Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  "I said," Sutton made an angry noise in his throat, "I still don't understand what you see in her. I'll grant you she's got a face and figure ... but there's no welcome in her."

  Trenchard's gaze flicked back to Rozalinde. He studied her carefully. "She doesn't flirt and simper like the other girls in Lulworth, if that's what you mean. Or those in London, for that matter. But I say she is capable of anything I could ask of her. She's well-bred, industrious, clever in business, loyal to her family. I've considered many others, but they were flighty things, thinking of nothing but gifts and gowns and how many they could get of each in exchange for their bodies. No, I prefer Rozalinde Cavandish just as she is. She will serve me well in any position I should require of her."

  Sutton snickered at the double meaning in his master's words. "She's rich, that's what I'd say you like about her. You've been acting like a man obsessed in the last year, skulking about town on the chance you'll meet her, follow­ing her everywhere, visiting her father's house and shop."

  This time Trenchard took no notice of his servant's im­pertinence. He went on calmly. "I've learned to know her in this last year. She must be approached with consideration and helped to understand the benefits I offer her and her family. Tonight we passed the first hurdle."

  "You mean ...?" Sutton began.

  "We will be betrothed." Trenchard paused to read his servant's face, noted with displeasure the surprise. "If you thought she would refuse me, you underestimate me, sirrah."

  "'Tis not that." Sutton's sullen expression had vanished. "But being from a long-standing London merchant family, she outranks you socially."

  "In birth, perhaps," Trenchard replied, letting his gaze return to Rozalinde. "But not in position. Not anymore."

  Sutton's mouth broadened into a wide grin that did noth­ing to improve his ugly countenance. "You got the appoint­ment! At last! Deputy lieutenant of Dorset, under the direct authority of Sir Christopher Hatton, himself." He started to turn.

  "Stop." Trenchard arrested him with the single word. He knew where Sutton was going—to blab the news to every­one. He didn't want that until he'd told the mayor and other aldermen. "I have a task for you," he told his stew­ard. "A message to deliver."

  "To whom?" Sutton halted again, his eyes turned curious.

  "The Spanish ambassador in London. I want you to leave directly. Take him that leather wallet sitting on my desk. The letter is inside, addressed and sealed, I might add. Here is his direction in London."

  Sutton took the small piece of paper. "What business do you have with him?"

  Trenchard examined Sutton carefully before answering. "Official government business. The Queen's Privy Council wishes me to join with the other southern counties to keep the English Channel safe for Spanish shipping."

  At that, Sutton's face took on an even more respectful expression.

  Trenchard laughed indulgently. "There will be work aplenty for you, now that I have the commission. And plenty of extra payments from supplicants to the crown, in exchange for my words of intervention with Her Majesty and her council."

  "We've waited long for this. Shall I tell the others at the house?"

  "You may," Trenchard said, knowing Sutton would do so, with or without permission. "But no one else. I will inform the mayor and the other aldermen first. They will appreciate the honor. As for those in my household, any­one who spills it will suffer."

  Sutton grinned. "No fear it will go beyond."

  Trenchard eyed him grimly. "Discretion first."

  Sutton nodded, then slipped away into the crowded din­ing parlor and disappeared.

  Trenchard stood for several moments, finishing his wine and searching the crowd for Rozalinde. She'd left her place by the screen. He shifted his gaze with irritation, looking for her. As he took another swallow of wine, he happened to glance down. His fingernails still had dirt under them. Angrily he whipped out his dagger and pared it away, hop­ing no one had noticed. Rozalinde would be somewhere nearby. He would find her.

  * * *

  Rozalinde longed to speak to her father. To tell him she'd done what he wanted, to receive his praise. But he was busy. She could see him in the dining parlor, sitting next to a fat dowager who plied a fan to cool her plump cheeks, all the while talking voraciously. Roz knew the woman. It would be impossible to interrupt her.

  Trenchard was the other difficulty. He stood at the entry to the dining parlor, blocking the path to her father. She didn't want to encounter him again. The thought made her giddy. With an effort, she searched for something stable in the maelstrom of changing winds. Her eye lit upon her brother, lounging by. With a sigh she hurried after him.

  "Jon, walk with me."

  Jon crooked his arm to accommodate her hand and gave her his usual, nonchalant grin. "I see you have quitted the company of good Master Trenchard. Everyone is whispering about you and the alderman. Does he regale you with stories of pork sides and beef joints?"

  But Jon's mirthful expression changed, became serious as he perceived Rozalinde's sober look. "What is it, Roz? What's wrong?"

  "I've made a decision, Jon. I'm going to wed."

  "With him?" Jon shook his head and clucked his tongue. "Everyone knows he's smitten with you, Rozalinde. But he's hardly worthy of you. He may be chief alderman, but he started as a butcher, for heaven's sake."

  "There's no use arguing." Roz studied her brother's face, surprised at his unusual sympathy. "Father and I feel it will be a suitable match. He'll solve our problems with the business. And he's not smitten with me. He's not like that."

  Jon scoffed. "What do you know about men? Nose stuck in your ledgers all day."

  "I know he'll solve our problems. I admit I would rather not wed, but we have to be practical. What if Papa should die?"

  Jon's face grew instantly grave. "I don't like to think of it. We would be in terrible trouble. But if you do wed, your husband, whoever he is, will rule the business since I am underage. We have to remember that. And I, for one, don't want Trenchard."

  "Why not?" Roz looked at her brother curiously. Jon didn't usually speak so definitively.

  "Well, for one thing ..." Jon glanced about and found Trenchard standing at the entry to the dining parlor, his back turned. "For one thing, he doesn't treat his servants well."

  "That's just gossip. You have no proof. He's well respected," Roz said firmly, wanting to ignore her brother. "You'll have to do better than that."

  "All right." Jon took a deep breath. "I will if you prom­ise not to tell Father. He wouldn't approve if I even hinted at such things to you."

  Roz started to withdraw her hand from his arm. "If you're going to say George was untrue to his wife, I won't believe you. Papa wouldn't accept him if he'd done that."

  But Jon captured her hand with his own, held it tightly his face suddenly stern, reminding her of their father "There are worse things a man can do to his wife than be untrue to her," he said vehemently. "Oh, he didn't beat her or abuse her. It was something more private, but I heard it from a reliable source and it appears to be true. "And I say a man's habits reflect his character. I'm telling you, Rozalinde, I don't want you making this sacrifice. We must find another way."

  Roz's eyebrows went up. She took another look at him. "I hardly know how to answer you, Jon. You've never talked like this before."

  "We've never had problems like this before. God's heart-lings, it's time for drastic measures." Jon gave her hand a firm squeeze. "If Father dies, I might be his heir, but it wouldn't make any difference. No one would consult me about the business, and you wouldn't be allowed to have a say, either."

  Rozalinde shook her head worriedly, realizing he was serious. "You're right, of course. But I don't see any other alternative."

  "Use your imagination," Jon chided. "You're not usually so obtuse."

  "I'm not obtuse," Roz snapped, feeling her temper flare. He said such thoughtless things at times. "I refuse to listen to any more nonsense. Papa isn't going to die. Why does e
veryone insist he's half in his grave? Look! He's as well as anyone tonight." They both looked toward the far dining parlor where their father sat. Their mother sat at his side, and he smiled and jested with his neighbors, tapping his foot to the music that had turned lively and gay.

  "He does look better than usual." Jon's voice assumed an unaccustomed gentleness. "You and mother prepared the revel so he could rest. He looks even better than last week."

  "Of course he does," Roz insisted. But she grew silent, thinking of her agreement with Trenchard.

  Jon nodded congenially. "Come now, goose, cheer up. This is a revel, after all. You'll not want to spoil it for our guests. And I have someone to show you." Peering around the pillar, he gestured across the hall. "Look who's come." He grinned broadly.

  Reluctantly Roz followed his gaze. A tall lady in an elab­orate black gown stood beside the lord mayor's wife, obvi­ously dominating the conversation. In her hand, Roz could see a magnificent black feather fan.

  Roz let out a low groan. "The dowager countess of Wynford. Thinks she's so grand just because she's an earl's lady."

  "Was an earl's lady," Jon reminded her. "She's probably looking for another husband right now, which accounts for her coming out tonight." Turning to regard himself in a darkened window, Jon adjusted his doublet that was decorated with ornamental slashes.

  Rozalinde stared moodily at the dowager countess. "Do you think she came alone? She should be escorted by the new earl."

  "She should." Jonathan slicked down his hair. "But I hear he had business. He didn't come."

  Rozalinde was silent. The sinking in her stomach renewed itself. Suddenly someone in the crowd caught her eye. "Look there." She shook her brother's arm to get his attention. "It's Margaret. I thought her mother wouldn't let her come tonight."

  "Ah, where?" Jon turned around, a glad smile lighting his face.

  The girl saw him, too, for she tossed her golden head and smiled his way, an engaging, provocative smile.

  Roz didn't miss the exchange. "That was a 'come hither' look if ever I saw one. I suppose you may go. But don't forget you are to help clear up after. We must count the plate to be sure nothing's missing. So I want no excuses tomorrow, about falling asleep in a corner or some such trash."

  "As God is my witness," Jon grinned happily. "You're such a dullard sometimes, beauteous sister, always counting things. Don't you like to have fun?" He made a face at her, trying to coax her to laugh.

  Rozalinde gave him a severe look. But then let her expression soften. "Not the kind you like, but I do appreciate a rest when I've been working hard. I'm so tired."

  "Go lie down if you wish it," Jon said. "You've done more than your duty today." But he seemed to forget her as he stared, entranced, at the far end of the hall. A brightly dressed man juggled a whirling mass of balls. "Look, the players have begun. I must learn how he does that." He looked distractedly back and forth between Margaret and the performer, as if unsure which intrigued him more. "Whatever you do, be sure to come back for the play, sister. It's going to be exceeding fine. Complete with battles."

  "I will," Roz promised halfheartedly, watching the crowd assemble for the players, knowing Trenchard would be among them. "Then wish me luck. Do I look well enough?" Margaret had apparently won out. Roz gave him a critical look. "I won't wish you luck. Not the kind you want. I'll wish you a chaste kiss and no more. Straighten your falling band."

  Jon righted the lace at his throat, gave her a peck on the cheek, then slid away through the crowd in pursuit of his maid.

  After he'd gone, Roz continued to lean against the wall, thinking. The things Jon had said bothered her. Normally she didn't listen to him—he was often such a lackwit. And he'd called her obtuse, something she didn't appreciate. But his words hung in her memory, suspended on the strength of her fear: I don't want you making this sacrifice. She could stay at the revel no longer. Everywhere she looked, there was either one of her suitors, or her mother or father. And at the far end of the hall, there was Trenchard. She must have time to think, to review her earlier decision.

  Quietly she went out the nearest door, slipped up the stairs.

  "I'm so vexed with him!" shrilled a voice, just inside the chamber set aside for ladies to adjust their gowns. "I'm so vexed I could die."

  "There, there, my lady," soothed another female voice, evidently a maid. "Let me arrange your hair. You will feel better in a trice."

  Rozalinde stopped, her foot poised above the last step, and leaned against the carved handrail. She hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but that had to be the dowager countess of Wynford, Lady Mary Howard, and Roz couldn't help but hear.

  "What a ridiculous revel this is," complained the count­ess. "Tumblers and jugglers, such rustic stuff."

  "At least there will be a play," the maid said agreeably. "That will surely be amusing."

  "Bah, you've got my cap crooked. Take your hands off." There was the sound of a cuff. "Leave it alone and straighten my ruff. 'Tis loose in the back."

  Silence ensued while they worked. Then the countess raised her voice again. "I am still angry at Kit. He was to escort me, but no, he goes out instead, on a night like this. On business, he says. What business could that be? I tell you, I don't know what ails him, Annie. He's the oddest man I've ever known."

  "But you knew him as a lad, did you not?" protested the maid. "And he wasn't odd then. Besides, I find him ... most agreeable."

  "I'll wager you do," came the terse answer. "And he'll keep being agreeable till he's had you to warm his bed. 'Twas the only thing on his mind when he was a lad, and I have no reason to think he's any different now. This so called 'business' of his is probably chasing after some wench. He up and goes away at the strangest hours. Out all night, he'll be, and comes home weary to death. One night, I was still up. He obviously didn't expect me, for he tried to slip away without talking to me, but not before I saw he had blood on his shirt. It was dark and dry, but I swear it was blood."

  The maid made a sharp intake of breath. "Blood, madam! Do you think he's in danger for his life?"

  "Maybe." Mary laughed harshly. "From some cuckolded husband, like as not."

  Roz chose this moment to peek around the corner of the door, confirming her belief that it was the dowager countess she overheard. So he was called Kit, she thought, trying to deny her interest, and he went about at odd hours. But blood on his shirt? She waited silently, hoping they would go on.

  "I shall certainly avoid him, madam," the maid said with conviction. "It would not do to be involved with a rogue. Nor any other gentleman," she added hastily.

  "But he does have his good points," Lady Howard, mused, her voice softening. "Look at this fan he bought me."

  The maid admired it.

  "He brings me such gifts often. I expect he knows how dreary things have been for me since Harry died. But then he leaves me alone, too. If it's not trips at night, he's away to London to see to those cursed ships of his. Though of course they've made him astonishingly rich." Her voice lowered. "His own money makes his share of Harry's estate look pitiful. I could scarce believe my eyes when he showed me his ledgers. And now that he's earl, he needn't lift a finger."

  The maid oohed and ahhed over this revelation. "I'd never have thought him so well off. He doesn't dress. I'm surprised some girl hasn't snapped him up. He's not a youth."

  "He's six and twenty," Lady Mary informed her. "And I hope he doesn't wed. At least not soon. I intend to stay on at Lulworth Castle as long as possible."

  Roz could hear the swish of silk skirts as the lady stood. Thinking they might come out, Roz made her way quietly down the passage.

  Blood on his shirt. The words repeated themselves un­comfortably in her head. She padded to her chamber and changed swiftly out of her elaborate gown and into a plain kirtle skirt and bodice. Pulling on her oldest cloak, she went back to the passage, found a side door, and slipped out into the night.

  The night was dismal. Roz didn't care. Once away from the trim
med gardens of her father's house, the land of Dorset was rugged and swampy. She welcomed its rough terrain tonight. Turning her face south, she made her way toward the sea.

  She had to cross an area of bracken and heath first, then descend the chalk cliffs, but once on the sands of Lulworth Cove, she felt better. Here, in this magical little basin where sea had carved away stone, she vowed to puzzle through the troubles besetting her: the mystery of the ruined cargo, her promise to her father, the many unruly events of the day.

  But as the moon slipped in and out of black storm clouds, her mind felt as foggy as the mist hovering over the waves. Everything was out of focus. Out of control. Where once she had firmly ordered the things in her life, now all was confusion. Never before had she doubted a decision made by her father. Nor had she doubted him earlier in urging her to marry, and Trenchard was the logical choice.

  But Trenchard was somehow repellent to her, and now this vague feeling was reinforced by her normally dreamy brother. He'd spoken decisively against George tonight. More unsettling still, Jon had contradicted their father, something she would not ordinarily tolerate. Yet she had tolerated it. Because in her heart, she wanted to believe Jon. Still, doubting her father was foreign to her nature, and Roz found she trembled.

  Pausing on the sand, she remembered the last on her list of the unruly—the man in the shop, Christopher Howard. His words, his manner of speaking, his person—everything about him intrigued her. That had never happened before, not with any man. It flung her orderly life into chaos, and he stared out to sea, longing to escape her confusion. It was then she saw the figure. A phantom shape striding across the sand, his dark cloak billowed by the wind. Instinctively she sank to her knees behind some rocks, waiting for him to pass.

  But he came straight toward her. "Who are you? What do you do here?" His voice was clipped, abrupt. Reaching out, he grasped her upper arm and hauled her from behind the rocks.

  "Loose me!" she cried, struggling to break free. "This cove belongs to everyone. I have as much right here as you." A cloud drifted past and she saw by the light of the moon that he wore a mask. The thought stuck doggedly in her mind and refused to go away. Ceasing her struggle, she stared at him intently, trying to make out who he was. V It was his touch that told her. Looking down at his hand, she could see it was molded by a black leather glove cut with a wide gauntlet. And despite the glove, despite the mask, despite the dark, his anger and coldness, she recognized him. It was the Earl of Wynford. "Maids do not walk out at midnight. Not at Lulworth Cove." He'd grown still as a statue, seemed to study her in return. "Not unless they're meeting lovers or hoping to get their throats cut. I ask you again what you do here. Say quickly and be done."