by Jo Beverley
Rosamunde had expected it, but she tried to resist. “Why?”
“You haven’t had Dr. Wallace in. If the poor man’s been vomiting and is still abed, you maybe should. Mother and I can give our opinion.”
“He’s doubtless asleep.”
“Then we’ll have a quiet look. Does he have a fever?”
Rosamunde stared at her sister resentfully. Getting Sukey out of the house without a glimpse was as likely as ascending to heaven on the spot. Still, she was struggling for a way when her mother dabbed her lips with her serviette and rose to head out of the room.
“Has he a cough, dear?” her mother asked, climbing the stairs in a no-nonsense manner. “I heard he was soaking wet when you found him.”
“That’s true.” Rosamunde hurried after, speaking as loudly as she dared in case he needed warning. “But as far as I can tell, he’s escaped consequences.”
“They could still come. Lungs are tricky.”
“Not without a fever, I don’t think,” Sukey said, and Rosamunde realized that this investigation wasn’t entirely nosiness. Sukey was three years her senior and had two children, and their mother had given birth to eight and lost two. They both knew a great deal more about nursing than she did.
“He was sick in the night, but not since,” she told them.
“Drink will do that,” said Sukey, “and getting rid of the poison does them good.”
Rosamunde wondered if there were aspects to Harold Davenport that she hadn’t guessed.
“He had a terrible headache,” she volunteered. “I gave him a powder. The headache one. It seemed to help.” She fumbled as much with the key as she dared.
“Locked, dear?” asked her mother.
“Can’t be too careful with strangers.” Rosamunde offered a brief prayer and opened the door.
The curtains were drawn, throwing the room into dimness, but the window was wide open, so they billowed a little. Birdsong trilled in, along with fresh summer air. In the room, Rosamunde’s twitching nose mainly detected potpourri and port, though she thought other wicked aromas lurked underneath.
Her secret lover was tucked firmly in the bed, eyes closed.
“Oh my,” whispered Sukey, tiptoeing close. “Not quite an angel, but plenty handsome enough for a mortal man.”
Rosamunde saw the corner of his lips twitch and prayed harder—that he be able to control himself.
“Handsome is as handsome does,” said her mother prosaically, opening the curtains a crack to give more light. “The good-looking ones are usually nothing but trouble.” She came over and picked up a corner of the sheet to inspect a purple stain. On the table nearby, the bottle of port stood empty alongside a used glass.
“What possessed you to give him more drink, Rosie?”
“Hair of the dog?” Rosamunde suggested weakly.
Her mother shook her head and laid her hand on his forehead. “Cool, as you said. And his color’s good. I don’t think there’s any cause for concern as long as you keep him away from drink. We’d best go before we wake him.”
“Is he naked?” Sukey whispered as they retreated to the door.
“He hardly dumped himself by the roadside with a nightshirt in his pocket.” Rosamunde got them out of the door and shut it, knowing he had to be fighting laughter.
“I’m sure Mr. Yockenthwait has a spare.”
“Seth Yockenthwait’s six inches shorter and half as wide.”
“So, they say angels don’t have a—”
“Hush!”
“Sukey Davenport,” said Mrs. Ellington, shaking her head, but eyes twinkling, “sometimes I wonder at you.”
Sukey just laughed. “Someone stripped him out of his wet clothes and into that bed.”
Rosamunde locked the door and headed back downstairs. “Mr. Yockenthwait and Tom settled him in the bed, but Mrs. Yockenthwait and I stripped and dried him. I’m hoping the story won’t get out. People do talk.”
“Indeed they do,” said her mother. “We won’t gab of it, and Hester Yockenthwait only told me because she thought perhaps a mother should know.”
Know what? Rosamunde wondered faintly.
Her mother kissed her cheek, perhaps a little bit more firmly than usual. “Take care, dear.”
“So,” said Sukey, brushing a kiss-against her cheek, “is he an angel?”
“He’s just an ordinary man,” Rosamunde said firmly as she went with them to the door. “Nothing more.”
And that, she thought as she waved them on their jingling way, proved that she was becoming an excellent liar.
Once the chair had disappeared round a bend, she blew out a breath and slumped against the wall. In all her planning, she’d never imagined having to deal with her mother in her house of sin! She wanted to rush upstairs because…
Just because.
Smiling, she acknowledged that she wanted to laugh over it with him. An angel, indeed. But first, he deserved a good meal.
She was checking with Jessie as to what could be provided in a hurry, when the kitchen door was opened. She turned with a start, thinking her mother and sister had returned, but it was Diana, Countess of Arradale. who swept in. Dressed in a magnificent burgundy riding habit braided in gold, she slapped embroidered riding gloves against her palm with a jeweled hand.
“Good day, Jessie,” she said to the suddenly flustered maid, but then she turned a stern eye on Rosamunde. “I want to speak to you.”
They were quite alike in height and build, but Diana carried herself higher, as if being a peeress added inches. Of course, she also favored high heels, even on her riding boots. She headed autocratically out of the kitchen, heels clicking, assuming Rosamunde would follow. With a wry look at the maid, she did. She was about to be given a stinging lecture on cowardice.
In the drawing room, Diana tossed her glittering gloves onto a sofa. Her mannish tricorn followed, revealing hair of a more reddish brown than Rosamunde’s. neatly pinned up in a complex arrangement. “You ran away!”
“Yes,” Rosamunde said meekly.
“How could you! It would have been perfect. At least two men were desperately seeking the Columbine.”
Yesterday, Rosamunde would have felt justly crushed by this, but now she was having to suppress a smile.
Diana was no fool. She gave Rosamunde a sharp look and sat down. “What have you been up to?”
Rosamunde swallowed. “Getting a baby. I hope.”
“What? You left with someone? Who?”
Rosamunde sat opposite. “Not with someone,” she whispered. “I found him on the road.” She quickly gave her cousin the story.
Diana’s jaw dropped in shock. “And you think this specimen safer than my guests? Really, Rosa! How feather-witted can you be? He’ll probably strangle you and steal the silver!”
“No! Really. He’s a gentleman and has excellent manners.”
“So do some highwaymen.” She rose sharply. “I’d better see him—”
“No.”
Diana halted, then subsided with a questioning look.
“I don’t want you interfering, Diana.”
“This is my house, you know.”
Rosamunde had forgotten that detail, so she switched to petitioner. “Please?”
Diana’s blue eyes narrowed. “You’re up to something.”
“Of course I’m up to something! I’m up to”—she found it hard to say the word—“adultery.”
It hadn’t felt like adultery.
“But it’s so dangerous. You’re bound to be found out.”
“No, I’m not. Why would anyone think I’d… do that with a sick man I rescued?”
“Is he sick?”
“Not anymore. But I’m keeping him in his room as if he is.” She bit her lip. “He’s my secret love-slave.”
Diana’s eyes widened, then she burst into laughter. Rosamunde joined her in a wild storm of healing laughter that reminded her of their younger years.
When they sobered, however, Diana shoo
k her head. “He knows, dearest. That was always the blessing of the masquerade, that the man wouldn’t be able to tell anyone, or make trouble.”
“I know. But I think it will be all right. I’ve been wearing the mask, and I hope to get him away from here without his knowing where he’s been or who he’s been with.”
“How? Where does he think he is?”
“Gillsett.”
“Where the Misses Gillsett live? You wicked, clever scoundrel! If he goes there looking for his masked lover, he’ll get a shock. So, have you done it yet?”
Rosamunde jerked under that blunt question, coloring. But she nodded.
Diana swirled over to hug her. “Brave girl! I hope it wasn’t too unpleasant.”
Rosamunde bit her lip. It almost seemed too precious to speak of, but it was too great a treasure to keep from her cousin. “Diana, it was the most remarkable… I never knew…”
“Rosa! You haven’t been so foolish as to fall in love with this wretch, have you?”
“Of course not. And he’s not a wretch. He’s a gentleman.”
“Ha!”
“He is.” Diana’s meaning had sunk in, however, giving her a qualm. “I’m not in love. That would be ridiculous. I hardly know the man.” She had to wonder, however, just what it was, this tender feeling that made her want to smile and smile, and share things with him. “It’s just the act,” she said, as much to herself as to her cousin. “I finally understand why some people plunge into folly over it.”
Diana’s brow wrinkled. “You do? Can you explain it to me?”
But at this point Rosamunde ran out of words. “It’s special. A physical feeling… that…”
“Not the same as with Sir Digby?”
“No.” But that seemed terribly disloyal. “Not that… I mean—”
She was saved by Jessie knocking and peeping in. “The tray’s ready, milady. Should I take it up?”
Rosamunde leaped to her feet. “I’ll do it.”
Diana rose, too. “Don’t think you’re escaping, Rosa, leaving me with such a string of mysteries and teases! Do you at least know his name?”
Rosamunde halted, tray in hand, knowing she’d look the lowest sort of trull to have been romping in bed with a man without even knowing his name. “It’s Malloren,” she said. “Mr. Brand Malloren.”
She hurried out, but heard: “What?”
Oh no.
As Diana cried, “Rosa! Come back here!” she fled upstairs, plates sliding, liquid sloshing from the spout of the pot. She didn’t want to know what had made Diana shriek like that. She didn’t want to know!
Was he really a highwayman? Were wanted posters stuck up all over England blazoning his name?
After the briefest pause to tie on her hated mask, she flipped the key in the lock and dashed into the room, slamming the door closed with her behind.
“What is it?” he asked, instantly alert despite only having a sheet wrapped around him like a toga. He was by the window again, but had kept the curtains drawn, and was peering out through a chink.
“Are you wanted?” she gasped, tray still clutched before her.
“Wanted?”
“By the law.”
“Not to my knowledge.” He came over and took the disordered tray from her, placing it on a small table, and tidying it. “Since my recent activities aren’t completely clear yet, I can’t swear to it. Ah, pork pie. Thank you.” He took a big bite and swallowed it before adding, “So? What’s to do?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He took another bite, clearly not convinced. “Then won’t you sit with me while I eat?”
After a struggle with herself, she sat down opposite, touching her mask to make sure it was in place. She wanted to stay. She also wanted to put off hearing Diana’s bad news. Just for a little while.
“It’s hard to tell with that damned mask, but I’d say you look shaken. Did your mother give you trouble?”
Rosamunde stopped twisting her hands together and smoothed her skirt. “No. Of course not.”
“She seemed a pleasant lady. I’m glad you have her.”
“So am I.” She wasn’t sure it was right to ask personal questions, but after a moment, she did. “Do you?”
“I did. She died when I was quite young.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I missed her. I still do, I suppose. She was a wonderful person. Joyous, loving, strong. It would be precious to be able to visit, to share things, to do things for her.”
It touched her deeply because he said it simply as he ate, as if this were something taken for granted between sons and mothers. Her instincts weren’t wrong. Highwayman or not, he was a good man.
He swallowed the last of the pie and looked up, eyes twinkling. “And the other lady is assured I’m not an angel?”
“My sister Sukey.” Rosamunde knew her eyes were twinkling, too. “She took my word for it.”
“So they’ll not make trouble?”
“No.”
He poured some thick chocolate and sipped, considering her. “Do you want to change our arrangement now your mother is on the scene?”
“No.”
“I’m charmed to think I’m such a wonderful lover that you are ready to take risks over me, but why?”
Rosamunde ran a finger down the rough heat of the chased-silver chocolate pot, wondering how much truth was wise. She wanted to give him as much as she could. “I’ve never had a lover before, and I doubt I will again.”
“You’re young still.”
“And married.”
After a pause, he said, “Forgive me for being crude, but to an elderly man.”
“He’s only fifty-five.” She hoped it didn’t sound like a complaint. She didn’t wish Digby dead, but honesty said that she wished she’d never married him. It lay bitter on her soul, the ingratitude of that. More bitter still, however, was the loss of what she might have been if she hadn’t been such a coward after the accident.
“Fifty-five to your what?”
She jerked out of her thoughts. “Twenty-four.”
“How old were you when you wed?”
“Sixteen.”
“ ‘Struth, my dear. Why?”
Rosamunde had never questioned it before, that desperate need for a safe haven—away from her smothering family, but also away from the world, from the need to meet strangers. Now she did, but it was too raw to poke at.
“Why not?” she replied briskly. “Many ladies marry young, and some prefer an older man. The point is that I am married and to a good man. I can’t risk this again.”
She thought he might argue the point, but then he leaned back, sipping his chocolate. “I won’t tattle. My word on it. So, do you regret it?”
“Not at all.”
“Good.” He drank the last of his chocolate. “Then what do you command?”
For a moment she didn’t understand him. Then she blushed. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? I warn you, my dear, charming though you are, my duty ends at dawn. I’ve remembered my affairs and have an appointment I must keep. If you try to hold me here, you’ll have an enemy, not a willing slave.”
“I won’t hold you.” But you won’t like my way of letting you go, alas. However she arranged it, he would be an enemy then, and it would be better so.
She stood and picked up the tray. “I have someone in the house and must spend time with her. And it’s important, in case your presence gets out, that I very obviously am not spending much time up here.”
He grinned. “It’s all the fault of my angelic good looks. No one would believe your innocence.”
“Quite. If you were homely, it would be a great deal easier.”
“I can cross my eyes,” he said, proving it. “Unfortunately, I can’t hold it for long.”
Rosamunde just shook her head. No wonder he’d ended up drunk in a ditch. He didn’t have a serious bone in his beautiful body, and doubtless was a feckless wastrel. It seemed a terrible shame.
/> “May I at least have my clothes?” he asked. “The Roman look is out this year.”
“Shame,” she said, allowing herself a brief, appreciative study of the Roman look. When he laughed, she added, “Your clothes are definitely the worse for their adventure, but I’ll send my maid up with them.”
“So, when do I get to serve you again?”
Rosamunde grasped the tray tightly, almost like a shield. She had a well-developed sense of right and wrong, and she knew that further encounters with this man would be wrong. She could argue that it increased the chance of a child, but she knew in her heart that if she gave herself to him again, it would not be for that. It would not be for Wenscote. It would be from raw desire, and a hunger to store up warm nourishment for the coming barren years.
She should tell him that there would be no more service, that he’d be attended entirely by Millie from now on…
“Tonight,” she whispered. “Once everyone is in bed.” After a moment, she added, “They go to bed early.”
“Good. More hours until dawn.”
The whole night? Was it possible?
She backed for the door as if leaving a dangerous animal. When she balanced the tray on her hip to manage the knob, he came quickly to help her, astonishingly elegant in his toga-sheet.
The question that seethed in her burst free. “Why would your name alarm someone?”
He paused, his hand on the knob. “Whom did it alarm?”
He stood so close that one bare arm and shoulder brushed her. An urge to lean toward him almost defeated her will, to lean and rest her cheek against his smooth skin, to draw in the remembered warmth and comfort of his body.
Oh, this was wrong! She mustn’t allow herself a lover.
“Never mind,” she said and swept through the doorway. She locked the door, though it was pointless now. The danger was free, and was in her.
Chapter 8
Before Rosamunde had time to collect her thoughts, Diana popped out of her bedroom, snatched the tray to place it on a table, then dragged her into the room. “Brand Malloren!” she whispered.
“Yes.” Rosamunde’s mind was still dazed from her encounter. Why couldn’t she allow herself a lover, just once in her life? Wasn’t it every woman’s right?
