The Unwilling Viscount and the Vixen

by Shelley Munro

  Lady Augusta’s glare was sharp enough to pierce the thick castle walls, but it didn’t put a dent in Rosalind’s rising spirits. Lady Augusta had gifted her with a reason to wander outside.

  Rosalind worked at keeping her satisfaction hidden, but it burst forth in a smile. “I must collect more fresh herbs before I can make more of your tonic. I’ll see to it immediately.” She bustled from the Chinese Drawing Room. In the Long Gallery, the same edgy sensation she experienced while she was alone in her chamber shivered down her backbone. She forced away her unease and pretended she noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

  As she entered the Great Hall, she slowed. Janet and the dark-haired maid strolled through the hall and, seconds later, Tickell followed, nodding at her.

  “Do you require anything?” he asked.

  “No, thank you. I’m running an errand for Lady Augusta.” Rosalind collected a basket and slipped outside. In a hurry to gather her herbs so she could snoop a little, she scurried along the courtyard wall, heading for the small gate that led into the North Tower garden. All the herbs she required grew in this vicinity. A visit from Lady Pascoe had cut short the search she’d conducted during her last foray for fresh herbs. This was a good opportunity to see if she could discover anything to help her find Mary. The pungent scent of basil filled the air as she plucked several stems. Soon sage, comfrey, and lavender joined the basil in her basket. They would make a rub, which would reduce the swelling of Lady Augusta’s joints. A lemon from one of the potted trees recently relocated from the orangery. Some celery to make a tincture. Perhaps some chamomile.

  Her hand froze as she picked a second lemon. Mary should be here, scolding her about dallying in the fresh air and arguing about which one of them would carry the herb basket. Her absence was a huge gnawing hole. She clamped her eyes shut, battling the pain piercing her heart. No one understood her concern, but Mary was more than a maid. She was the only person who’d stood up for her in her uncle’s house. The people of Stow-on-the-Wold had whispered about witchcraft, especially after the incident with their neighbor’s son, Thomas.

  A watery chuckle emerged as she recalled Mary taking to him with the straw broom. He’d intended stealing more than a kiss when he’d cornered her in the barn. Of course, she hadn’t helped matters when she’d informed him the boil on his backside would become painful and not to come to her for treatment. He’d had his hand on her breast, squeezing it painfully, when Mary appeared, wielding the broom like a sword.

  No, Mary would never leave without telling her. She was brave and loyal. Mary was a friend, and she owed it to her to continue looking. There had to be a logical explanation for her disappearance.

  Rosalind pulled a final fragrant lavender stalk and turned toward the North Tower, her skirts sweeping past the tangle of plants and blackberries. It wouldn’t hurt to investigate a little under the pretext of searching for more herbs.

  At the edge of the garden wilderness, her steps slowed. She squinted into the afternoon sun. The North Tower clung to the cliff. Part of the weathered gray tower had crumbled into the sea, leaving a skeleton behind. A pile of debris blocked the arched doorway. As Rosalind pondered the tower, a raven flew through a slit in the wall, its loud caw echoing eerily before it reached the open sky. A shudder worked through her body, and she glanced over her shoulder in disquiet.

  Then she heard the clip-clop of hooves on the stony track on the other side of the tower. A flicker of apprehension gave her feet wings. She ran for an oak tree, left her basket of herbs hidden in the undergrowth, and scrambled up into the lower branches.

  The horse trotted closer. A combination of misgiving and daring swept through her veins when she peered through the screen of green leaves.

  It was Hastings.

  12 – An Exciting Discovery

  Oops. Hastings had seen her. The clenched jaw and narrowed eyes were discouraging, but she owed it to Mary to keep searching. Her maid would do nothing less for her. And as for her husband—he was in danger whether he denied it or not. Someone had to help keep him safe. Her chin lifted in determination as she met his scowling gaze.

  Rosalind clambered down from the low oak branch and put her gown and cloak to rights. “Ah, good afternoon.”

  “What the devil are you doing?”

  “I’ve been collecting herbs.” She lifted her basket and waved it in front of her with a flourish.

  “And?”

  “I’m searching for Mary.” Bother, he’d seen through her subterfuge. Perhaps partial honesty would work. “You’re in danger too. I’ve tried to tell you, yet you refuse to listen.”

  A bark of laughter escaped him, transforming his face into someone more approachable, a man she wanted to know. “What sort of danger?”

  “A man is trying to kill you.” Rosalind pursed her lips, undecided about how much to tell him. She’d worked hard to earn his approval, his trust, his smiles. Telling him of her cursed gift would change everything.

  “How do you know?” Curiosity glinted in his dark eyes.

  Panic roared through her, lodging like a vast knot inside her stomach. She couldn’t tell him only to watch the fear and superstition slide across his face like a mask. A few words would seal her fate. The secure, loving relationship she craved would slip beyond her grasp.

  “I just know.” His stern features propelled her to blurt out more. “I overheard men talking in the stables. Someone is paying the servants to watch you.”

  Hastings snorted. “I suggest you return to the castle. We’ll discuss your punishment when I return.”

  He discounted everything she told him. “But what about Mary?” she asked.

  “I will search for your maid.”

  “But…” His irritated expression halted her objection. St. Bridget’s nose! She couldn’t let him go without trying to warn him. “Be careful. You can’t trust—”

  “Where is your escort?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Return to the castle. I’ll deal with you when I return. Go now.” He waited until she reached the garden before he wheeled Oberon about and galloped away.

  Rosalind winced. She couldn’t tell him how she knew so much. Her gift. Her visions. He’d treat her like a circus freak if he didn’t call her witch first or commit her to Bedlam, just as her aunt had threatened.

  Rosalind’s uneasiness increased when Hastings failed to appear for the evening meal.

  “Where is Hastings?” Lady Augusta demanded of Charles.

  “I have no idea.” He turned to Mansfield, who had joined the family for dinner. “Did you see him on the way here?”

  Mansfield toyed with his glass of wine. “I haven’t seen him. I’ve been otherwise engaged.”

  “Dallying with the widow on the road to Dover, no doubt,” Lady Augusta snapped. “He’s a bad influence on you, Charles. You’ll never wed if you carry on like Mansfield.”

  “We’re not children any longer, Aunt,” Charles said in a mild voice. “Besides, you enjoy Mansfield’s tales of life in the sultan’s court. You can’t call them children’s stories.”

  “I could tell you about the harem,” Mansfield said, winking at Rosalind.

  “Humph,” Lady Augusta said, pretending offense, but Rosalind caught the curiosity on her lined face.

  St. Clare chimed in. “Lucien told me he wanted to check the roofing work on the cottages in the village. That was hours ago.”

  Worry killed Rosalind’s appetite, and she stopped pretending to eat. Something had happened. If the stubborn man had listened to her…

  “That sounds like Hastings now,” Charles said at the burst of commotion from the Great Hall.

  “Thoughtless man,” Lady Augusta said. “We’ve already finished our soup. I refuse to wait while Hastings eats his portion.”

  Tickell entered the dining room. “Lady Rosalind—”

  Rosalind bounded to her feet before the butler finished. “Where is he?”

  “In his chamber. He asked for you to
attend him there.”

  Rosalind flew down the passages and up the stairs, barely registering her surroundings. Hastings was hurt. The words pounded through her brain. She burst into his chamber, her breath coming in pants.

  “I told Tickell not to bother you.”

  “You’re bleeding.” Rosalind sought the source of the blood. “Let me get my bag.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Then let me see.” Before he could argue, she moved closer, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. She swallowed a laugh, turning it into a croak at the last moment. “Is the rebuilding on schedule?”

  His eyes narrowed as his gaze fastened on her face. “Everything is fine.”

  “I have salve in my bag that will help the cut heal.”

  “All right,” he growled. “If you must, but it’s not necessary.”

  Rosalind nodded and hastened away. Her smile bloomed. He’d tripped over a log while playing with two children and was too embarrassed to admit his clumsiness. Still grinning, she hurried into her chamber. The grin died a quick death.

  “No!”

  Her belongings were strewn over the floor, her linens ripped from the bed. Slowly, Rosalind made her way through the path of destruction. Her new silk gowns lay haphazardly on the floor. Someone had shredded them beyond repair. She scooped up the broken remains of her hairbrush, the last memento she had of her mother. Tears stung her eyes. Why? The wanton destruction seemed so senseless as if the person had destroyed her belongings in a jealous rage.

  “Noir?” His plaintive meow started a frantic search. “Noir, where are you?”

  Another meow sounded, and a small black head poked from under a pile of bed linens. Rosalind scooped him up, hugging the kitten to her chest. “Thank goodness you’re all right. I bet you saw who did this.” She stroked a finger over his head until he purred.

  Sighing, she placed Noir on the bare feather mattress and searched for the bell to ring for help. The maid announced her arrival with a brief knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Rosalind called.

  Janet slipped through the door and came to a stunned halt. “Lady Hastings, what happened?”

  “My room was like this when I arrived.”

  “I’ll call another maid to help clean up. You’ll want fresh linens for the bed too.” Janet turned to the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Rosalind sighed as she picked up her treasured knickknacks—a small china shepherdess with her head broken off, a glass vase and the selection of flowers it had once contained, and several mismatched shoes.

  Janet returned with another maid sauntering in her wake. The maid’s ample chest heaved with a put-upon sigh when she saw the mess to clear.

  “I checked with the other maids,” Janet said. “None of them saw anyone enter your chamber. And Beth turned down your bed.”

  “I did. Everything was in order when I left.” Beth circled the room in a leisurely gait. “You’ve got enemies, you has.”

  Rosalind bit back a retort. The woman had to state the obvious. “If you would make my bed, I’ll help Janet sweep the floor. Make sure you shake the linens well before you take them away. A little more glass and broken china on my floor won’t do any harm. Here, I’ll shift Noir for you so you can make the bed.” She put the kitten in a corner, gave him a scrap of ribbon to play with, and told him sternly to stay out of the way.

  The cleanup took two hours and, by the time they finished, Rosalind’s back ached. Thankful they were done, she smiled at Janet and Beth. “Thank you.”

  “’Tis no trouble, my lady,” Janet murmured. “Sleep well.”

  The maid’s comment made Rosalind realize how late it was. Oh, goodness! She’d forgotten the salve for Hastings. She hesitated before deciding against returning. Hastings hadn’t wanted her to fuss over him. Perhaps tomorrow. A yawn escaped before she could contain it. Although she wished she could sink onto her bed and drift to sleep, she had things to do. Determination solidified inside as she ushered out the maids. If she took the rest of the night, she intended to discover the secret passage that led from her room. It was the obvious and only answer to the clandestine comings and goings from her chamber.

  Rosalind started at her door and worked her way around to her bed. She examined each portion of the wall in minute detail. She tapped the walls, listening for a telltale hollowness. Even though logic told her she’d find the passage low, she dragged a chair over to the wall and stood on tiptoes to tap above her head. Nothing. Rosalind doggedly continued her search, climbing up on the chair, scrambling back off. Still nothing. She bit her bottom lip in vexation. Her knuckles throbbed from the constant tapping, but she continued. There was a passage here. She knew it. There was no other way for someone to gain such easy access to her room. She paused mid-tap. Unless one of the maids was the culprit?

  Rosalind rocked back on her heels, considered the possibility and discarded it. It would be difficult for a maid to spirit her clothes away and destroy her belongings without others seeing or taking part in the mischief.

  The search continued, Rosalind working while her mind twisted the puzzle, probing for answers.

  The dull, echoing thud didn’t register at first. She stopped in front of a bureau. It looked unwieldy, but determination bade she make her search a thorough one. With a loud, unladylike grunt, she yanked the bureau. It moved easily considering the size. She gripped the corners and tugged again. Small rollers attached to the bottom of the furniture aided its quick and effortless movement. A draft, a whisper of wind ran across her face, tugging tendrils of her hair. Excitement pulsed through her veins. Tiredness dropped away as she held a candle aloft to study the gaping hole in the wall where the bureau had stood.

  “Yes.” The grin of success spread across her face. The bureau was part of the wall, and the rollers on the bottom allowed easy, almost noiseless entry to her chamber. On the rear, there was a sturdy handle to help the person exiting her room pull the bureau back into place with ease.

  “I knew it.” A job well done. She turned, picked up her candle, and plunged inside the black hole.

  Lucien turned on his side, trying to find a comfortable spot. His head ached as if someone was jabbing a dozen needles into his forehead. Although he’d told Rosalind not to bother with the salve, he could do with something to ease the pain now. He grunted. How could a simple fall cause so much discomfort?

  He flopped over on his other side, sending the covers flying from the bed, and stared up at the playful nymphs that cavorted on the painting above his bed. He cursed low with frustration. The curvy nymphs reminded him of Rosalind.

  An insistent tap jerked him from dangerous thoughts. He sat up, listening. He’d almost decided the noise had been his imagination when it sounded again. The noise was coming from inside the wall.

  Lucien slid from the bed and pulled on a pair of breeches. The noise sounded again, but farther away. Gradually the tapping receded. He snatched up a candle, fumbled for a tinderbox, lit the candle and slipped from his room. He cocked his head. Yes. There it was again. Maybe Rosalind was right. It seemed as if there was someone behind the wall. It could be a person or a creature of some sort. Either way, he intended to learn their identity.

  He stalked the length of the corridor, following the progress of the muffled thumps and thuds. Holding the candle aloft, he studied the wall. He could not discern anything out of the ordinary.

  He tapped the wall with one knuckle. A muffled shriek rent the air, followed by a mighty crash. The wall where he was standing flew open. An apparition in white flew at him, arms outstretched. The ghostly scream made the hair at the back of his neck lift. Lucien jerked an instinctive step back.

  “Hastings!” the creature cried.

  Lucien peered closer. “Rosalind?”

  “Oh, you gave me a start! Never mind, I intended to find you anyway. Look what I’ve found.” She gestured at the black hole behind her.

  Footsteps clip-clopped from a lower level.


  “Someone is coming,” Rosalind said.

  “Come out of there, and we’ll shut the door.” Lucien made rapid work of placing the wall back before he hustled Rosalind farther down the passage.

  Rosalind looked back over her shoulder. “Who is it?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know, but whoever it is, we should keep our discovery to ourselves.” He urged her down the passage.

  Rosalind dug in her heels. “Whose discovery?”

  Lucien took in her indignant expression and wanted to laugh. Her brown hair, which was usually immaculate, stood up in all directions. A cobweb covered her face, and her nightgown was gray with dust.

  The hollow echo of footsteps on the wooden floor came closer. Lucien frowned. They wouldn’t make it back to his chamber in time. The unknown person would pass them in a few moments. And Lucien would bet they, whoever they were, would have endless questions about Rosalind’s appearance.

  Acting quickly, he pressed Rosalind against the wall. He ignored her squeak, holding his candle up to survey her face. He wiped a smudge of dirt off her cheek with his free hand. Despite the gray tinge of dust, the gown glowed like a signal fire, giving away what she’d been up to. A good thing she was so tiny. If he kept them out of direct candlelight, they might pass inspection. His larger frame would hide most of the dust on her nightgown. His breath hissed out as he saw something else illuminated by the candlelight.

  Her breasts.

  Lucien squeezed his eyes shut, but the vision remained imprinted in his mind. “Hell,” he muttered. He placed his candle on the floor and stepped away from her intoxicating scent. The floral perfume was driving him crazy, making him imagine things he had no right to envision.

  “What is it?” she whispered, closing the gap between them.

  Lucien groaned. “Nothing. Be quiet. I’m trying to listen.”

  The footsteps came closer. Damn. He’d have to…

  The person paused, probably when whoever it was saw them. Lucien looked down at Rosalind. Her face was barely discernible in the dim light, but his mind filled in the details. Rosalind had eyes the color of a pale blue forget-me-not, lips rosy as a freshly picked apple, and a determined chin and heart-stirring smile.