hated playing the marriage game. It struck her as a huge waste of her time when she had a killer to locate.

  “You must converse
with him. Amuse him. Time is running out, Anna.”

  “I understand.” And she did. Her mother wanted her to flirt with Haverford, to seduce him into the web of matrimony with womanly guile.

  Her heart wasn’t in it, but she would do her duty.

  “There he is. My, how dashing he looks.”

  Not as dashing as his cousin. “Don’t fret, Mama. I know what to do.”

  “Keep him away from Miss Fellhopper,” Henrietta hissed, before putting on her social smile. “Good afternoon, everyone! I hear you’re going riding.”

  “We are,” Dennis said. “How are you this morning, Mrs. Rosewood?”

  “Not as excited as my Anna. I don’t ride well, though my daughter has an excellent seat.”

  “It should be great fun,” Charlotte chimed in.

  “A good gallop always clears my head,” Haverford said, smiling at Charlotte.

  Henrietta nudged Anna. Rolling her eyes, Anna swept up to the earl and laid a hand on his arm. “I do apologize for holding up the party,” she murmured.

  “Nonsense.” Haverford patted her hand. “We are all here now.”

  “I trust you will pick out a suitable mount for me, my lord.”

  Haverford smiled. “I already have the perfect mare in mind for you.”

  “I’m sure she will suit quite well.” Anna kept the smile on her face, though she detested playing the vapid society miss. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother give a slight nod, a pleased smile curving her lips.

  “Your comfort is my priority,” Haverford assured her, then sent a warm look to Charlotte. “As is yours, Miss Fellhopper. I take care of my guests.”

  Charlotte giggled. With effort, Anna kept her mouth fixed in a smile. “I am eager to see your estate, Lord Haverford. Especially the sheep.”

  The earl beamed. “It will be my pleasure to show them to you.” Keeping Anna’s hand on his arm, he led the group toward the front door.

  “Have you had any trouble with the spring lambs, my lord?” Charlotte asked.

  “Not at all,” the earl replied, then launched into a detailed discussion of the trials of lambing.

  Casting a glance back at her beaming mother, Anna made a mental note to learn more about sheep in the coming months. Apparently, she would need it if she were ever to have a conversation with her future husband.

  Rome stepped into the darkness of his rooms. He’d drawn the drapes that morning, and the place looked like a tomb. Numb, he went to the window and pulled aside one of the curtains.

  The descending sun hung over London, lighting the sky in shades of orange and yellow and bright, bloody crimson.

  Peter was dead.

  He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that wanted to come. His jaw trembled with the effort, but finally he won the battle and pushed the emotion back into a small, safe place in his mind.

  There would be time for that later.

  For the moment, he still had his duty. He had failed in his promise to Richard, had failed to keep Peter alive. But how? He’d been so careful, had planned every step meticulously. And still the society had found Peter—had found him and murdered him.

  He’d failed Peter. But he would not fail in bringing Peter’s murderers to justice.

  He clenched his fingers into the material of the curtain as the grief struggled to rise up again. Had he the luxury, he would indulge in the cleansing emotional breakdown over a bottle of strong whiskey. But if he were to punish the Black Rose Society for their crimes, he needed to be clearheaded and focused.

  He had allowed himself one drink to control his emotions after the discovery of Peter’s body. Now he needed to think like the soldier he was and track down the murderous dogs who had so callously slain a barely grown youth.

  He changed his clothes, requiring something more casual than a morning coat for ease of movement. He settled on his favorite riding coat, then went to his trunk and took out his pistol, his derringer, and a wickedly sharp knife. These he concealed on his person.

  A familiar, cold detachment settled over him as he armed himself. He’d watched comrades fall in battle, and he’d grieved even as he’d continued to fight. But this was different.

  The Black Rose Society took advantage of youth, exploited it, then cut it down without a hint of remorse. They were a different sort of enemy from the foreign armies he’d fought in the past. They were vermin, a disease that had spread for far too long. They had no honor, no principles.

  Therefore, neither would he.

  He slipped a pouch with all his available funds into his pocket. Before the night was through, he might indeed have to flee the country. The authorities took a dim view of killing, even if done for the right reasons.

  Once he was ready, he stood for a moment, taking in the modest comfort of his home and making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

  Then he turned and left his rooms, shutting the door behind him without looking back.

  It was time to find Edgar Vaughn.

  Chapter 17

  Her mother would have considered the riding outing a disaster.

  Anna sat before her dressing mirror as Lizzie arranged her hair. She had tried her best to attract the earl, but their conversations had stumbled along awkwardly. Lord Haverford was a serious man, not one skilled in the art of flirtation.

  Not like Rome.

  Her heart clenched at just the thought of him. She closed her eyes for an instant, searching for strength, then opened them again and met her own gaze in the mirror.

  She had shadows beneath her eyes. The dark smudges gave testament to restless nights, the dreams that had plagued her when she had managed to find a rare few moments of slumber. Most nights, she lay awake for hours, thoughts spinning through her mind like autumn leaves in the wind.

  She missed Rome.

  It was wrong. She was promised to another man and had no right to such traitorous longings. But her heart would not listen; it yearned for the man who could make her blood sing with a touch.

  She had tried to flirt with Lord Haverford today, but a simple pleasure that came so easily with Rome had proven a chore with the earl. Her gaiety had been forced, and she hated loitering in the country while her mission stagnated back in Town.

  Rome had once called her clever.

  Lord Haverford had seemed much more interested in the Fellhoppers and their talk of sheep than her attempts to amuse him. How was a woman to enchant a man whose only interest was the wool market? He had not been rude about it; in fact, he had tried to include her in the conversation. But she was an admiral’s daughter, not a farmer’s. His entire discussion on shearing had lost her almost from the beginning.

  Was this her future then? To listen to dissertations on sheep farming for the rest of her days? Would he talk of the dratted beasts even in their marriage bed?

  Every moment with Rome had left her feeling vibrant and alive, sizzling with passionate emotions and new ideas. With Haverford, her brain had gone numb with talk of sheep and farming. His gentlemanly touches—helping her to mount and dismount, touching the hand she rested on his arm—left her unmoved.

  Her future loomed before her, predictable and safe. The earl’s money and title would grant her a life of comfort in exchange for the heirs she would bear, but would she suffocate wrapped in such luxury?

  She loved Rome. Passionately. Unreasonably. His very presence made her skin tingle and the blood rush through her veins in merry ecstasy.

  But Haverford was her future. A good man. A wealthy man. They would probably rub along tolerably well for the most part, but would that lead to love?

  Or would she go to her grave with only the distant memory of real love to comfort her?

  She was doing the right thing. But even as she tried to convince herself, her eyes welled with tears. Her looking glass reflected every emotion as her face crumpled, and the illusion of strength dissolved. She caught a brief glimpse of Lizzie’s expression of alarm, then rested her head on her folded arms and cried out
the sorrow she had carried with her since the day she had bid her love farewell on the steps of Lavinia’s home.

  Lizzie patted her shoulder, making soothing noises, as Anna wept, the loss of her romantic dreams more than she could bear.

  Rome arrived at the building that housed diplomatic affairs just after five o’clock. Most of the offices were closed up and dark, but light shone from Vaughn’s office, and the door stood open. The stalwart Pennyworthy was nowhere to be seen.

  Vaughn himself sat bent over his desk, carefully scrutinizing a stack of papers in front of him. Rome slipped into the room, then closed the door behind him with a soft click.

  Vaughn’s head came up in alarm. “Devereaux! What the devil are you doing here at this hour?”

  “I couldn’t wait until Wednesday for our appointment.” Rome took a chair across from the desk. “Let’s talk now instead.”

  Vaughn’s eyes narrowed. “What are you about, Devereaux? Are you foxed?”

  Rome gave a short bark of laughter. “Hardly, though the notion holds a certain appeal, I must admit.”

  “I don’t have time for cryptic discussions, my boy. I have quite a bit of work to do. You can see yourself out.”

  “I think you can make time for this conversation, Vaughn. Let’s talk about the Black Rose Society.”

  “Ah.” Abandoning his papers, Vaughn sat back in his chair, a cool smile curving his lips. “I wondered if you had recognized the ring that day.”

  “Oh, I recognized it.” Rome stretched his legs out before him in a casual pose, knowing he could leap to his feet at a second’s notice.

  “You know what it is, what it means.”

  “I do. I just want to hear it from your lips.”

  Vaughn cocked his head to the side. “Just what is this about, Devereaux? Why do you come to me now when you saw the ring days ago?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  Vaughn sighed and rose from his chair. Rome tensed, but the man only prowled from behind his desk, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Lad, we’re not going to get anywhere with these mysterious answers of yours.”