by Bree Wolf
What situation? Her mind whispered, and Rose realised that although their encounter had rattled her, it had been a chance meeting after all. What were the odds of them meeting again?
Relief flooded her heart that the decision had been taken out of her hands, and yet, a hint of regret pulsed through her veins at the thought of never seeing him again.
“Are you all right, my dear?”
Flinching at the sound of her father’s voice, Rose closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her hands clenched to her chest as though trying to calm her hammering heart. “You startled me, Father.”
“I apologise, my dear,” her father said, his eyes searching her face as he came to sit beside her. “Are you ill? You look pale.” When she remained silent, he sighed. “Neither did you speak a word to me as we walked home from the museum. What bothers you?”
Rose swallowed. What was she to tell him? “I…No, I am fine. Do not worry, Father.”
His eyes narrowed before he reached for her clenched hands, gently pulling them away and wrapping them in his own. “Speak to me, Rose. I can see the lie on your face.”
Sighing, Rose bent her head. “I am sorry, Father. But I am not sure I can without breaking a promise.” How could she explain what had happened at the museum without involving Diana?
Her father nodded. “I see.” For a moment, he simply looked at her, his sharp eyes gliding over her face like those of a falcon hunting its prey. “Do I need to be concerned for you? For your well-being?”
Meeting his gaze openly, Rose shook her head, and he relaxed visibly.
“Well then, can you not tell me the essence of your troubles without betraying someone’s trust?” he asked, and a curl came to his lips. “After all, you are an intelligent woman, my dear.”
Smiling, Rose sighed, searching her mind for a way to confide in her father. “I believe what has me so rattled is that I am at odds about someone’s character.”
When she hesitated, her father nodded. “Do go on.”
“From what I was told the…person in question ought to be of bad character. However, my own observations cannot confirm that.” Lifting her eyes to her father’s, Rose shrugged her shoulders. “What am I to believe? I am afraid I was misled.”
“Misled by whom? The person in question? Or the one who gave you the report?”
Rose shrugged. “It has to be one or the other, does it not? For both accounts are mutually exclusive.”
“Not necessarily,” her father said, and Rose frowned. “Listen, my dear, to truly know someone takes time. Mostly, what we believe to know about someone are merely glimpses of their true selves. We all have good and bad in us; therefore, it is not easy to determine whether we are good or bad.” He smiled at her, gently squeezing her hands. “The question you need to ask is how well you know the person in question compared to how well the one who gave you the report does? And keep in mind that quite possibly neither one of you is truly in a position to judge that person’s character.” He grinned at her. “Maybe what you need is more data.”
Laughing, Rose looked into his twinkling eyes. “Father, you are truly impossible. However, your suggestion does have merit.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Rising from the settee, he brushed down his overcoat. “It is always nice for an old man to hear that his ideas are still appreciated by the young,” he mumbled, heading for the door.
Rose chuckled, “If your intention is to elicit a compliment from me, Father, then I’m afraid I must disappoint you.”
Turning his head, he looked at her, a smirk on his face. “You cannot blame an old man for trying.”
“I do not,” Rose told him with a smile. “However, I refuse to spend my days assuring you that you are not old.”
“I know, I know.” Opening the door, he stepped outside. “The young always have better things to do.”
Sighing, Rose shook her head at him.
***
Downing a glass of brandy, Charles stared out the window at the carriages and pedestrians slowly making their way up and down the street. What were their troubles? He wondered. Were their lives as complicated as his?
This day had started out so promising, and when he had happened upon Rose in the museum, Charles had honestly felt as though somehow everything would fall into place as though he still had a place in this world. And now, here he was, drowning his sorrow in the early afternoon.
Again and again, his mind dragged him back to the moment, Rose’s soft eyes had gone hard, the moment the smile had died on her lips and she had glared at him with well-founded hatred.
His insides twisted painfully at the memory, and a chill ran up and down his spine, making his skin crawl.
Shaking himself, Charles gritted his teeth, then set down the glass with a loud thud and began pacing the length of his study while his hands raked through his hair.
Cursing under his breath, he marvelled at the effect such a rather insignificant occurrence should have on his peace of mind. Why did it bother him that she had regarded him with such disgust? Granted, no one enjoyed being the object of another’s aversion; however, she was nothing to him, so why should it plague him so? After all, they had only met for a brief moment that morning.
I know one thing, that I know nothing. His own words echoed in his ears, and exhausted, Charles sank into his desk chair, wondering what he didn’t know.
Had Rose known his brother? The very question had pushed to the surface the moment she had walked out on him. However, a part of him had not been ready to face it, afraid of the answer he might receive.
He, himself, had never met Rose; Charles was certain of it. So her hatred could not stem from anything he had done.
But what about Robert?
Given his reputation, was there a chance he and Rose had crossed paths at some earlier point in a less than honourable manner? Had he treated her poorly? Was that why she hated him?
His jaw clenched, Charles swallowed as his mind conjured an image of his brother’s hungry mouth devouring Rose’s soft lips.
A growl rose from his throat, and he shook his head. Pushing himself off the chair, he once again took to pacing, the muscles in his arm flexed, his hands curling into fists.
As his fingernails dug into his palms, Charles stopped, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed to think this through rationally; anything less would not bring him the answers that he sought.
Replaying the moment in the museum before his eyes, Charles reminded himself that the change in her attitude had only occurred after she had learnt his name.
Caught up in his raging emotions, he had not even noticed that at the time. Could it be that she had never even met his brother? That she only knew his reputation?
Charles frowned as doubts crept into his mind. Although her reaction to his brother’s name would suggest that they had never met, the rather drastic change in her attitude indicated a personal involvement. Had it only been Robert’s reputation, she would have excused herself, possibly shown signs of nervous agitation; however, would she have run from him the way she had, with hatred burning in her eyes?
Whatever the answer, he needed to know.
Sitting down at his desk, Charles took out quill and paper and began drawing up a letter to his brother; after all, he was the only one who could shed light on these muddled circumstances.
Quill in hand, Charles took a deep breath and tried to organise his thoughts. If only Robert hadn’t gone off! If only he had stayed in London!
Cursing under his breath, Charles tried to calm down. He would need to be patient. Who knew when his brother would receive his letter?
Putting quill to paper, he wrote:
Dear Brother,
Apologise my bluntness, however, something has occurred that requires your immediate attention. Today, at the British Museum, I met a young woman. After we talked animatedly about the Rosetta Stone, I introduced myself, and she reacted in a rather alarming fashion.
Since she did not recognise my
face, I can only assume that my name was the cause of her alarm. On the other hand, she reacted to such an extent that I have to assume a personal relationship.
Charles’ insides twisted, and he couldn’t help but realise how much the possibility of an intimate relationship between Rose and his brother bothered him.
Her name is Rose; I was unable to ascertain her surname.
I hope to hear from you concerning this matter post-haste!
With affection,
Your Brother
Sighing, Charles folded the letter, sealed it and rang for his butler, whom he instructed to find his personal courier and provide him with the letter. Although the man’s fee was steep, he had been able to hunt down Robert before, and this time, he, at the very least, had a vague idea of his brother’s whereabouts.
If only there was a way to contact him faster!
Sinking back into his chair, Charles buried his face in his hands.
The intensity with which he reacted to the events of that morning confused him. After all, Rose was nothing but a chance acquaintance. However, if she suspected anything with regard to their identity switch, they ought to be concerned.
Did she? Charles wondered. She had not given any indication that she might believe him to be…well, himself. On the contrary!
Leaning back in his chair, Charles closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Was his concern truly due to the potential threat to their secret? Or had the fact that the blood boiled in his veins nothing to do with it?
Why had she not recognised him before? Charles asked himself. Admittedly, his brother had looked somewhat differently before he had returned to London for Charles’ wedding. The long hair. The unshaven face. The casual clothing.
However, was that enough to disguise someone? Could Rose have met his brother before without recognising him, Charles, now?
If only there was a way to know. However, there was not. At least, not now.
All he could do was wait.
Chapter Five − Ties of the Past
A fortnight later, Charles found himself in another ballroom full of people who eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and distrust. Pretending not to see their prying eyes, Charles ventured from room to room, seeking a distraction, however, unable to find one as his mind was still occupied with only one thing: Rose.
Ever since that day at the museum, he had not seen her again, which was not surprising at all, and Charles berated himself for his foolish hopes. He was a grown man for goodness’ sakes! How could a few minutes spent in a woman’s company unravel him so?
Taking a deep breath, he forced Rose from his thoughts, procured himself a drink and set his mind to idle chit-chat.
Although far from in the mood, Charles forced himself to greet acquaintances and friends even if they appeared unwilling to renew the connection and shared a few words here and there. If he was to ever walk among these people again, he would need to regain his position in their midst.
Unexpectedly, the evening progressed in a rather pleasant manner that helped Charles realise that his endeavour was not as futile as he had feared. Although surprised with his manners, most people appeared willing to converse with him as their curiosity persuaded them to turn over a new leaf.
When he returned to the refreshment table, Lady Dunston, a woman maybe a few years his senior, approached him. Her azure dress accented her golden hair, and her eyes shone like diamonds as they looked into his. Reaching for a glass, her gloved hand brushed against his not quite as though by accident.
Unsettled by her frankness, Charles cleared his throat.
“It is good to see you again, Lord Norwood,” she said as her eyes swept over him in a familiar and rather intimate fashion.
“The pleasure is mine,” Charles replied, courteously inclining his head to her.
An amused smile drew up the corners of her lips before she stepped closer and whispered, “The pleasure could be yours again.”
Drawing in a sharp breath, Charles met her eyes, reminding himself that she thought him to be his brother, a man she had had an affair with before he had left England almost three years ago.
After they had decided to switch their identities, the brothers had spent days familiarising each other with the life the other had led. In Robert’s case, that had included quite a few affairs among the English high society.
Knowing that Lady Dunston was only one of them, Charles sighed, wondering how to best extract himself from this situation without neither causing a scene nor giving her reason to suspect anything.
Fortunately, he was saved from having to think of something when approaching footsteps echoed from behind him, and Mr. Lawson joined their intimate exchange.
“Lady Dunston. Lord Norwood,” he greeted them. “I hope I am not interrupting.”
“Not at all,” Charles assured him rather eagerly, which earned him a confused look from Lady Dunston. Ignoring her, Charles turned to Mr. Lawson. “I was hoping to see you tonight, for I believe we did not finish our conversation last time.”
“We did not?”
“I believe you were telling me about your research,” Charles reminded him, omitting that Mr. Lawson had had no intention of elaborating on said subject for he believed Charles or rather Robert to be indifferent in these matters.
“I was?” he mumbled, his brows drawn in concentration before he laughed and shook his head. “Let no one ever say that it is the old who are wise. For one cannot be wise when one does not remember.”
Smiling at Mr. Lawson’s good humour, Charles said, “In my belief, it is knowledge that can be lost. Wisdom, however, is an innate ability to understand.”
Raising his brows, Mr. Lawson smirked at him. “Wise words for someone so young.” They both laughed while Lady Dunston looked utterly bored. “What I do remember, however,” Mr. Lawson said, “is that I promised to introduce you to my daughter.”
“Certainly,” Charles agreed. Although the thought of meeting the man’s daughter did not appeal to him−for there was only one woman who currently occupied his mind−he welcomed the chance at escaping Lady Dunston’s clutches.
“If you’d excuse us, my lady,” Charles said, to which Lady Dunston generously inclined her head. Her eyes, however, showed her displeasure at being robbed of her chance to renew their acquaintance.
Following Mr. Lawson toward a small group of young ladies, Charles felt immensely grateful to the man. However, he would need to find a way to set Lady Dunston−and possibly others−straight about the nature of their current relationship.
As they neared the small circle of young ladies, Charles noticed their eyes travelling to him. While most of those looking in their direction eyed him with curiosity, here and there accompanied by a nervous giggle, one, however, openly stared at him, her eyes as round as plates and her mouth hanging open as though in shock.
For a moment, Charles feared that he was faced with yet another problem of his brother’s past. However, when one lady with familiar golden-red hair, who had stood with her back to him, turned around and met his eyes, all thoughts left his mind, and he stared at her in awe and wonderment.
She, however, regarded him with the same loathing disgust he had seen on her face a fortnight ago.
“Excuse my intrusion,” Mr. Lawson said smiling at the young ladies, “but allow me to introduce Lord Norwood.”
While most of the young ladies bowed their heads and mumbled ‘my lord,’ Charles swallowed, forcing his gaze from the furious glow in Rose’s eyes. “It is a pleasure,” he mumbled in return, feeling like a complete fool.
“May I introduce my daughter,” Mr. Lawson began, holding out his hand, which his daughter took−although with a hint of reluctance. “Miss Rose Lawson.”
Stepping forward at her father’s words, Rose eyed him with disgust as though he was a bug she wished to squash under her shoe.
Occasionally her eyes would travel to the side, glancing at the girl standing behind her, until her father cleared his throat. “Whe
re are my manners?” he mumbled as though to himself. “This,” he gestured to the young lady who had stared at Charles before, “is my niece, Mrs. Diana Reignold.”
Once again mumbling a greeting, Charles barely looked at the girl but found his gaze drawn to her furious cousin.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, trying to shake the sense of doom that had settled on him the second Rose’s eyes had come to rest on his.
Her lips pressed into a tight line, Rose raised her chin. “It is indeed,” she replied, the tone of her voice, however, betrayed her true feelings.
***
Fuming, Rose barely managed to maintain her composure.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Diana’s ash-white face and the tremble that shook her hands as she stared at the man who had ruined her life and now acted as though they had never even met.
“Are you all right, my dear?” her father asked, brows drawn down in concern.
Clearing her throat, Rose forced a smile on her face. “Of course, I am, Father.” From the slight crinkle on the ridge of his nose, Rose could tell though that he was not convinced.
“May I ask for this dance?”
Rose’s head snapped around, and for a second, she stared at Lord Norwood open-mouthed.
“What a wonderful idea!” her father beamed as his eyes drifted back and forth between them, a strange gleam in them that Rose had never seen before.
Forcing the smile back on her face, Rose turned back to the man before her.
Although his posture betrayed a hint of apprehension as though her answer could determine the course of his life, his strong jaw was set, and he looked at her with determination shining in his eyes.
Swallowing, Rose glanced at her father’s encouraging face and reluctantly accepted.
When Lord Norwood held out his hand to her, she took a deep breath before slipping her own into his, relieved that their gloves prevented any direct contact.
Following him onto the dance floor, Rose felt her heart beating in her chest. Only too well did she remember her father’s words! Yes, she ought to be open-minded and try to determine Lord Norwood’s character for herself. However, one glance at Diana’s miserable face had her pulse hammering in her veins; and yet, the feel of his touch−despite their gloves−sent a shiver down her back that made her catch her breath.
