by Jo Beverley
“What?”
“Whether he’s saint or devil. I’m bringing in troops under pretext of a sweep against ‘smugglers on the coast. Within days, we’ll take over the New Commonwealth estates for investigation. In the end, the ringleaders will be put on trial, and the sect disbanded.”
Brand stiffened. “You can’t break up a farming community with harvesttime coming.”
“That’s one area in which I need your help. You’re going to oversee that.”
Brand groaned. He might have known he’d be dragged into a cartload of work.
“For the moment, however,” his damnable brother continued, “and before I bring them down, I want you to find Cotter and see what you make of him. If you think he’s innocent, get him to help punish the sinners in his midst.”
“Even though it will destroy his whole movement?”
“If he’s righteous, he’ll realize he’s created a tree of evil not of good.” Rothgar rose. “I must deal personally with one matter, but I will return in two days. Take care.”
“Take care, too. These people sound mad.”
“It’s distressing how frequently religion has that effect. What is one to make of it?” With that philosophical whimsy, he left.
Brand paid the tab, and followed, wondering idly what was so sensitive that Bey had to handle it himself. Above all, his brother was a master of delegation—as in deputizing him to sort out the mess of the New Commonwealth estates. He’d planned to escape south this week. Wenscote and Rosa sat in his mind like a beacon on the horizon, calling him to folly and dishonor. Excuses for the half-day journey popped into his head a dozen times a day, and the hunger never eased.
Duty called, however. Someone had to make sure the New Commonwealth land was cared for, and bring the harvest in, and it seemed it was him.
Edward Overton opened the message and thumped down onto the plain chair of his small room at Rawston Glebe. No!
He read the note again. Despite the coldness toward him at Wenscote, he’d found one servant willing to keep him informed, for a price. He’d known his aunt was a whore, and here was the proof. His spy had overheard his uncle and aunt talking about which room would be the nursery. He doubted even his uncle could believe the child his, but Sir Digby would wink at the wicked deception in order to keep him out of his legal rights.
He screwed up the paper, trying not to panic.
Wenscote was his. His to turn into Jerusalem. What they were doing was a bitter sin—outright theft—and could not be allowed. Moreover, he had the means to correct it.
He rose to circle the room, horrified by what he was planning to do.
When he’d chosen to work in the apothecary, he’d thought only to heal and succor. Then he had been asked to help in other matters.
It had been for the good of all and the glory of God. He believed that. See how many saints lived pure lives on estates once poorly managed for the idle luxury of the few. On a Commonwealth estate, each saint had his own equal piece of land and could grow his own food, raise his own meat. No earth was wasted for ornamental gardens, deer pasture, or follies.
He could bring Wenscote to this glorious state, and he would. To let them get away with their deceit would be stealing from God! Uncle Digby was living on borrowed time, anyway. It wouldn’t be like Cousin William. He put his fist to his mouth, remembering his cousin’s last moments. That had been entirely his own plan, but not selfish. He’d acted only to clear the way for God’s purpose.
He was righteous.
He was a saint.
They had sinned, not he.
Firm in his purpose at last, he went to the dispensary and carefully filled a small bottle from the lotion for bruises labeled “Poison. External use only.” It was rarely used, being ineffective. He then consulted a book, and found what he wanted—the recipe called, ambiguously, “A means to preserve the menses.” He mixed that and filled another bottle.
With both concoctions in his pocket, he humbly asked permission to visit his uncle, who was unwell. Soon he was riding toward Wensleydale on one of the placid cobs held as communal property of the saints.
He fretted a little about Brand Malloren, who had warned him to stay away, who’d said the servants would tell him. He’d no taste for another encounter with that fire-eater. By the time word reached Lord Brand, however, Sir Digby would be dead, and the whore’s child would be swept away in blood.
And he, Edward Overton, would finally be able to put Wenscote to God’s purpose.
The next day, Rosamunde prepared to mount her horse in her parents’ stable yard. Since the servants must surely soon guess, she’d plucked up courage to come and tell her parents about the baby before they heard rumors. She’d worried about what they’d think, but their joy and congratulations had been genuine. If they had any suspicions, they were keeping them to themselves.
She knew her mother must have recognized Brand at Arradale, but she’d never said anything. Had she told Rosamunde’s father? It all made her feel young and shivery, but it was done. The plan was going to work.
Her mother kissed her, and her father handed her up onto the mounting block from which she carefully eased herself onto the sidesaddle. She was taking no risks. She was leaving early because she’d walk the horse all the way back to Wenscote.
Her groom mounted to accompany her, his saddle hung with baskets and bags. Her mother clearly thought her poorly fed at home! She knew it was just caring, though, and turned to wave as they rode out onto the track leading across the fell to Wenscote.
Though broken by clouds, it was a lovely day, a dales day that sang to her of how fortunate she was in so many ways. She would not allow her losses to take anything from her blessings. As she looked forward along the path home, she looked forward to a good life.
She was in the last dip before home, Wenscote almost in sight, when four men rode out of some scrubby trees and trapped her startled groom between horses and pistols. What on earth… ?
She broke free of bemusement and whipped her horse forward toward Wenscote and help, cursing the fact that she was riding sidesaddle. Before her startled mount could gather speed, a gray horse charged forward to block her, and a hand seized her reins.
“Lady Overton, I assume.”
The Marquess of Rothgar! Rosamunde came close to fainting again.
“Sir, what are you doing?” she asked, not needing to pretend fear. He knew! He knew and he’d come to exact revenge. One thought screamed in her brain. She mustn’t let him hurt her baby.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, his expression unreadable. “I’m simply taking you to safety.”
“My home is not far from here. I will be safe there.”
“Perhaps not—”
Rosamunde slashed for his hand with her whip. It was caught and wrenched from her, but for a second she was free and she urged her horse to speed.
Toward Wenscote.
Digby.
Safety.
She was gathering breath to scream when his big gray thundered alongside and cut off her horse again, making it rear. She needed all her skill to keep herself in the saddle.
When she faced him at last, hot and shaken, he seemed unmoved. A quick glance showed her poor groom on the ground, bound hand and foot and looking ashamed.
“This isn’t your fault, Ned,” she called to him. “You couldn’t be expected to fight four bullies.”
Lord Rothgar’s henchmen were as unmoved by her scorn as their master. They were already remounting, and soon moved to circle her, making any further break for freedom impossible.
“What do you want with me?” Her voice shook. This couldn’t be happening. Not now.
“You will be taken south, Lady Overton, out of danger. We have a coach on the road.” He indicated the way and set his horse and hers to a leisurely walk, as if abduction were a casual matter. Hemmed in, she had no choice but to go with him.
“I am in no danger, sir, except from you. Who are you?”
“You kn
ow well who I am, and you must know you are in no danger from me. Brand would never forgive me.”
Oh God. Brand was part of this? She’d trusted him, and he’d failed her. “No danger!” she snapped in anger. “I was nearly thrown, thanks to you.”
“I won’t underestimate you again.”
He was like a rock, but there must be words to chip at him. “Why are you so kindly abducting me, Lord Rothgar?”
“The New Commonwealth is being brought to an end, Lady Overton. Some members are already under arrest on charges of murder and assault. They have been using poisons to acquire estates, including, I fear, Wenscote, through the death of William Overton. I prefer to see you clear of all danger.”
Could he be sane after all? “But what of my husband?”
“My concern is with you and your child.”
“Child?” It was a foolish echo, but she couldn’t think what else to say.
“Surely you know the facts of reproduction, Lady Overton, being an animal breeder.”
“Of course, I do. I simply cannot conceive of any interest you could have in my child.”
“Cannot conceive is an interesting term, wouldn’t you say?”
“Brand told you,” she said bitterly.
“No. He has kept your secret most faithfully, as have your people here and at Arradale. It wasn’t hard, however, to find that Lady Arradale has a cousin to whom she is very close, and that the cousin is Lady Overton, devoted but young wife to Sir Digby. Everyone knows that if Sir Digby does not produce an heir of his body, the New Commonwealth will spread its tentacles into Wensleydale. And I’m afraid that Brand did carelessly put the final brick in the wall. He visited Sir Digby’s estate, and suddenly his itch to know who you are died.”
Rosamunde was daunted and impressed by his logical powers, but puzzled by one thing. “My lord, how could you possibly suspect a connection to Lady Arradale?”
“Rings, Lady Overton. As Lady Richardson you wore many, as Lady Arradale does.”
“That is not unique.”
“But the magnificent ruby you wore in Thirsk is. And the countess wore it at her ball.”
“I wish,” she said bitterly, “that I had thrown up all over you.”
“It would merely be another sin in your balance.”
Rosamunde fell silent. He knew all, and despite his cool manner, anger simmered. She could sense it, like a storm rumble on the air. She had to escape. She had to! Even if the marquess did not harm her, he was going to ruin everything.
She tried honesty. “Lord Rothgar, you are opposed to the New Commonwealth. Surely you see that my child is important.”
“The New Commonwealth is broken, Lady Overton, and Mr. Edward Overton with it. He will likely hang. There is no longer any concern about Wenscote.”
“But my child will still be heir to Wenscote!”
“By what right of blood or necessity?”
They were at the coach, and she let him help her off her horse, dazed by the unexpected blow.
“There is another heir, I believe,” he was saying. “A Dr. Nantwich, distant cousin of your husband’s. Do you intend to defraud him?”
Under pressure of this change of view, she could hardly think. Her child had no right…? She had no right? Wenscote was lost to her?
He touched her arm, perhaps gently. “Do not distress yourself, Lady Overton. We will take care of you and the child.”
“We?”
“Rosa!”
They both turned to see a horse and rider hurtling down a steep incline toward the road and coach, tufts of grass flying from under scrabbling hooves.
“Diana!” Rosamunde gasped. She’d surely fall.
Lord Rothgar muttered something and his hand tensed on her arm. But the horse slithered onto the road, quivering and white-eyed, and Diana leaped off and raced over, her hat flying away. “Rosa! What’s happening? What’s going on?”
The marquess stepped back as if by instinct, leaving a path for Diana to Rosamunde. Diana stopped short of an embrace, however, and swung behind him. “I have a pistol pressed into your back, Lord Rothgar. Do exactly as I tell you.”
Everything froze. Rosamunde sagged against the coach. Could anything possibly become more bizarre?
“Most people are not truly willing to pull a trigger,” the marquess said. “Are you, Lady Arradale?”
Rosamunde could see that Diana’s hands—she was using both to hold the horse pistol—were shaking slightly. He could probably feel it.
“The man who taught me to shoot made the same point, my lord. He told me to prepare my mind to kill as effectively as I prepared the pistol. I have done that. If you think I’m directing the ball away from the most vital points out of stupidity, you are misjudging a woman again. If I shoot you, it will be in a place that gives you a chance of living. Not a good one, but a chance.”
“I see. So, my lady, what now?”
“First, your men disarm themselves and release Rosa’s groom. I have a force with me, out of sight.”
“An interesting notion. Do we believe you?” Even so, he ordered his men to obey her.
Diana called, “Come forward!” and a small army did rise from over the hill. “I have chosen this route to avoid bloodshed, my lord, but if you want to make a battle out of it, we will engage.”
Shock and reaction made Rosamunde want to giggle. Diana’s army consisted of armed grooms and local people. Some of them had guns, but most just sticks or even farm implements. They came down the slope cautiously and hovered there, nervous, but clearly ready to fight to the death.
“Oh, well done, Diana!” Rosamunde said.
“Well done indeed,” the marquess agreed as if he were not defeated.
“So,” said Diana, a little more steadily, “do we fight, my lord?”
“Not at all, Countess.” He turned slowly. “The King would be displeased at open warfare between his nobles.”
“What were you doing with Rosa anyway?” Diana demanded, taking a few cautious steps back.
“Taking her to safety.”
“What danger is she in?”
“A complex variety. She will doubtless explain.”
“Even so, it is no business of yours.”
“I have an interest in her welfare.”
“You have no interest in anything here, Lord Rothgar. I recommend that you return south to your proper sphere.”
“No thanks for breaking the New Commonwealth?”
Diana inclined her head. “All thanks to His Majesty, whose servant you are.”
He returned her bow, cynically. “As are we all.”
A gesture had his horse brought over by one of his men, and he swung into the saddle. “You have claimed your right to protect Lady Overton, Countess. Do it well. The end of the New Commonwealth has only just started, and Overton may not yet know his fate. If he knows of the child, he might try to destroy it. And consider carefully the legalities of your cousin’s situation. None of us is ever served by selfish violation of good order.”
He turned to Rosamunde and bowed quite deeply. “Your servant, my lady.” To Diana, he simply said, “Until we meet again, Countess.”
Surrounded still by storm rumbles, Rosamunde watched him ride away, his men and coach following. The army of Wensleydale let out a mighty cheer, shaking their motley weapons after the defeated southerner and loosing the ancient war cry of Arradale. “Ironhand!”
Diana laughed and, raising her cocked pistol, she fired it into the air. “Ironhand!” she cried.
A moment later, however, she sat with a thump on the ground, lowering her head as if she feared to faint. Rosamunde knelt beside her. “That was amazing. My heart was in my mouth when you rode down that slope!”
Diana raised her head and shook it a little. “So was mine! Poor Cyrus. I’ll have to give him extra special care after demanding that of him.” She gripped Rosamunde’s hand. “Thank heavens I was in time. Where was he taking you?”
“South, he said. I don’t und
erstand it. But”—she sat down in the dirt beside her cousin—“he was right.”
“Right? To take you south?”
“That if the Cotterites are done for, and Edward with them, this child has no right to Wenscote.”
“Nonsense. Who else?”
“There is another heir back up the family tree a bit. I’d forgotten him, but Digby keeps in touch with him. He’s a doctor in Scarborough.”
“Who’ll never know,” Diana protested, scrambling to her feet, then giving Rosamunde a hand.
“I’ll know. Digby will, too. If Edward’s out of the way, he won’t want to foist a cuckoo into the Overton nest.” She put a hand over her belly. “What’s to become of the poor thing?”
“That’s what he meant about violation of good order, plague take him. I—” But she fell silent, clearly as tangled and distressed as Rosamunde. “Oh, come on, love,” she said at last, wrapping an arm around Rosamunde’s waist. “Let’s get you home. We have months to sort through this mess.”
“Not really. If the child can’t inherit, it can’t exist.”
“Rosa!”
But now Rosamunde shook her head, not willing to talk about it until she’d thought some more.
Accompanied by Diana’s six grooms in case the marquess tried to snatch Rosamunde back, they rode to Wenscote. At the sight of the high stone walls, Rosamunde thought perhaps she’d order the gates locked tonight for the first time in years.
But then she saw Dr. Wallace’s gig outside the front door, and her heart missed a beat. She slid from the horse with a thud and ran into the house.
“What?” she asked Millie, who was standing there, weeping.
“Oh, milady! It’s Sir Digby! He was taken ever so ill after his dinner!”
No! Rosamunde picked up her skirts and raced up the stairs to their room. She stopped outside for a calming breath—she mustn’t upset him—then opened the door quietly. Perhaps this time he’d take the warning seriously.
He lay in the bed, eyes half open, skin gray. A chill swept through her. “Digby?”
