He extended the bowl. “Pluck out an invitation and it’s the one we’ll accept.”
Scoffing, she rolled her eyes at him. “You can’t take me to a ball.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing I’m in mourning.”
“Which Harry would heartily disapprove of. You would know that if you read his book. Have you even started it?”
“I can’t. It’s too soon.”
“Trust me, then. He would be sorely disappointed.” He shook the bowl.
“Avendale, this is wrong on so many levels. I’m your mistress.”
“I don’t think of you as such.”
“Lovers?” she asked pointedly.
“I can’t deny that.”
“Semantics, then, because they are one in the same.”
“People take their lovers all the time.”
“With a past as wretchedly filled with deceit as mine?”
“Why do you keep flaying yourself with the past?”
“I know what it is, I know what I’ve done.” Taking a deep breath, she held his gaze. “I know who I am.”
He skimmed his fingers over her cheek. “I know you as well, know how stubborn you are. I won’t push you on this, but I’ve decided you should have a new gown anyway. Don’t bother to protest that you’re in mourning. You promised to do anything I wanted, so the black must go. I want to see you in red again. Something new and vibrant. We’ll leave for the seamstress in half an hour.”
With that, he turned on his heel and marched off, leaving her to stare after him. Stubborn man. Blast him for using the bargain against her. Still, a thread of excitement thrummed through her, a sense of being alive again. She looked back at the fountain, at the couple lost in a heated embrace.
Perhaps tonight she would dance in the cascading water.
While the coach traveled through the streets, Avendale sat across from Rose, which gave him a clear and enticing view of her. He was glad to see that some color had returned to her cheeks. She wasn’t one to care about acquiring things for herself—otherwise she would have snapped up the jewelry he gave her—but he did think it was doing her some good to get out of the residence.
She would always miss her brother. There was no hope for otherwise. Damnation, but he missed Harry, so he knew it was far worse for her. He was always listening for the echo of a walking stick meeting the parquet flooring, the shuffling of large feet. He waited for the welcome interruption that would never come again.
Strange, the influence that one person could make in such a short time.
Although he didn’t know why he was surprised. It hadn’t taken Rose long to have absolute sway over him. He loved her. It was an emotion he’d never thought to experience, and sometimes he wished he didn’t because it brought with it as much pain as it did joy. He hurt when she hurt. When sorrow visited her, it visited him. But when she smiled, it was as though that smile encompassed his entire body, his entire being. He would do whatever was required to return the smiles to her—even if it meant taking her to a boring ball.
It had pleased him to discover that he’d accurately read the longing in her gaze whenever she looked at the silver bowl. He could give her an incredible life, filled with balls, dinners, and elegance. Yet he suspected that for her one ball would be enough. Then she would again yearn for freedom.
“I needed this outing, I think,” she finally said. “I feel as though I can breathe again, as though the oppressive weight of grief is lifting.”
“You do seem a bit perkier.”
“What woman doesn’t perk up at the thought of a new gown?”
“You don’t.”
She blushed. “You read me too well, even better than Harry did.”
“I’ve had considerable practice. I suspect you lied to me more than you did to him.”
“Only when necessary. But you’re right. I’ve always viewed clothing as a tool, going for something that would serve as a distraction. Now I want something that pleases you. It’ll be a new experience.”
“I’ve never watched a woman be fitted for a gown.”
“And you won’t today. I want to surprise you.” She arched a brow. “It will be red, but other than that you’ll have to wait until I’m ready to wear it. So you’ll need to entertain yourself elsewhere this afternoon.”
He would do so by purchasing something for her. Not that he was going to tell her that. She wasn’t the only one wanting to provide a surprise.
“I suspect Merrick and the others will need to seek employment,” he said casually.
She tilted up the corners of her lips, and in her smile he saw understanding and assurance. “Yes. I need to speak with them, explain that I won’t be providing for them anymore. It’s time for them to make their own way again, although I suspect they know it. It was Harry that kept us together. While they saw to his care, I was more than happy to see after their needs. But he doesn’t need their care anymore.”
“The lease on the residence is paid for two more months.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “When did you do that?”
He lifted a shoulder. “In the beginning. I didn’t want you to feel as though you had to run off immediately after our original bargain was met.”
Her smile grew. “They’ll appreciate it. You might win Merrick over yet.”
“Not my goal.” Keeping her happy was.
When the coach came to a halt, Rose was surprised by the anticipation humming through her. As Avendale handed her down, she took a moment to glance around—
Trepidation sliced through her as she saw a man emerge from a hansom cab, but she kept her expression neutral, her smile soft. Not too big, not too small. Just right.
Give nothing away. Not to Avendale, not to the man, not to anyone passing by.
“There’s a bookshop nearby,” Avendale said. “I’ll browse through there for a while, be back in an hour for you. Will that be enough time?”
“It should be plenty.”
He turned for the coach.
“Avendale?”
He looked back at her.
“All you’ve done for me, for Harry, means everything to me.” You mean everything to me. But she couldn’t leave those words with him. He’d think they were a lie, and she didn’t want him thinking their final words of parting were a lie.
“Rose—”
“I know you don’t want my gratitude, but you have it all the same.” Rising up on her toes, she brushed a kiss over his lips. He couldn’t have looked more taken aback if she’d disrobed on the crowded street. She gave him a saucy smile. “I couldn’t resist. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Wishing she could have given him a more heartfelt and proper good-bye, she strolled into the shop and stood at the window until the coach disappeared from view. Knowing she would never see him again caused a harsh ache in the center of her chest. She turned to the proprietor. “Is there a back way out?”
The dark-haired woman arched a brow. “Trouble with your lover?”
So the woman had seen the kiss. Not that it mattered. Rose was never going to see her again. “A bit. Can you help me?”
“I shouldn’t. Avendale is a powerful man.”
“You know him?”
“He asked me to make a ball gown for a very small woman. He seems to have quite diverse tastes in women.”
Rose didn’t have time for this, for denying or confirming such an accusation. Glancing back out the window, she saw the man leaning against a lamppost studying his nails. Straightening her spine, she delivered her most formidable look. “I’m powerful as well. I’ll find my way.”
As she went through to the back, she ignored the women stitching away, the one woman being measured. The door came into sight. Without hesitation Rose went through it and into the alley. She hurried down it until she
reached a street, turned—
And slammed into a brick wall. Arms banded around her and she dropped her head back to stare at a mouth curled up into an insidious smile.
“Well, if it ain’t Mrs. Pointer.”
“Mr. Tinsdale. I don’t suppose you’d unhand me?”
He unwound his beefy arms but his large hand immediately wrapped painfully around her wrist, not that she was about to give him satisfaction by crying out, but with the tiniest pressure he could snap her bone in two. “How did you know where to find me?”
“With your brother’s death, the others weren’t so careful with their comings and goings as they sought to comfort you and themselves. I even followed you all to the cemetery. Once I figured out where you were, I just had to bide my time until the big bloke weren’t around. You were living quite swell. But now you’re mine.”
As Avendale browsed the books, he realized that he didn’t know what sort of story Rose preferred. He would have liked to purchase her a book, but suspected most of her selections were based on her brother’s preferences. Better to go with jewelry. Something simple this time. A cameo. A brooch. A choker. A ring.
The possibilities tumbled through his mind as he left the shop and climbed into his coach. It hadn’t been quite an hour since he left Rose, but arriving early might provide the opportunity to catch a glimpse of what she wanted in a gown. He imagined it would be less revealing, a little more demure. She had no reason to distract him now.
Not that she could if she tried. He was on to her, knew her moods, her movements, her expressions. In the days following Harry’s death, an honesty had developed between them, a bond had strengthened. He’d never known anything like it. She could rely on him wholeheartedly. He wanted to be there for her—during the good times and the bad.
The coach drew to a halt and he leaped out as soon as the door was opened. He strode into the shop, surprised not to see Rose looking over fabric samples.
“Your Grace,” the proprietor said, with a small curtsy.
“Mrs. Ranier, I’ve come for Miss Longmore.”
“She is not here, Your Grace.”
“Did you finish up quickly then?”
“We did not even begin. She came in through the front door, departed through the back one, with hardly two minutes in between.”
Surely he’d not heard properly; the woman wasn’t communicating well. “She left through the back?”
“Yes. She implied she was having trouble with her lover. I assumed she meant you as I saw the kiss just beyond my windows. Quite scandalous.”
He took a step toward her, not certain what his expression conveyed, but she hopped back. “Are you telling me that she came in here and immediately left, using the alleyway?”
“I am, Your Grace.”
He almost asked her why, but the woman wouldn’t know. Although he did. Help me make whatever time my brother has left as pleasant as possible. Afterward, you can ask anything of me and I’ll comply. I’ll stay with you as long as you want. She’d even offered to sign her name in blood. She’d turned to him in her hour of need and he’d been fool enough to fall for her lies. It was inconceivable, unconscionable that she would swindle him again—
But she had, damn her.
“Where is she?”
Avendale had barged into Rose’s residence and cornered Merrick in the parlor.
“Who?” Merrick asked.
“Rose. Who else would I be looking for?”
“Ack! What are you doing?” Sally asked as she entered the room, and he swung around at her, irritated that she scrambled back as though his anger were directed at her when it was all for Rose.
“Rose ran off this afternoon. I want to know where I’d find her.”
“Ran off? That makes no sense.”
“You haven’t seen her?”
She wrung her hands. “Not since poor Harry was laid to rest. Why would she leave?”
He took a deep breath, expelled it, studied both Merrick and Sally. They seemed confounded. Maybe she hadn’t left him. Maybe—but why go out through the back?
“You love her,” Sally said.
He might have, but now . . . dammit all to hell, he still did.
“We had an agreement. She was supposed to—” He broke off the words because they sounded silly, childish. She was supposed to stay with him. When he’d never declared his feelings, his love, his admiration of her. When he had never truly trusted that she would stay.
“She’s free now,” Merrick said. “With Harry gone.”
“Merrick!” Sally scolded. “Don’t say such things.”
“But it’s true.” He came to stand in front of Avendale. “She loved him. We all loved him. But she never had a chance to be a girl, not really. To be carefree. She always had the responsibility of him, from when she was a child from what I understand. You can’t know what a burden that was.”
Only he did know. He’d read Harry’s writings. Maybe she’d run off to be with that stupid factory worker in Manchester. She’d known she was leaving, when she’d kissed him publicly on the street outside the seamstress shop. He could see it now, in retrospect, in her voice, her eyes. He thought he’d learned how to read her, that she could never swindle him again. She was an incredible actress and he was more the fool.
“If she comes here—” What, what was he going to do? Force her to stay with him? “Tell her to knock on the servants’ door at my residence, and Edith will deliver her things. She won’t have to see me.” And he wouldn’t have the opportunity to beg her to stay.
Avendale sat in a chair by the fireplace in the library and tried to drink himself into oblivion. One moment he was cursing Rose to perdition and the next he was in danger of going in search of her.
She hadn’t come here to get her things. How was she going to survive with only the clothes on her back? Why hadn’t she just told him that she wanted to leave? Because he had made asinine comments about going after her if she left. She must have felt like a prisoner, mourning not only Harry but the complete loss of her freedom, of choice.
“Your Grace,” Thatcher said.
He lifted his head. He’d gotten out of the habit of locking the damned door when he wanted to be left in peace. “What is it, Thatcher? Can’t you see I’m indisposed?” Or would be soon if he had his way.
“Inspector Swindler has come to call.”
Swindler? What the devil did he want? A husband for one of his daughters? “Tell him I’m not at home.”
“I’m not certain that’s an option, sir. He says he’s here on Scotland Yard business.”
A fissure of unease ratcheted through him. After downing what remained in his glass, he set it aside and stood. “Yes, all right. Send him in.” He counted the seconds—twelve—before Swindler strode into the room. “Swindler.”
“Your Grace.”
“How might I be of service?”
“I fear I’m the bearer of bad tidings. Miss Longmore has been arrested and charged with theft, deliberately misleading merchants into believing she would pay for items bought on credit, and for deceiving more than one person regarding her true nature.”
Avendale stared at him dumfounded. “When . . . how?”
“This afternoon. A gentleman brought her in, collected the reward—”
“There was a reward offered for her capture?”
He shrugged, sighed. “She has left quite a trail of unhappy folk.”
Was it possible that she hadn’t been running away from Avendale but had been trying to outfox this man who might have been after her? Guilt gnawed at him because he hadn’t trusted her, because he’d thought the worst. “Make this go away.”
“I can’t. She’s not denying any of the accusations. As a matter of fact, she willingly confessed to them all.”
Avendale charged across the room,
heading for the door. “I must see her.”
“I thought as much.”
Rose sat at a table in a small room, alone with little except her thoughts. They traveled the road of regret. She’d been so young when she began walking this path, had thought it the only one she could successfully traverse. Perhaps Merrick had been correct, and she should have sought another way, but it had been easier to carry on as she’d begun.
At least Harry hadn’t witnessed her downfall. Avendale would no doubt think she’d simply run off. No, he wouldn’t think that. He would worry until he saw the account of her arrest in the newspaper. It was bound to be news. Then those she’d swindled would descend like avenging demons wanting a pound of her flesh, leaving her with no way to adequately repay Avendale for all he’d done for Harry.
The door opened and Inspector Swindler strode in. He’d questioned her earlier—
Avendale followed on the heels of the inspector. Her breath caught, the air backing up painfully in her lungs. She should have known the inspector would alert him. They were connected by some strange sort of history.
Swindler closed the door, then stood in front of it, arms folded over his chest. Avendale pulled out the chair opposite her and sat.
“Are you faring all right?” he asked.
A silly question considering her circumstances, but still she nodded when she desperately wanted to reach out and cradle his face, assure him that she’d had every intention of honoring their bargain.
“Inspector Swindler has explained your situation to me.” He set a piece of paper in front of her. Several names were scrawled over it. “These are the people who claim that you . . .”
His voice trailed off as though he found the word unpleasant. She supposed it was one thing to know that in the beginning she’d been dishonest with him. Another entirely to see the evidence of all her transgressions spelled out in such neat script.
“Swindled,” she said briskly, finding the word repugnant on her tongue, not blaming him for feeling the same. “The word for which you’re searching is swindled. Or perhaps fleeced.”
The Duke and the Lady in Red Page 29
