Secrets of the Night

by Jo Beverley

  Diana was staring at her. “You have no idea, do you?”

  “About what?”

  “About the Mallorens!”

  Rosamunde slumped on the window seat and prepared to face the truth. “What has he done?”

  “Done?” Diana’s fine brows tangled. “I’d think you’d know that better than I.”

  “Away from here, I mean.”

  Diana shook her head and settled elegantly on the other end of the cushioned seat. “Lud, I forget that you never go anywhere. I don’t suppose you read newspapers either, do you?”

  “He was in the newspapers?” Rosamunde felt rather sick. She’d never been inclined to think of highwaymen as romantic. They were, after all, just thieves, and often murderers. But perhaps if he was the dashing kind of highwayman it wouldn’t be too bad. “What crime did he commit?”

  “Crime?” Diana came close to gaping. “Rosa…! No, as far as I know Brand Malloren hasn’t been in the papers. But his brother has. Often. You must have heard of Rothgar.”

  “What’s Rothgar?”

  “Not what. Who. The Marquess of Rothgar.”

  Rosamunde stared at her. “Are you trying to tell me that he,”—she waved in the direction of her prisoner’s room—“is a marquess?”

  “I dread to think where your brain is.” Diana leaned forward. “Pay attention. If he’s Brand Malloren, his brother is the Marquess of Rothgar. His oldest brother, of course.”

  “Of course,” echoed Rosamunde. “But his clothes are so simple. I don’t understand…”

  “Nor do I. But the Mallorens are famous. Or infamous. Lord Bryght—”

  “Lord?” Rosamunde exclaimed.

  “Lady Elf is a very pleasant lady,” Diana rattled on. “She’s the only one I’ve actually met—”

  “Diana!” Rosamunde shouted to get her attention, then lowered her voice. “Are you saying I have a lord in that room?”

  “If you have Brand Malloren, you have, but—”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “Well, he’s not a real lord. He doesn’t have a seat in Parliament or anything.”

  “Is that supposed to be consolation?”

  Diana suddenly laughed. “Oh, love. I doubt he’s going to haul you into court. And you certainly have fine taste when it comes to capturing love-slaves.”

  “I rescued him.” Rosamunde didn’t, however, doubt his rank for a moment. It explained so much. There wasn’t a servile bone in his confident body.

  “Rescued, captured…” Diana waved a glittering hand, for she always wore an abundance of rings. “You relieve my mind! You’ve become so dull, but this is fully worthy of our childhood exploits. A Malloren as a lover. What a brilliant choice.”

  “I didn’t choose him,” Rosamunde protested, knowing her cheeks were red.

  One of Diana’s arched brows quirked. “Are you saying that as soon as you hauled him out of the ditch, you thought, ‘A man. Good. I’ll have him in my bed by tomorrow.’”

  “Of course not!” Rosamunde leaped up to pace out her embarrassment. “Very well. I did decide that he was… not unbearable.”

  “Quite. What on earth, though, was Lord Brand Malloren doing drunk by the side of the road in simple clothing? I don’t know the man, but it seems unlikely.”

  “Perhaps he’s been cast off.”

  “The marquess is rumored to be very protective of his family. In fact, you’d best pray Lord Rothgar does not take offense at your treatment of his brother. He’s said to be merciless on such matters.” She lowered her voice. “Some say he’s mad.”

  “Mad!”

  Diana laughed. “I’m teasing, sweetheart. I’ve never met the marquess, but I haven’t heard of him foaming at the mouth. I gather it was his mother who was mad.”

  Rosamunde stared. “Lord Brand’s mother was mad?”

  “Oh no. They’re half brothers.”

  Rosamunde sagged. “Thank heavens!”

  “Well really. Isn’t it unfair to be judging someone by their parents? Has Lord Brand seemed insane to you?”

  Rosamunde wondered if she knew what sanity was. “No, but—”

  “Then judge him on himself.”

  “I’m an animal breeder, remember?” She suddenly hugged herself. “Just think! I could have made a child who carried insanity in its blood. I thought about the physical, but I never considered his sanity or moral qualities. Temperament can be bred for, you know, as well as physical form. You did say you’d heard nothing bad about him? About Lord Brand?”

  “No, but he doesn’t seem to move in society.”

  “He said he manages estates for a nobleman.”

  “There you are, then. He’s a country bumpkin like yourself. He’ll probably delight in talking about crop rotation, turnips, foot rot, and such.”

  “I’m more interested in whether his child will.”

  Diana rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you’ll make certain it does, poor thing.” She rose and twitched her skirts into line. “I am concerned, however. We have to make sure the Mallorens can’t find you once this is over.”

  Rosamunde shivered. “I’ve done my best. He doesn’t know where he is, or whom he’s with.”

  “True, but if he thinks to ask about men found by the roadside and cared for, you’re sunk. Admit it. My masquerade was a much better plan.”

  “Probably, but with luck, most people will never know a man’s been here with me a‘ all. The servants have agreed to keep it to themselves.”

  “Can they be trusted?” Diana’s frown expressed doubt.

  “I think so. They don’t want the New Commonwealth here any more than we do.”

  Diana sat down, staring. “You explained it all to them?”

  “Of course not! But they’re not stupid, you know. I think Mrs. Yockenthwait guessed, and my mother and Sukey.”

  “Aunt Ellington!”

  Rosamunde pressed her hands to burning cheeks. “Isn’t it terrible? But… but she seemed to approve. I don’t know whether that’s comforting, or proof that the world has gone mad.”

  Diana blew out a breath. “Well, you might have pulled it off then. Still…” She pursed her lips, a familiar glint of mischief lighting her eyes.

  “What?” asked Rosamunde with foreboding.

  “It wouldn’t be hard to spread rumors. As insurance. A man found by the road by a lady. Perhaps here, perhaps near Ripon, perhaps in Niddersdale, or Airedale. By Lady Hauxwell, or Mrs. Tring, or even one of the Misses Gillsett…”

  “Diana!” But even as she protested, Rosamunde was thinking it might work.

  “You know that people believe the stories they’re told, then pass them on with changes. And every dalesman believes that wickedness and wonders go on in the other dales. When you had your accident, half of North Yorkshire thought you dead, and the other half thought you blind. A good number believed you were running away with a lover. Or that both of us were.”

  “I pray that rumor doesn’t revive. My plan depends on my impeccable reputation.”

  “Which you certainly own.” Diana moved close and took Rosamunde’s hand. “It was my fault—”

  “No—”

  “Yes! I was the one urging speed for no reason at all. It should have been me—”

  “Silly! It should have been neither. It was a freakish accident, both the coach overturning and the glass slashing me. You were knocked unconscious and could have suffered even worse from that.”

  “But didn’t.” Diana touched Rosamunde’s cheek. “I do wish you’d put it behind you, love. Time has faded the scars. They really aren’t as bad as you think.”

  Rosamunde suddenly saw how much it would ease her cousin if she lived a normal life. She’d never realized before how deeply Diana felt it. “I’ll try,” she promised. “But not yet. For now it’s essential that I remain respectable, reclusive Lady Overton.”

  “But—”

  “Thank heaven I didn’t tell anyone but you his name!” Rosamunde had to interrupt Diana. She didn
’t want to think of her scars and decisions now. It would be too painful.

  Diana shrugged and let it go. “It was wise. I’ll set some trusted servants to start the rumors. If word ever does leak out about a man’s presence here, it will just be one of many vague tales.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So, the only remaining problem is him. You can’t just wave him out the door, or he’ll know.”

  “Especially as we are miles from anywhere. I have to take him somewhere.” She worried her knuckle for a moment. “I could blindfold him.”

  “Would he submit to that?”

  “Probably.”

  “You seem interestingly sure of him. But it wouldn’t work. He’d still have a fair idea of how far he’d traveled. The nature of the land. He’d hear sounds. I’m sure he’s not stupid.”

  “No, he’s not. So, O wise one, how do I confuse the poor man?”

  “You found him drunk. Leave him a jug of gin, and perhaps he’ll drink himself silly again.”

  Once that had been Rosamunde’s plan, but now she shook her head. “He’s never once asked for wine or spirits. Does that sound like a drunkard to you?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I suppose you could knock him out, but…”

  “But no! I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how, and it’s horribly dangerous. Look at how addled you were after our accident. And poor Bob Wigglethorpe, he’s never been the same since that beam fell on his head.”

  “Well then, I could ask old Mistress Naisby for a potion.”

  Rosamunde wasn’t happy at the thought of drugging the man, but it seemed the lesser of the evils. “Perhaps you’d better, just in case. I hate doing that to him, though.”

  Diana leaned to kiss Rosamunde’s cheek. “You’re fretting again. Remember, you’ve done the main part and can’t weaken now.”

  “Screw my courage to the sticking point.”

  “Exactly. But remember, this is not Shakespearian tragedy. Rosie and Dinah are going to emerge triumphant. Just as long as Rosie doesn’t have one of her fatal attacks of honesty. Promise?”

  Rosamunde thought wistfully of the simple beauty of honesty, but she nodded. “Promise.”

  When Diana had left, Rosamunde was tempted to just sit in the window seat and fret the day away, but she had to be seen in case any of this ever came out. Anyway, she thought as she tidied herself and left the room, he wanted his clothes.

  In the kitchen, she studied the plain garments, confirming that they were not the style and quality expected of an aristocrat. Perhaps despite his family, he truly was a simple man. Her willful mind settled on that, on the fact that they might not be wildly divided by their stations, but then she forced herself to stop such folly. Rank was the smallest obstacle in their way.

  She was married.

  She was seeking a child in order to save Wenscote, and she could only carry that off if no one in the world would imagine that Lady Overton might take a casual lover. Even if those barriers fell, she was a farmer’s daughter—a gentleman farmer, but still a farmer—and Brand Malloren was the son of a marquess.

  And, she reminded herself, he had no lasting interest in her. He was paying a debt and amusing himself. That was all.

  She sent Millie up with the clothes.

  Now, she needed to be seen out and about. She put on her cap, the one that hid the edges of her face, then went to wander in the part of the garden that ran close to the passing road.

  A number of vehicles and people on foot came by. If they saw her, she greeted them. They were all people she knew, and none of them seemed at all suspicious. It was not unusual for her to spend a day or two here with Diana.

  Perhaps she should suggest that Diana move into the dower house to make it even more proper. She didn’t want that, though. She didn’t think she could go through the night if Diana was sleeping in the next room.

  She settled to doing some weeding until she was interrupted by Millie stumping down the garden path, muttering again about half-naked men. “He wants something to read.”

  “Read?” Rosamunde echoed blankly, though it made sense. The poor man was recovered, but stuck in that room with nothing to do.

  “Should I take him something from the library, milady?”

  “Yes—” But then Rosamunde thought of a complication. “No! No, I’ll go and choose something for him. Thank you, Millie.”

  As Rosamunde hurried to the few shelves that passed for a library in the dower house, she knew she’d just escaped another disaster. These books came from the big house and were embossed with the word “Arradale” and the family crest.

  She ran through them, hoping desperately to find an unmarked stray, but of course there was none. She could cut out a front page, but she hated the thought of mutilating a book.

  What now?

  With sudden inspiration, she left the house and walked the half mile to Arradale itself. She entered by the kitchens and asked for Diana.

  “Ridden out to inspect the hay, milady,” said the butler, who had appeared with that instinct butlers seemed to have. “The dowager is available.”

  Rosamunde wished she could just ask for some recent papers, but she would have to speak to her aunt.

  Round as her sister, Lady Arradale managed to carry her weight with the presence expected of a countess, and her hair by some miracle of cosmetics, was still the rich brown of her youth.

  “So, dear,” she said, accepting an airy kiss near her delicately powdered cheek, “rumor says that you are having a little adventure.”

  “Adventure, Aunt Arradale?” Rosamunde queried as she sat on a brocade-covered chair, a jiggle of nervousness stirring deep inside.

  “Mariah stopped by, and told me of your invalid. Very charitable of you, dear.”

  Of course her mother would visit her sister when so close, and of course she’d tell her what was going on. But what exactly had been said? Rosamunde desperately tried to judge her aunt’s tone, but she’d always been hard to read.

  “It’s rather tedious, really, Aunt,” she said in a bored tone, “but I feel I must stay at the dower house until we can send him on his way. Tomorrow, I hope.”

  She’d thought she was grown up, but this business was pitching her back into childhood. Rosie and Dinah, in trouble again.

  Rosamunde’s parents had always been soft-hearted and hated to punish their children, but Lord and Lady Arradale set high standards for their only child, and enforced them. If Diana had been in trouble, it was certain that Rosamunde had been involved, too, and so everyone—including Rosie and Dinah—had agreed the penalties should be the same. If a whipping was called for, however, it had always been Aunt Arradale who’d dispensed it.

  Now Rosamunde could almost imagine her aunt calling for a birch!

  But that jerked her memory to the New Commonwealth and their harsh way with children. Even under Aunt Arradale’s firm hand, punishment had never been severe. Just enough to make them truly sorry for whatever they’d done wrong.

  “Problems?” her aunt asked perceptively, and Rosamunde gathered her wits.

  “Not really, Aunt. Well, there’s Sir Digby.” Rosamunde leaped into an innocent subject eagerly. “I wish he would eat and drink more moderately. The way his color rises, the way he wheezes when climbing the stairs, it does worry me.”

  “With reason. The earl was in a similar state, and it took him from us.”

  Rosamunde had forgotten, and was sorry for stirring sad memories.

  “And,” said her aunt, “when Sir Digby dies, his heir is an adherent of this new extreme sect, I understand.”

  “Edward Overton, yes. It is a worry.”

  “You should get with child, dear,” said her aunt blandly.

  Rosamunde, feeling hot all over, had never dreamed of speaking of marital matters with her august aunt. “We are trying. Digby and I…” It was true, after a sense.

  “It’s fortunate that men are not like women, and seem able to procreate in their older years. How fortunate h
e is to be married to a healthy young woman.” She inclined her head with a very slight smile. “To you, dear.”

  Was that royal approval? This was the most extraordinary conversation of Rosamunde’s life.

  She moved bluntly on to the purpose of her visit. “My invalid would like to read a newspaper, Aunt. I came to ask if I could borrow yours.”

  “Of course, dear.” Lady Arradale rang the golden bell by her hand, and when a footman responded, sent him on the errand.

  “So,” she asked, “who is he?”

  Rosamunde steeled herself to lie. “He doesn’t seem to remember yet.”

  “From?” asked her aunt.

  “He doesn’t know that either.”

  “And a victim of drink.” Her brow furrowed a little. “Perhaps he prefers not to give his identity. Be careful, Rosamunde.”

  “He does claim not to drink much as a rule, Aunt Arradale.”

  “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?”

  It amused Rosamunde how all the older women were so skeptical about men.

  Shrewd eyes assessed her. “Have a care, my dear. Rogues and rascals are often charming, which makes them all the more dangerous, especially if they are handsome, which I gather this one is. If you wish, you may send him here for the night.”

  Rosamunde was saved by the footman returning with a small pile of papers on a silver platter.

  Aunt Arradale waved them over, and Rosamunde snatched them, standing. “Thank you, Aunt. It hardly seems worth moving him, and Diana’s going to help return him to civilization tomorrow.”

  “Is she? Too much to hope that she’d leave such an unusual situation alone. However, since you know neither his name nor his direction, where, pray, are you going to return him to?”

  Oh Lord. “Thirsk. He seems to think he comes from there, so we hope he’ll be recognized.”

  “And if he isn’t?”

  “Then I’ll leave him there with some money. I can hardly keep him here, Aunt Arradale!”

  “I do hope that the two of you are acting according to your age and dignity.”

  “Of course, Aunt!” Rosamunde exclaimed, definite visions of the birch swirling. But then an idea stirred. “Perhaps,” she said, thinking it out as she spoke, “I should move here for the night. It does concern me a little, being there with him now he has recovered consciousness.”