Secrets of the Night

by Jo Beverley

  Lord Brand Malloren, with a brother close to the King and an entourage of his own. Now more than ever she knew there was no connection between him and Rosie Ellington, other than a chance moment on a dark road.

  And yet, and yet—she nibbled a dry biscuit—he’d not been acting when he asked her to run away with him. She remembered how he’d insisted on it, grown angry over it, returned to it again and again in the night.

  Now, in light of his rank, she understood that he’d meant it. Such a powerful family would be used to shaping the world to suit themselves. They wouldn’t care about the opinions of others. He doubtless thought she’d be honored to be his mistress. Certainly scandal would be a midge bite to him.

  If Wenscote wasn’t threatened by the Cotterites, would she succumb?

  No. Without that threat, she would never have lain with him, lovely man or not. And she had to accept that if she’d not approached him, he would never have shown any interest in her. None, in fact, because without the need to hide her identity, she would doubtless have shown him her true face, her scarred face.

  Suddenly, achingly, she longed to be back with Digby, back home, safe in the security of Wenscote where she could be herself.

  Then she realized that Gertie was still chattering.

  “… gone for days.”

  “Gone? Who?”

  “Why Lord Brand, milady, as I said.”

  “He’s missing?” She managed an idle tone.

  Having run out of tasks, Gertie just stood, hands clasped on her white apron. “Nay, not missing. Apparently it’s his way to ride out alone visiting places. He hired one of Mr. Sowerby’s hacks, despite having two fine riding horses of his own. Incogno, or something, his people call it.”

  “Incognito.” That explained his plain dress.

  “Aye, that’s it. But the marquess sent word that he’d be here to meet with him today, and he received that message before his last jaunt. So it is a bit strange that he’s not back.”

  Rosamunde had to say something. “What could have happened to him?”

  “Well, the world’s full of wickedness, isn’t it, milady? Three coaches were held up by highwaymen last month not far north of here, and the press gang came in at Filey. I do hope nothing bad has happened to him.”

  “So do I.” Afraid her tone had been a bit too fervent, Rosamunde added, “Such goings-on. It makes me quite nervous to travel!”

  Gertie came over and inspected the empty biscuit plate with approval. “Now, now, don’t you fret. Travel by daylight, and you’ll not come to misadventure.”

  In truth, if Rosamunde had followed that advice, she would never have had the adventure that started all this.

  “But what of Lord Brand?” she prompted.

  Gertie lifted the tray, worry settling on her face. “It’s to be hoped he turns up soon, milady. From what his servants say, the marquess’ll tear this part of Yorkshire apart if he don’t. We don’t need trouble like that.”

  Rosamunde shivered, remembering Brand’s stories in the night about his oldest brother and his care of his family. Diana, too, had said he had the reputation of being protective and vengeful.

  What would a man like that do to people who drugged his brother into sickness and pain, and abandoned him in an isolated barn?

  Rosamunde rested her sore head on her hand. If only she’d followed Diana’s plan and done it at the masquerade. Then, Brand would not be in such danger. Please God, she’d have still found him and rescued him, but she’d have sent him safely on his way.

  What would have happened during a day or two of his recovery at the dower house? Would they have talked? Would they have found the connection that still held, still tugged at her so painfully?

  She might not even have stayed, though. She might have left him to the Yockenthwaits and carried on to Wenscote. Free of this turmoil, she would have been happy———

  She sighed. Her heart could not think that way. Despite the agony of loss, she could not wish her days with Brand away. She could not wish to be carrying a faceless stranger’s child instead—she prayed—of his.

  Selfish creature that she was, she could not wish it even to spare him suffering.

  She could, at the very least, do something to ease his suffering. She stood, making sure not to wince or wobble. “I am feeling better, Gertie. I think perhaps I could continue my journey today.”

  “Nay, milady, you must stay the night. Swaying about in a nasty carriage is bound to turn you sick again.”

  Rosamunde hated the thought, but lingering here was far too dangerous. “I need to get home. Please help me dress.”

  Gertie shrugged. “As you will, milady.” She soon had Rosamunde into her stays, petticoat, and plain gown. Checking her appearance in the mirror, Rosamunde was startled by the stranger there, and somewhat reassured. Even if she were to meet the marquess one day, he’d never connect her with Lady Richardson.

  She wondered if Brand might, though. Or at least, recognize her as his masked lady. Lady Richardson’s madeup face, with dense white cream, rouge, dark brows, and carmine lips was eerily like her painted mask. As the mask was ruined, so this one was badly mangled by sleep.

  Rosamunde dismissed the maid, found Diana’s pots, and did her best to repair the effect. The face in the mirror was horrible—a hag’s face suggesting wickedness—but she did find comfort in it. There’d never been a trace of pity on Gertie’s face.

  With the face fixed to the best of her ability, Rosamunde searched the room for writing materials. None, not even Diana’s traveling note case. How to leave a note without pen and paper?

  The guests’ parlor. Surely there were such things there.

  She hesitated, quite simply afraid of venturing out with this strange appearance, and terrified of bumping into the marquess. She must, though. Brand could be rousing and suffering now. Rosamunde took a last fortifying look in the full-length mirror.

  No one would recognize—

  But then she smiled. Lady Gillsett! She looked exactly like her imaginings of wicked Lady Gillsett. Embracing that boldness, she sallied out to save her love-slave in distress. The inn seemed strangely quiet, and only one person passed her in the corridor—a young man with a ledger in his hand. A clerk, it would seem. Perhaps one of Brand’s men.

  She could stop him and tell him…

  Don’t be a widgeon, Rosamunde!

  As she descended the stairs into the hall, two red-coated officers approached, but waited courteously at the bottom until she passed them. Both gave her light bows, but showed hardly any interest.

  No stares.

  No pity.

  An airy sense of freedom lightened Rosamunde’s step. She was truly out in the adult world for the first time.

  A footman stationed in the hall willingly led her to the guest parlor. It proved to be a charming room with long windows looking out onto the market square. Two country ladies were taking tea at a table by the window, and a rotund middle-aged man sat in a wing chair by the screened hearth, reading one of the papers provided.

  The man ignored Rosamunde entirely, but the ladies—weathered faces and wiry hair—looked over with a smile and a nod. A faint smile and a brief nod. Rosamunde supposed she didn’t look like the kind of woman to have much in common with them, and that gave her an idea.

  Sitting at the walnut desk, she took a sheet of paper from the drawer, and mended the battered pen. Then she dipped the tip in the inkwell, and started to write. She had planned a curt note from a third party, but her hand and mind wrote the letter of her heart.

  To Lord Brand Malloren,

  You will not forgive me, and that is as it should be. There can never be anything lasting between us, only the brief time we had. Know this, however, and believe it I pray you, my lord. You have brought a joy and light into my life that will live with me always. In the name of that joy, which I hope you shared in some small part, I beg you not to seek me out for vengeance or for any other purpose.

  I had no choice. I
never had any choice,

  “Lady Gillsett”

  She read it through and knew she should tear it up. She couldn’t, but she also couldn’t leave it here for him like a blatant calling card. She folded and sealed it, and addressed it to Lord Brand Malloren. What address had he given her in the desperate night? Malloren House. There’d been more.

  Marlborough Square! She wrote that, then “London,” then slipped the folly into her pocket. She’d find a way to send it, a way he’d never trace.

  Now she wrote the letter she’d planned.

  Lord Brand Malloren is to be found in a wooden barn not far out of Thirsk, off a rough track between the Ripon Road and a place that starts with New—.

  Resisting the temptation to add unnecessary words, she folded it, wondering how to direct it. Though it presented dangers, she addressed it bluntly to the Marquess of Rothgar. If her plan worked, it would take time for him to receive it. Time enough for her to be away from here. For once this note was sent, they must leave. Though she longed to hover and see Brand brought to safety, that was too great a risk. A risk to herself and Diana, but also to the important plan behind all this.

  Now for the next move. She rose from the desk to pick up one of the newspapers, then sat in an armchair close to the older ladies, pretending to read. As she hoped, the man left first and no one else came in. Rosamunde gathered her courage and went over to the two women, who were just finishing their tea.

  “Excuse me.”

  They both looked up. “Yes?” said the one on the right.

  “Can we help you?” asked the one on the left.

  Rosamunde sat, heart pounding with nervousness, trying to feel like the hard-faced woman she appeared. “You are just breaking your journey here?”

  Two heads nodded.

  “Yes, indeed, mistress.”

  “On our way home.”

  “Glad to be back.”

  They shared responses like old familiars. Sisters for sure, perhaps even twins. They were so ordinary and cheerful that Rosamunde longed to be ordinary with them, to be real. The paint, in truth, was just another mask.

  “Do you go far?” she asked as if making idle talk.

  “Far enough, mistress.”

  “Up into Arkengarthdale.”

  “We must be on our way soon.”

  “Or ‘twill be dark before we’re home.”

  Far enough, indeed. And somewhat remote. All the better for her plan. “You travel without escort?”

  A chuckle. “Who’d bother an old pair like us?”

  “Though we carry our pistols just in case.”

  “By coach?” Rosamunde asked.

  “There’s few roads up where we live. We ride.”

  The one on the left stuck out a leg, showing she wore tall riding boots under her skirts. “Astride, of course.”

  “Of course.” Rosamunde was beginning to be fascinated and wished she could get to know these characters better. She had to achieve her purpose, however, and then get away from here.

  “I, too, am leaving shortly,” she said. “But I need to leave a message for a gentleman here. Without him knowing who it comes from.” She was blushing under the paint at the implications, but was sure that on the surface she seemed all hardened wickedness.

  Two sets of blue eyes widened.

  “Goodness gracious.”

  “You haven’t been foolish, have you?”

  “It’s plain to see you’re married, dear.”

  She’d never thought to remove her wedding ring! She quickly elaborated on her story. “The very opposite,” she said, trying for a tragic look. “I have come to my senses. But, dear ladies, I must leave him word.”

  “Very right.”

  “Very noble.”

  “To be sensible, I mean.”

  “So sad.”

  “Quite romantic!”

  “We were to meet here and run off together,” Rosamunde continued, “but no one yet suspects. He has only just arrived, which has given me the chance to see that it can never be.” She sank her head on her hand. “My poor husband. My poor dear children.”

  “Oh, the little innocents.”

  “Ah, you poor thing.”

  Rosamunde faced them, ashamed of the lies she was spewing to these kindhearted ladies. And yet, beneath it all, lay too much truth for comfort. “For the sake of my reputation, for my husband and children”—she put the folded paper on the table—“no one in the inn must know who has left this note for him.”

  The lady on the left picked up the note and read the direction. “A marquess!”

  “Alas, I was blinded by high rank.”

  “And other things, I’m sure.”

  “We caught a sight of your man, dear.”

  “A fine figure.”

  “But handsome is as handsome does, sister.”

  “True. He shouldn’t be coaxing good women away from their homes.”

  “What can we do to help, dear?”

  Rosamunde wondered wildly what the marquess might do about this slander on his reputation. Thank heaven, he’d never know who was responsible.

  “I wondered… It is an imposition, but I hoped you might feel able to give the note to someone on the edge of town, with instructions that it be delivered here after a small delay. I fear he might pursue me, you see, and I might weaken.”

  “Wise to get clear.”

  “We’ll do as you ask.”

  Now came the hardest part. She’d have to ask them to lie.

  “If anyone asks later, can you not tell them anything about my appearance? I am somewhat disguised…”

  The woman on the left patted her hand. “Of course, dear. Don’t worry about it.”

  “And don’t lose strength.”

  “Go home to your husband and children.”

  “Your precious treasures.”

  “Neither my sister nor I ever married.”

  “Must be hard at times to be married.”

  “Men are, aren’t they? Hard.”

  “Say difficult, Mary.”

  “Oh, yes. Difficult, Annie.”

  Though the sisters seemed unembarrassed, Rosamunde wanted to giggle at this.

  “But sin can never lead to happiness in the long run,” Mary said firmly.

  This was so true, Rosamunde lost any desire to laugh. “Alas, I know it. Thank you for your help.”

  She felt tempted to hug the dear, compassionate women, but contented herself with a squeeze of one woman’s hand. “Thank you again. It…”—her voice broke of its own—“it means so much.”

  With that she fled before she honestly wept.

  Behind, the two sisters shared an intrigued look.

  “Quite the little drama, Annie.”

  “Or tragedy.”

  “Hard to tell.”

  “He’s the sort to ruin women.”

  “Dark. Handsome.”

  “More than that.”

  “True.”

  “Quite young, I think. Her. Beneath that paint.”

  “Oh yes. Hands always tell.”

  “And unhappy.”

  “Love. Not worth it.”

  Annie drained her tea. “I wouldn’t have minded though.”

  Mary nodded. “Me neither. Me neither.”

  With that, they finished their tea. Miss Mary took up the note and Miss Annie paid the bill, and the eccentric Gillsett sisters picked up their riding crops and tricorns before clomping off to call for their horses.

  Chapter 15

  “We have to leave!” Diana gasped, rushing into the room dressed in what looked like rags.

  Rosamunde turned sharply from the sitting room window, where she’d been foolishly hoping for sight of Brand being brought to safety. “Indeed we must.” Then she took in her cousin’s frantic state. “Why? What’s happened?”

  “The marquess is making enquiries, and he’s brought in the army. We have to leave. Once away, we can get rid of our disguises and he’ll never find us.”

  She
flung an armful of clothes onto the bed—her previous servant’s costume—and began to struggle out of the sacklike garments she was wearing.

  “Is this another disguise?” Rosamunde asked, helping to remove a coarse calico apron, a dingy top, and a saggy brown skirt.

  “This,” said Diana, tossing the last item on the floor, “is the best that could be found when you threw up all over me.”

  “Oh, Dinah, I’m so sorry!”

  Diana relaxed a little and threw her a smile. “You couldn’t help it, and I must admit, it’s been interesting being the lowest of the low.” She tied the laces of her blue skirt over her snowy white shift, and quickly slipped into the brown overbodice lacing it down the front. “When I put these clothes on at Dulcie’s, I never thought they’d feel so grand to me one day. Now, let’s pack and get away from here.”

  Rosamunde watched in astonishment as her normally unflappable cousin dashed around gathering their belongings. “Yes, I agree we should leave,” she said, “but the marquess will never suspect us, Diana.”

  All the same, awareness of her note pricked at her. Now was clearly not the time to confess but Rosamunde too wanted to hurry away from Thirsk. She helped pack.

  “That man suspects everyone,” Diana said, then dashed to snatch something from the empty grate. Pieces of paper?

  Rosamunde’s suspicions sharpened. “Diana, what have you been up to?”

  Diana froze, then stirring memories fifteen years or more old, she tilted her chin defiantly and showed what she held in her hand. Her crest torn off a sheet of paper. “I’ve delivered a note to the marquess, telling him where to find Lord Brand. It just wasn’t right—”

  “You’ve what? Into his hand?”

  “No, of course not! It was very clever. I’ll explain later. But it’s wending its way to him. And I just saw him with two army officers. I’ve ordered the coach. We’ll never make it home today, but we have to leave.”

  “Indeed we do,” said Rosamunde with a sick feeling that everything was going wrong. “I’ve just dispatched a note to him as well!”

  “What!”

  Rosamunde gave her cousin a rapid account of her plan as they both picked over the room for any betraying item. A button. A thread. As they worked, she received a tangled tale to do with ostlers and the London coach. Diana had apparently dropped her note in the stable yard as the coach was leaving. She had also clearly had at least one close encounter with Lord Rothgar.