Secrets of the Night

by Jo Beverley

  After a moment, Rothgar pulled out two pieces of paper and laid them on the bed. “Then you may want these notes. They were sent separately, both correctly telling me where to find you. One is written on high quality paper which has doubtless had a crest removed. The other is on the paper available in the guest parlor below, written with the inn’s pen.”

  Brand picked them up and read them, but with only academic interest. If his lady had been so desperate to keep her secret that she had drugged him, she certainly wouldn’t make herself so obvious.

  But, cold logic insisted, if not her, who? Was Yorkshire full of people trying to drug him and dump him in out-of-the-way places? But she wouldn’t—

  Then, like a lightning flash illuminating a stormy landscape, he saw her, her roughly cut mask revealing only her firm chin and full, soft lips, offering a cup.

  She’d urged it on him. Sipped from it herself…

  Betrayal stabbed him like a blade.

  “The note on expensive paper,” Bey was saying, “was likely tossed out of a London coach just as it was leaving, but no one in that coach would own crested writing paper. The other was sent to me by a Miss Gillsett—”

  Brand jerked his eyes up. “Who?”

  “A Miss Gillsett. That means something?”

  “Perhaps…”

  “I sent riders after the Misses Gillsett—”

  “Misses?”

  “Twins.”

  Twins? Brand just sat there, assailed by the idea that he might possibly have spent those two days with twins. The mask might have been to conceal minor differences.

  But no, surely not. It had to be one woman. He couldn’t have such a powerful response to two. To two playing a game.

  Could he?

  “They admit to having sent the note,” Bey said, “but say it was given them by someone else. They refuse as of the moment to say more.”

  “As of the moment? ‘Struth, Bey. Do you have them in a torture chamber somewhere?”

  “That worries you?”

  It terrified him, but damnable hope persisted. “They’re here?”

  “No. They are doubtless in their home in Arkengarthdale.”

  Wasn’t that where she’d said they were? Was it going to be as easy as that?

  But twins. Drugs. Was it really so sordid… ?

  “Brand,” Bey interrupted sharply, “I am becoming irritated by your reticence. Tell me one thing. To the best of your knowledge, is this anything to do with the sect called the New Commonwealth?”

  Brand almost said no, but then remembered George Cotter speaking with her. “Why?”

  “It’s your turn to give some information. Well?”

  Brand recognized the change in his brother’s tone. “I don’t think it has anything to do with the sect.”

  “That’s not good enough. I’m sent north by the King to look into their activities. He has considerable concerns. Not without reason since the old Commonwealth led King Charles the First to the chopping block.”

  “ ‘Struth, there’s no danger of that, is there?”

  “With the Jacobite cause not entirely dead, especially in the North, nothing is certain. So, is there any connection between your affairs and the New Commonwealth?”

  Brand tried to put aside hurt and sentiment and be logical. “The Jacobites are mostly Catholic, and the Cotterites are far to the other extreme.”

  “There have been unholy alliances before now. Well?”

  Brand leaned back, thinking. “I truly don’t think there’s a connection, but I can’t be sure. You have to let me think about this, Bey. My brain feels scrambled, though not as badly as last—”

  Perdition. He’d not meant to reveal that.

  “Last time? This has happened to you before?”

  “Leave it. Look, I met George Cotter before any of this happened. I’d go odds he has no thoughts beyond the spiritual and the welfare of the simple people.”

  “Are you a convert?”

  Brand couldn’t help but laugh and put his hand to his head. “Hardly. I could appreciate some of his ideas, but I don’t approve of the severity of the sect’s rules and disciplines. I do approve of the way they manage their estates, though.”

  “What a very one-furrow mind you have. Have you visited any of the New Commonwealth estates?”

  “Just his own. He started all this by turning his own estate into a Puritan commune. It’s well run and very progressive. You know how hard it is to get the rural people to change to new ways. He—”

  Rothgar raised a hand. “I have no interest in agricultural theory at the moment. But whilst there, you heard no sedition?”

  Brand thought for a moment. “No. But then, they take ‘Silence is a virtue’ very seriously.”

  “And you are not willing to tell me about the lady you have been dallying with.”

  At the abrupt question, Brand tried instinctively to throw up a screen between Bey and his mysterious betrayer. “What lady?”

  “You talked in your sleep. Was she a Cotterite?”

  He gave up the struggle. “Definitely not.”

  “Was it she who poisoned you?”

  “I can’t be sure.”

  Bey rose. “We will have to talk more of these matters. For now, who is Lady Richardson?”

  “Who?” Brand knew that question had been tossed at him deliberately in the hope of startling the truth from him, but at least this time his confusion was real.

  “A heavily painted lady, overtaken by an illness that might be similar to your own, though in milder form.”

  Brand was about to dismiss the matter, but then his breath caught. “Heavily painted?”

  “Thick enough to conceal anything, including identity.”

  His heart was speeding. He could hardly believe it might be so easy. “Medium height, medium build, generous breasts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wedding ring. Plain gold.”

  “Wedding ring, plus four very ostentatious ones. Brand—”

  Brand shook his head. “She doesn’t wear much jewelry…” But how could he be sure he’d seen every side of her? Them? He pushed aside his tray, and threw back his covers. “She’s here? Where?”

  Rothgar stayed him with a hand on his shoulder. “She’s gone.”

  Brand looked up. “Are you telling the truth?”

  His brother’s eyes met his. “Have I ever lied to you?”

  “Where is she then?”

  “I have no idea. She and her spotty maid have vanished into thin air.”

  “Spotty maid?” Brand’s puzzlement changed to sharp consideration. “How spotty?” Could that be the reason for the mask? But what then of the twins? Spots and paint would hide the resemblance of twins.

  “Plagued, poor girl,” his brother said.

  “The pox?”

  “Just pimples. The explosive, pustulant kind.”

  “Could they have been twins?”

  “And also the Misses Gillsett?” Bey’s brows rose. “A farce complex enough for Drury Lane. Alas, all four were in the inn at the same time, and perhaps I did not mention that the Misses Gillsett are elderly.”

  “Not disguised to look old?”

  “Not from the reports. Also, they are regular customers here.”

  Relief surged through Brand. Not the Misses Gillsett, then, so not twins. In that, at least, she had been true. Yet the Misses Gillsett had sent a note and his mysterious lady had used their name. Was she careless enough to leave such a trail?

  Was it a trail to a trap?

  He put that aside. He’d not be fooled again. For the moment, it seemed very likely that his partner in sin and delight was either the painted lady or her spotty maid.

  He looked at his brother. “You can’t have lost this Lady Richardson. I know you.”

  “I don’t lie to you, Brand,” Rothgar repeated. “If you suggest it again, I’ll meet you at dawn. Lady Richardson announced her destination as York, and her coach took that route. It has not, however, be
en seen on the York road. Presumably it turned off, but we have no information as to direction. I have reports from various locations of coaches carrying two women, but none matches our lady and maid. Checks of the posting inns tell me that she definitely did not stay in any she could have reached last night. I have people checking all private houses of substance within a few hours’ drive. The lady was disguised, but her afflicted maid is memorable.”

  “And have you any leads?”

  “Absolutely none.”

  Brand couldn’t help laughing. “Cunning, mysterious lady. I think she’s beaten you, Bey, and that’s an achievement.”

  “I’ve hardly started yet,” his brother said coldly, “being for some reason concerned about my wretched, worthless brother. I have men out making deeper enquiries—”

  “Call them back.” Brand still didn’t know what had happened, or what he wanted to do about it, but he didn’t want his brother involved. Bey was too inclined to be harsh when anyone harmed the family.

  Brand folded the notes and put them by the bed. “As I said, it’s personal, and it’s over. The last thing I want is to meet the woman again. Once I’ve rested a bit, I’ll have plenty of business to discuss with you. Agricultural business.”

  “I look forward to it with tremulous delight.”

  Which, since Rothgar’s interest in innovative land management was slight at best, made Brand laugh despite everything.

  Once his brother left, however, he lay back. She’d desperately wanted him to leave and never return. It looked as if she’d done her damndest to make sure of it. And yet, if so, why come here? Why put herself in such danger of exposure? It didn’t fit. It seemed to be a Malloren trait, this need to have the pieces to fit together smoothly, for the world to make sense.

  He closed his eyes and tried desperately to force clear memories of his last hours with his mysterious lady, but he couldn’t even be sure that sudden vision of her offering him a poisoned cup was real. Veils shielded everything.

  Deja vu indeed. But at least this time he knew who he was. And in time it would all come clear.

  Chapter 17

  Rosamunde finally arrived at her home late the next day. She ached with forbidden loss, but also with joy to be back at Wenscote, back in safety, back where her role and duty were clear. The sight of the clustered village, and the solid stone fortified house brought tears to her eyes.

  The high wall dated back to the days of the Scottish raiders, and had been one of the things she’d loved about Wenscote when she married. It had shielded her. Behind it, she had worked in the gardens out of sight of the world. The wall was her friend. Even without her special feelings for it, it was not forbidding, for it was softened by waves of ivy, soapwort, and phlox, and the iron gates always stood open in welcome.

  As the coach turned through them and stopped, she sat still for a moment, savoring the music of Wenscote—the Ure flowing swiftly by, chuckling over rocks; the soft cooing from the dovecote; the hum of bees; and birdsong and crow-croak. All this was sweetly misted by perfume of lavender, honeysuckle, and rose. All spoke to her of security and home.

  Digby came to the door, beaming his delight, and she dashed out of the coach and ran over, laughing, into his arms.

  Sir Digby Overton was a big, hearty man and his arms enveloped her. “Ah, Rosie, I’ve missed you sorely and that’s the truth. Welcome home.”

  She smiled up at him, but had to force the smile to stay when she saw his high color. And he was wheezing just from the effort of coming out to greet her.

  All Edward’s doing, she had no doubt.

  “Come in,” she said, linking arms with him. “I’m dying for a cup of tea, and I want to tell you all my adventures!”

  He chuckled, and pinched her cheek. “Gallivanting in Harrogate, eh, pet?”

  There was a question in his eyes—a shamefaced, not-to-be-spoken question that she answered with a smile. She wasn’t sure she could tell him directly what she had done. She hoped he’d guess it had happened. And approve.

  She poured his tea just as he liked it, and passed it to him, then sipped her own. “Ah, that is so good. I’ve traveled hard today to get home. I hope you didn’t mind my staying at Arradale for a few days?”

  “Not a bit of it, pet. So, tell me about the masquerade. It’s past time you had such fun. Exciting, was it?”

  “Immensely.” Rosamunde grasped her courage and nodded firmly for him. Only then did she realize that he’d assume it had happened at the masquerade. Better so.

  He closed his eyes, and to her horror, tears leaked. She leaped to her feet. “Digby… !”

  He opened his eyes and waved her back. “I’m fine, love, fine. Very fine.” He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his flushed cheeks. “Oh, Rosie. Such a brave girl you are. Such a good, true wife.”

  Rosamunde had to swallow tears then. He meant it, and it soothed her conscience and her soul. If only she could tell him the whole truth—how it had really happened, how she’d felt, how she’d loved. It wouldn’t be fair to put that burden on him. It was hers to bear alone.

  “There were hundreds at the masquerade,” she said with determined good cheer, “and the costumes were truly marvelous. Knights, pirates, nymphs, monsters. And the masks! You should have seen them, Digby. Animal faces. Birds. Hawks and eagles, even. Some made me shudder, and it was completely impossible to guess who anyone was!” She chattered on, falling eagerly into truth, and also giving him what he wanted to hear.

  He smiled and nodded. “You must go to such things again, Rosie, now you’ve come around to it. It’s no good you being stuck here all the time.”

  “I like being stuck here. But perhaps we can both go about more. I know you’ve often stayed home because I didn’t like to meet strangers.”

  “I’m content at Wenscote, too, pet. Especially these days. Did you see your family at Arradale?”

  “Mother and Sukey. And Aunt Arradale, of course. She sends her regards…” News of her dinner there, including the promising romance between Mr. Turcott and Mrs. Lampwick, passed a bit more time. Rosamunde began to feel the effort however. Surely it hadn’t been so hard to find things to say, before…

  Then she knew what she was contrasting this with.

  She firmly closed that door, and concentrated on her husband. Oh, please God, let there be a child. It will be the child of his heart, and will be so loved and wanted.

  And of Brand’s body.

  A little bit of Brand.

  She closed the door again. Locked it. Barred it.

  “Widows ought to marry,” Digby was saying of Mrs. Lampwick. “Not right to be alone. Especially young widows.”

  Rosamunde just smiled. “Widows with children have enough to fill a life.” It was a promise of sorts, and one she meant, though not one she wanted to have to fulfill. She desperately wanted to have Digby with her for decades.

  It was a reminder, however, that even if Digby died, Brand Malloren had no place in her life. Her life was quiet, isolated Wenscote. His was in grand estates, court, and nobility.

  Stop it, Rosa!

  Forget him.

  To change the subject, she said, “I understand Edward came here with another Cotterite while I was away. I wish you wouldn’t let him bother you.”

  Digby sighed and shook his head. “He’s my heir, Rosie. Now, at least. And we’re far enough from other resting places. I can hardly turn him and a companion from the door as the light’s going, can I?”

  “Doubtless why he turns up as the light’s going.”

  “Aye, you have the right of that. I grant, it does fair fret me to see him in that stupid getup, mincing and praying at every little thing, making a to-do about eating plain food. Pulling a face at the sight of drink or a maid’s full bosom.” He winked. “I told Polly to ease down her shift another inch and to be particularly particular in her attentions to him.”

  “Digby!” Rosamunde burst out laughing. “You wicked man!” Polly was a house maid with the most
generous of endowments, made more so by a tiny waist. She was not a wicked girl, but she had no reluctance to flaunt her pride and glory.

  Digby chuckled, too, dabbing his eyes again. “I swear to you, pet, he turned purple at one point! Mind you, to give him credit, George Cotter didn’t turn a hair.”

  Rosamunde stopped laughing. “Who?”

  “Aye, pet. Edward’s companion was none other than George Cotter himself, start of all the trouble. And Edward making a damn fool of himself, as if he had the King by his side.”

  “George Cotter!” With sick certainty, Rosamunde asked, “An ordinary-looking man in rather threadworn clothes?”

  “That hardly singles him out, love, though I know what you mean. I was surprised by him. Do you mean you’ve met?”

  Rosamunde suddenly felt icy. “He passed by the dower house while I was taking the air. He didn’t give his name, but he did say that he was staying here with Edward for the night. I would have rushed home if they hadn’t been leaving the next morning.”

  George Cotter. She tried desperately to remember what she had said in that idle chat, whether she might have raised suspicions.

  “Aye, well, I’ll not deny Edward upset me as usual, but Cotter was no trouble. Truth is, he seemed a reasonable man, and his honest talk about God and justice strikes home in any rational mind.” After a moment, he added, “Dangerous, that.”

  “Very.”

  “Clever, too,” Digby added. “Very clever.”

  Rosamunde heard the question in his words, a question echoing her own concerns. “We just shared commonplace courtesies.”

  He nodded. “And where’ve you been since then, pet? Your note said you were off to Richmond with Diana.”

  More lies. “You don’t mind, do you? Diana had some errands there. One of them was to visit a friend of hers who used to be in the theater. We discussed face paint.”

  “Aye?”

  “This lady showed me ways to cover my scars so they aren’t so noticeable. Diana thinks I should do that when I want to go abroad.”

  “She might be right, love. Not that I think you need to cover up anything, of course,” he gallantly lied. She noted that he was sitting to her good side as usual. “But I know it frets you, and you can’t spend the rest of your life hiding up here.”