One Wild Winter's Eve

by Anne Barton

  Even after Rose slipped on her cloak, she couldn’t help shivering. Charles shrugged into his greatcoat, looked into her eyes, and held her hands in his as though he meant to say something sweet and tender.

  So she cut him off. She had to. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d rather not say good-bye.” If she started crying, she wasn’t likely to stop, and she didn’t want to make this harder than it already was.

  He nodded. She’d known he’d understand. He always had.

  He left his two bags just inside the door. “I’ll return for these after I see you safely back to the manor house. Ready?”

  No, she wanted to scream. And I never will be. But instead of shouting, she summoned all the courage she possessed and gave him a small smile. “Yes.”

  She took the hand he offered as he opened the door and followed him across the vast frozen lawn. He packed down the snow, making a path for her, and she tried valiantly not to think of him walking all the way to town in the bitter cold. She tried not to think about Mama’s horrid illness. She tried not to think about anything except putting one foot in front of the other.

  Too soon, they reached the servants’ entrance. He stepped aside so that she could walk past him to the door. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, but when she would have released his hand, he refused to let go. “Wait.”

  She knew gazing into his amber eyes was a bad idea, that it would only prolong the inevitable, and that it would increase the pain for both of them. But she was powerless to deny him.

  He grasped her arms and pulled her forward, touching his nose to hers. “Rose, there’s something I must say. I—”

  “I need to go.”

  “Please. This is no way to—”

  Dear God, he was killing her. “Don’t you see? There’s no point in saying anything.”

  “Fine.” He clenched his jaw. “No words. But hear this.”

  He pressed his lips to hers, lifting her off her feet, and robbing her of breath. He kissed her like he wished she were his.

  That was the irony of the whole thing.

  She was his. And she always would be.

  When at last he released her, she dashed for the door, relieved to find it unlocked. She didn’t dare look back, but stepped inside, shutting the door on the only man she’d ever truly love.

  Inside the servants’ entrance, maids and footmen bustled to and fro, preparing breakfast and performing their morning chores. Upon seeing Rose, a couple of them froze as though stunned. Another covered her mouth, clearly horrified.

  Rose stomped her feet on the mat, shook the snow off her hem, and held her head high. “Good morning,” she said. Then she walked by them as though it were perfectly normal for a young lady to sneak into the house through the back entrance in the wee hours of the morning.

  She might be heartbroken, but she refused to be ashamed.

  Luncheon was an awkward affair. Rose pushed the food around on her plate, and Lady Yardley was uncharacteristically quiet. Both women were the objects of Lady Bonneville’s shrewd gaze.

  “In my considerable experience,” the viscountess began, “I have found that the conversation on the morning after a ball is often more entertaining than the ball itself.”

  Rose and Lady Yardley nodded halfheartedly.

  “Very well.” The viscountess rolled her eyes dramatically. “I see it is up to me to begin. I noticed that Rose had many dance partners, including a couple who could arguably be considered dashing.”

  Rose forced herself to swallow a morsel of ham. The ball seemed a lifetime ago.

  Lady Bonneville sighed in exasperation. “So now you must tell us, Rose, which of the gentlemen was your favorite partner and why.”

  Her dance with Charles had been magical, but she couldn’t very well admit that in front of Lady Yardley. “Each of the gentlemen was kind and chivalrous. I enjoyed their company.”

  “Spare no details. Did any of them trample your feet or have horrid breath?”

  “No,” Rose said.

  The viscountess frowned. “How dreadfully untitillating. However, since you look as though you’re about to fall off your chair from exhaustion, I shall forgive it.” She turned her attention toward Lady Yardley. “Now then, as hostess of the ball, you must be privy to all manner of gossip. Which of the guests imbibed too much? Who overstayed their welcome?”

  Lady Yardley set down her fork. “Lord Westman and his daughter were the last to leave. His coach became stuck in the snow halfway down the drive. I invited him to stay here for the night, but he insisted they could make it home. I sent out three footmen with shovels and a half hour later, the coach was on its way.”

  “Westman is a mulish sort,” Lady Bonneville mused. As though suddenly inspired, she sat up taller. “What about trysts?”

  Lady Yardley blinked nervously. “Pardon?”

  “Rendezvous, assignations,” the viscountess replied.

  Rose nearly choked on her sip of tea.

  Lady Bonneville shot her a fleeting look of concern before proceeding with her interrogation. “Did the staff witness anything of a scandalous nature? Did they notice whether any of the guests made use of other rooms in the house for their indiscretions?”

  Blushing, Lady Yardley shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of. There was one incident that was rather troubling.”

  “Oh?” Lady Bonneville’s brows shot up her forehead.

  “It involves a member of my staff.” She shot a brief, accusatory look in Rose’s direction. “I’d rather not elaborate until I have all the facts, but it appears I’m the victim of a robbery.”

  “How awful!” Lady Bonneville exclaimed with delight. “What was taken? And by whom?”

  “The investigation has just begun. However, I’ve already taken steps to ensure this sort of thing doesn’t happen again.”

  Rose simmered with barely contained anger. Charles was no thief. Well, perhaps in the strictest sense of the word, but it wasn’t as though Mama’s letter had any intrinsic value—at least not to anyone but her. Lady Yardley was not the victim here.

  In fact, Rose was glad that Charles was leaving. If he wasn’t already on his way to London, he soon would be. Lady Yardley’s vindictive and false accusations were unlikely to follow him there, and if they did, they certainly wouldn’t follow him across the Atlantic to America.

  “Are you quite all right, Rose?” Lady Bonneville asked. “You have the murderous look of someone who’s had a pot of tea spilled on your favorite gown.”

  Oh, it was worse than that. Far worse. She took a couple of deep breaths through her nose to compose herself. Then, looking directly at Lady Yardley, she said, “I suppose it’s just that I find dishonesty deeply disturbing.”

  “As do I,” Lady Bonneville quickly assured her. “As do I.” Once again, she leveled assessing glances at Rose and Lady Yardley. “Fortunately, the truth has a way of coming to light, eventually.”

  “I do hope so,” Rose murmured.

  “I trust you will let us know how it all turns out if we are not here to see for ourselves,” Lady Bonneville said to their hostess. “For I fear Rose and I must soon return to London.”

  If there was one thing that could have cheered Rose that morning, leaving Bath was it. Now that Charles was gone, their departure couldn’t come soon enough.

  “We can’t leave immediately, of course,” the viscountess added, dashing Rose’s hopes. “We’ve promised to attend the ball at the Assembly Rooms two days hence. But I see no reason we can’t return home the following day—assuming the snow has melted sufficiently.”

  Two days. They’d feel like an eternity. Now that she knew Mama’s plight, Rose wanted to go to her immediately. And she wanted to put distance between her and this place and all its blissful, torturous memories. She wanted to go home.

  Charles was numb. From the cold of his journey and from the pain of leaving Rose.

  The trek from his cottage to Bath had taken him all morning and would have taken longer if
a farmer hadn’t offered him a ride in the back of his wagon.

  Bone weary, Charles took a room at the first inn he came to, the White Lion, and inquired about the mail coach. Though it normally arrived in the late afternoon, the innkeeper predicted a delay due to weather.

  Either way, Charles figured he had some time. He staggered up the stairs to his room, threw down his bags, and fell onto the bed, hoping exhaustion would give him a few hours of oblivion.

  Bang.

  Pulse pounding, Charles bolted upright in bed and scrambled toward his ladder. Except this wasn’t his loft and he wasn’t in his cottage. He blinked at the bags on the floor. Ah yes, the White Lion. Outside the room’s only window, darkness loomed. He must have slept for hours.

  Bang, bang. “Mr. Holland?”

  He couldn’t imagine who would know that he’d taken a room at this particular inn, much less who would care.

  Part of him longed to cover his head with the pillow and remain in bed. But from the sound of the pounding, the person on the other side of the door was about to break it down. “I’m coming.”

  He unlocked the door, cracked it open a few inches, and two burly men muscled their way into the tiny room, nearly trampling him. “Are you Charles Holland?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  The two men exchanged a brief look, and the taller one nodded. Before Charles knew what was happening, the shorter, stockier one slammed him against the wall and wedged his forearm under Charles’s chin. The other man pulled a pistol from his waistband and aimed it at Charles’s head.

  Holy hell. The arm jammed against his throat made him gasp for breath, but he managed to choke out, “What do you want with me?”

  “So you are Holland.”

  There was no use denying it. “I think you’ve made a mis—”

  “You’re under arrest.”

  “What?” He shoved himself away from the wall but froze when he felt the cool barrel of the pistol pressed against his temple. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “No?” The one with the gun arched a brow as though he’d heard the same yarn countless times.

  And then Charles realized why they’d come for him. The letters. Lady Yardley must have reported him to the magistrate. The pistol aimed at his head and the bursting into the room seemed a bit overmuch, considering all he’d taken were a couple of sheets of paper, but surely the matter could be resolved with a calm explanation of the facts.

  One thing he knew with certainty: he would not implicate Rose in any way, or under any circumstances.

  “You’re coming with us,” the taller man said.

  “Fine.” The sooner the matter was straightened out, the sooner he could be on his way to London…  and then America.

  Each of the men grabbed an arm and started hauling him out of the room.

  “Wait. My bags.”

  The men exchanged another look, and for a heart-stopping second, Charles thought they’d refuse to let him keep them—all he owned in the world.

  “Search ’em,” said the tall one.

  He kept his pistol trained on Charles while the stocky man rummaged through the bags. He found a knife, held it up for inspection, and confiscated it, sticking it in his belt. “Nothing else in here,” he said, pushing aside Charles’s clothes, the lone miniature portrait of his parents, and the ribbon he’d taken from Rose’s room.

  “Good, then he can carry them.”

  Charles picked up a bag in each hand and nodded at the hook beside the door. “What about my coat?”

  The tall one grunted, checked the pockets, and tossed the coat at him. “No more delays. Let’s go.”

  The men threw him into a coach waiting in front of the inn and sat on the bench across from him. It was too dark to discern much, but he could feel the pistol trained on him and could imagine the disgusted glares they shot his way.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Not Carlton House—that’s for damn sure.”

  “What, exactly, is the charge against me?”

  “Larceny.”

  Even though he’d expected it, hearing the word spoken made his stomach sink like a stone.

  Good God, he was in trouble.

  And facing the very real and terrifying possibility that he would spend the rest of his life in a prison cell.

  Why would Lady Yardley want to destroy him? Even in the confines of his mind, he recognized the naïveté of his question. He’d scorned her. She meant to exact revenge.

  But the countess didn’t know who she was dealing with. The good-natured, accommodating steward she’d once given orders to was gone—for good. From now on, Charles worked for no one but himself. And he’d come too far to let her ruin his plans.

  She had no proof of his guilt, but if it was to be a case of her word against his, he didn’t like his chances.

  No, he wouldn’t hang about a prison waiting for a sentence he didn’t deserve. Somehow, he would be on a ship bound for America before the trial ever occurred.

  As the coach rumbled through the dark streets carrying him closer and closer to Bath prison, Charles looked out the window, carefully tucking away any information that might be useful.

  For it was never too soon to devise an escape plan.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Muzzle: (1) The part of a horse’s face comprised of the nostrils, mouth, and chin. (2) To restrain from speech, as in The viscountess would have sorely loved to muzzle her vindictive, devious adversary.

  The next morning in the drawing room, Rose sat across the chessboard from Lady Bonneville. Sad and anxious, Rose fought the urge to withdraw. It would be so easy to shut herself off from the world again, to retreat from the pain and sadness.

  But she couldn’t do that anymore. Wouldn’t. She had a responsibility to Olivia and Owen, to Charles—and to herself.

  So she forced herself to sleep, dress, eat, and converse as though her heart hadn’t been shattered into a million pieces.

  Fortunately, the chess match did not require much of her concentration. Lady Bonneville would have been a capable and skilled opponent if she cared about the outcome. But she couldn’t be bothered to expend her limited energy on a trifling game. She never thought more than a move or two ahead. At least in chess.

  Social matters, on the other hand, were a completely different matter. In those, she was a formidable strategist, employing all manner of strikes and counterstrikes. Whenever the viscountess steered the conversation to eligible gentlemen, formal balls, or morning calls, Rose knew she had better be on her toes.

  “I heard a rather shocking piece of news at breakfast this morning.” The viscountess cavalierly moved her pawn directly into the path of Rose’s rook.

  “News…  or gossip?”

  “Pfft. A useless distinction. I think it may interest you.”

  Rose thought it highly unlikely but knew better than to say so. She pretended to study the board. “Why is that?”

  “What, precisely, is your relationship to Mr. Holland?”

  Rose’s gaze snapped up. “You have news of him?”

  The viscountess leaned back in her chair and slowly raised her lorgnette. “I do. It seems we each have information the other desires.”

  “Charles—er, Mr. Holland—and I are friends. Or, we were. He once worked in the stables at Huntford Manor.”

  “Friends?” Lady Bonneville arched a brow. “Do not forget that I observed you dancing together. I would not describe the way you gazed at each other as friendly.”

  Heat crept up Rose’s neck, but she did not look away. “I won’t deny that I care for him, but you needn’t worry. He’s gone. He resigned over a disagreement with Lady Yardley.”

  “Yes, she mentioned that. And here I thought that she was fond of him.”

  “Perhaps he did not return her feelings.” Unseemly though it was, Rose couldn’t help feeling a bit smug.

  “It would have been an unlikely match, but stranger things have happened.”

  “I suppos
e they have.” Rose’s brother, a duke, had married a poor seamstress. The difference was that Belle was lovely and sweet—not vindictive and manipulative. “In any event, I don’t think his lack of affection for Lady Yardley was a proper reason to fire him.”

  “She claims to have other reasons.”

  Rose narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?” It was bad enough that Lady Yardley had driven him away. She wouldn’t tolerate slanderous gossip about Charles on top of it.

  “She says that your Mr. Holland stole items of considerable value from a secure location in the library.”

  “That’s preposterous.” He’d taken a few letters. For her. What value could they possibly have? “Did she happen to mention what the items were?”

  “Personal correspondence. Letters of a private nature.”

  Rose crossed her arms. “What if I told you that I was the one who took the letters?”

  The viscountess pursed her lips, as though fascinated in spite of herself. “Go on.”

  “I was desperate to know what had become of Mama, so I searched the library and took the letters. Lady Yardley must have confronted Charles about the missing letters…  he probably confessed in order to protect me.”

  “Impressive.” It was impossible to tell whether the viscountess referred to Charles’s gallantry or Rose’s lie.

  For a full moment, neither woman spoke.

  “Am I to assume you took the jewels as well?”

  Rose shook her head. “What?”

  “Your mother’s letters weren’t the only items missing, apparently.”

  Her fists clenched, Rose stood. “That’s a lie!”

  Lady Bonneville’s gaze flicked to the door behind her. “Sit and lower your voice.”

  “I won’t allow her to make such horrible, false accusations.”

  “I’m afraid she already has, dear gel.” The viscountess set down her lorgnette and sighed as though suddenly weary. “Are you quite certain that the steward is as blameless as you say?”

  “I’d wager my life on it.” Rose’s eyes burned and a huge knot lodged in her throat. “He would never steal. Lady Yardley is angry with Charles because he rejected her advances. This is her way of punishing him. And he doesn’t deserve any of it.”