Hunting the Hero

by Heather Boyd

  Maisy hurried across the room and, to everyone’s surprise, crawled onto Leopold Randall’s lap. She moved her head close to Leopold’s and stared into his eyes. Leopold tried to look around her. “Ah… a little help would be nice.”

  Mercy stood with a laugh and lifted Maisy away. “Children always know who is kind. It’s your dimples, my love. They reassure everyone you meet.”

  The man stood, shaking his head. “So you say. If you would excuse me, I’d better return to work. Lord Grayling, a pleasure to meet you. I’ll leave you two to catch up.”

  Mercy’s eyes twinkled as she watched her new husband depart. “He had that same effect on Edwin when they met, and me as well.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you fell in love at first sight?”

  “Not first sight, no.” Her expression grew guarded. “First touch, perhaps. Let’s go upstairs to the nursery. I think Poppy and Willow are falling asleep where they sit.”

  Constantine quickly glanced at the girls. “So they are.”

  When he stood, Mercy captured Willow and Maisy’s hands and guided them toward the doors. “How will you manage without your governess?”

  “I’m not sure, but it cannot be soon enough for Miss Clark to arrive.” Constantine rubbed his jaw. “You know, Maisy doesn’t usually care for strangers. She’s more likely to remain beneath the table as come out.”

  Mercy started up the stairs. “Well, perhaps she saw something in his eyes that was familiar and comforting. Unfortunately, given her age, we’ll always wonder.”

  CHAPTER 23

  WHEN MEREDITH CLARK had come into existence, there had been no knight to rescue her, no family left to care if she lived or died. She had been alone and frightened and unprepared for life’s hardships. When she assumed the name Calista, it was to protect what was left of her dignity in the face of a terrible choice.

  Names were important. Names defined who you were and how far you’d fallen in the world. In all her life, she had fought her identity. Her place in society and its suffocating expectations. With each new name she assumed, a little piece of herself had withered. Yet coming to this place had brought the past rushing back as if it had never been lost.

  As night closed in on the rain-washed village, she pushed open the lych-gate and stepped into the graveyard, allowing the gentle hiss to lull her and its whispers to lure her closer to the crumbling grave markers. The thick grass cushioned her sodden footfalls, muffling her passage through the dead. Grizzled gray stone jutted toward the sky, angels and carved granite bestowing identity and position, even in death.

  The rows of weeping headstones bore names and benedictions. Much loved. Sadly missed. Too good for this life. The poorer markers were no less poignant than the larger. She passed them all, stopping at one that bore no names. No identity and therefore no position to speak of. A simple stone edifice marked the passing of life.

  Together in death was all it said along with a year.

  Together but unknown.

  Together and dead.

  The woman known by many names save her own sank to her knees on the sodden ground, little caring if her carriage dress became as ruined as she was herself.

  Names were important.

  The couple buried here should have a name carved into their headstone. They deserved to be remembered for the life they had lived, for the sacrifices they had made, the love they had freely offered even as they guided their children to adulthood with determination to succeed and ignorance of the true danger. The headstone should say they had been loved and still were. That they were missed. That they were too vital to be taken away in an act of cold cowardice.

  “Did you know them,” asked a woman to Rosemary’s right.

  Did she know them? Not enough. No amount of time would be long enough, but she was glad they could not see what she had become. Tears burned her eyes, but she would not let them fall. When she did, she feared the avalanche of feeling would break her. She would not give in to her sorrows. She had already lost so much today. She would be strong, as she had always needed to be. “Did you?”

  The gravestones blurred and she hastily wiped at her eyes.

  The woman heaved a weary sigh. “I was not so fortunate. But I remember it as if it was yesterday. A sad case, indeed. I’d just moved here after my marriage when these two strangers were brought in for burial. I’ve always thought it sad that their loved ones never came to find them. If their family ever discovered the deaths we never heard, but without any information regarding their identity, there was no chance to write to inform them. I know the vicar did try.”

  Strangers? They’d had names. Rosemary surged to her feet and spun about. “Randall. James and Jane Randall.”

  Mrs. Lamb, huddled beneath a black umbrella, drew back at the heat in her voice. “So you did know them?”

  Denial thickened her tongue. She had lived her life with lies to protect herself from discovery. To forget the nightmare of that day, the deaths she had witnessed, and the plans that had been set in motion for her future, had required many sacrifices. She, who had barely spoken one truthful word to a living human in a decade, did not want to lie. The habits she’d adopted for the sake of self-preservation were hard to break. Honesty had been the first virtue to be dispensed with. She swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. Didn’t the dead deserve honesty? “Yes.”

  The woman nodded toward the distant vicarage. “He’ll be happy to sign their names into the register and have the mystery solved. Perhaps it’s not too late to inform their family. Do you know how they died?”

  Splintering wood and the world turning over. Voices raised in anger. A woman’s scream and pleas for help. Running fast for help, only to find it and be too late. Pistol shots bringing silence. “Yes,” she whispered to the old woman. “Rosemary was there.”

  The sound of earth filling a grave reverberated dully in her ears. It was a sound she never enjoyed. She glanced beyond the graves to the distant forest and shuddered. This place was one reason she disliked the sight of gardens. Down beneath the prettiness of green and colored flowers was where the dead went at the end of days.

  “Rosemary?” Mrs. Lamb remained silent as she studied her and then her eyes lit up. “If I remember correctly, there was a search undertaken for a girl a day after these bodies were brought for burial. I thought it rather odd, in fact, that the murderers were never pursued but a slip of a girl was. A considerable reward was offered for Rosemary’s capture, but they never found her. We must write to say she’s been discovered. We’d given up hope, but come. The vicar will know all about you.”

  “I’m not Rosemary.” Hope for the girl Rosemary was certainly lost. She hugged her shawl tighter about her body and steeled herself to lie again. “I am simply recalling what a woman I met told me of the murders, but that was years ago. I’ve no idea where she is now or if she is even still alive.”

  The woman deflated somewhat. “Well, that’s a spot of bad luck. I’d so hoped to solve the riddle. Randall, Randall. Are you sure about that? Lord Grayling’s sister married into that family.”

  “Yes, so he told me yesterday.” Rosemary spread her hands wide and held her ground, breathless with hope that her lies would be believed. “I’m sorry I cannot be of more help.”

  Mrs. Lamb shrugged and then her eyes sharpened on Rosemary’s sodden clothing. When she had left the inn, Mrs. Lamb had still thought her ailing. “You’re soaked right through. Oh, dear heavens. His Lordship will be furious with me. He left me with such a lot of instructions for your care. You must be a very good governess.”

  Mrs. Lamb hurried forward with an umbrella and attempted to shield her from further rain. “Come with me now, and let’s get you back to bed where you belong.”

  She nodded but her soul was bleak. Rosemary belonged nowhere now save in memory. Her possessions at the inn were all she had left. She would need to reclaim them before she could plan ahead. Rosemary turned back to the graves one last time. The woman known as Meredith C
lark would be gone long before tomorrow ever dawned. “Can you tell me when the mail coach will come next?”

  “Tomorrow.” Mrs. Lamb hurried her along. “But it doesn’t run toward Romsey. Not from here, anyway.”

  Rosemary lifted her chin. “I’m not going to Romsey. I’m going anywhere else.”

  Mrs. Lamb spluttered. “Not going to Romsey? I cannot imagine His Lordship will be pleased to hear he’s lost a servant after spending a pretty penny to keep you in comfort.”

  Tonight Rosemary would choose her new name, destroy anything bearing the name Miss Clark, and begin again as another woman without a past. No one would know that Rosemary Randall had walked the streets of this small village. If the stage came early, it would take her as far away as she could run. Somewhere she could become lost again.

  Feet squelching with each step, she retraced her steps to the inn and let herself into her room. The emptiness battered her senses, the absence of Constantine and his sweet daughters was like the misplacement of a treasured object.

  But Constantine was for Romsey. Brother of the duchess, uncle of the duke. A family she could never go near, despite the lies she’d read in the papers and heard tumble from his lips. Constantine was part of the great deception. Honey-coated poison. She couldn’t trust him. If there was any truth in it, he would have attended his sister’s wedding. He would have gone to protest the union in person.

  But he’d stayed and shown his true colors. Not that she’d minded at the time. She would not lie to herself that he’d imposed on her in any way. Their time together had been all that she’d once dreamed for herself. A meeting of the mind and the body. A memory she would carry with her forever. For a brief, shining moment, she had felt she belonged before plunging back into the unknown. She’d almost felt safe enough to consider telling the truth. But if she had bothered with names and connections she would never have spent one night with Constantine in the first place.

  He stood with the enemy.

  She moved closer to the fire as she undressed, removing her wet things. Her hands shook so badly it took time to undo the first button. The rain had soaked her to the bone and she sniffed as her nose began to drip. The carriage dress Constantine had purchased was sodden and dirty, much like its owner. She spread the gown over a chair, knowing full well it would never be clean or dry in time for her departure in the morning.

  There was nothing now to do besides choose a new name with which to introduce herself, catching what sleep she could. Weary to the bone, Rosemary crawled onto the mattress and pulled the bedding up to her chin. When she was safely away from here, she could think about what she’d lost. And mourn all over again. Calista, Meredith Clark, and the doomed love she had discovered, died tonight.

  CHAPTER 24

  CONSTANTINE HURRIED DOWN the main staircase of Romsey Abbey after saying goodnight to his daughters. He tried to ignore his bad mood. Since he’d arrived, he’d been scolded like a three-year-old boy with jam on his face, accused of coldness at dinner, and been questioned about the reasons for his daughters’ low spirits. It wasn’t his fault his governess had to be left behind and her absence had affected his tolerance of sisterly meddling.

  He reached the bottom step and flexed his fingers.

  It was time to lay down the law to this Randall fellow. His sister may have remarried a wealthy man, but he was a stranger to society. No one claimed to have had seen or met Leopold Randall prior to his sudden return some months ago. An unknown element would not be allowed free with the Romsey fortune and estates. He was here now and would examine what had been done and not done.

  According to the servants, Randall ended his day in the ducal study and didn’t leave it till close to midnight. He was sure to be there now, and Constantine was eager to establish some limitations. The first was that he was still the boy’s guardian and would make all decisions for his upbringing. He would have final say on the boy’s life and the estate finances. He wasn’t about to let his sister’s new husband rob the young duke out of his inheritance.

  He pushed open the door without knocking. “Randall, we need to talk.”

  The fellow’s head appeared from behind the desk and then Randall rolled to his feet from the floor, brushing off his trousers. “How may I help you, my lord?”

  “Let me make one thing clear.”

  “Oh?”

  Constantine stopped before the neat desk and scowled. “Romsey belongs to Edwin. Everything and everyone living here is his responsibility. Not yours. Don’t imagine for a moment that I won’t be watching over him.”

  “Then he’s a fortunate boy to have an uncle who treasures him.” Romsey looked down and smiled at his feet. “That’s very good, Your Grace. Now, where do your horses like to run?”

  “There,” the young duke’s piping voice said.

  Constantine moved forward to get a better look. The young duke lay upon the floor beneath the ducal desk, his finger pointing at a pencil-sketched map of Romsey. Toys were scattered everywhere between young Edwin and Leopold Randall’s feet. Constantine looked at the other man curiously.

  An apologetic smile flitted across Randall’s face. “He’s too young yet to make the decisions himself, but he’s not too young to start learning about the estate. He’s to have a riding lesson in the morning. Shall I inform the stables that you’ll be joining him?”

  “Are you not going with him?”

  “Of course I am. After breakfast, Edwin spends part of his day with me outside if the weather allows and then he has riding lessons with the stable master, luncheon with his mother, and then lessons with his aunt in the afternoon. The whole house revolves around his schedule until he falls asleep at night. I’m due to take him up to the duchess in a moment, but he wanted to finish his game.” Randall raised a brow. “Did you think I’d leave his care to servants and run the place as if it was mine alone?”

  Constantine had. Randall had appeared the interloper when he’d arrived, interrupting his time with his sister and taking charge of the servants at dinner. The change from his last visit had set his teeth on edge. Mercy had run an informal household, but with Randall’s arrival, it functioned like a well-oiled machine.

  Leopold Randall might actually be a good influence on the estate as long as he remembered who was to inherit it. He glanced down at the boy again and saw him rub his eyes. The young duke had a full schedule of activities bound to exhaust him each day. Thanks to Meredith’s views on children and what they needed most, he understood a little better now that routine had value for all.

  He skirted around Randall to crouch at the duke’s level. “Good evening, Your Grace. Are you almost ready for bed?”

  Although Edwin stared, it was clear to Constantine that he’d stayed away from the boy far too long to be remembered fondly. Although he was disappointed that his own nephew didn’t feel comfortable with him, as his own daughter had behaved with Mercy, he held out his hand to help him up.

  The boy surged to his feet and grabbed his hand. The shake was surprisingly firm for a child and the boy’s eyes held his steadily. Was this the influence of Leopold Randall coming to the fore so soon?

  He stood when the boy released him and assessed the man opposite. Dark wavy hair, cut a little longer than was the fashion in London. Steady dark brown eyes that saw everything but said little. A man of solid build and confidence in his abilities. He was struck by a sudden surety they had met before, in London or perhaps somewhere else in the countryside and he’d forgotten about it. He couldn’t be sure of the time or place except for the nagging suspicion their meeting was recent.

  Randall turned away, stepped carefully over the boy’s toys, and began to shuffle journals on the large desk. “The estate accounts are now up to date if you’d care to inspect them, my lord.”

  Courteous, too. There must be something wrong with him. No man could be perfectly agreeable to give way to a mere child. The man was next in line for the title. There would be too much temptation to resist. “Was there an issu
e with them?”

  Constantine took the journal Randall held out and leafed through the pages idly. He’d give Randall one concession, his entries were meticulously neat and detailed. The journals were possibly better documented than even his own. He whistled at the balance totaled on the very last page. So far Romsey was doing well under Randall’s guidance. He’d still bear watching, though.

  Randall shuffled and then bent to pick up a toy that was in danger of being stepped on. “They were woefully insufficient in the beginning. But a little effort and a few dozen late nights in this room have set them to rights. Her Grace is pleased with the work I’ve done.”

  Constantine looked at him slyly. “A wife should be pleased with her husband or she shouldn’t have married him.”

  Randall threw the toy onto the desk. “Your point?”

  “It’s all very reasonable and convenient for you, isn’t it? Marrying my sister, a duchess, and gaining a toehold in the abbey you could one day inherit. I’m sure you set your sights high for a reason.”

  “And what reason would that be?” Mercy asked from the door.

  Constantine pivoted and took in her bearing. She had a mutinous glint in her eye that boded ill for getting to the truth. “He is the heir.”

  Mercy crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. “He would never harm Edwin. When he came, he never wanted to stay.”

  He glanced at Leopold Randall. “How cunning to make you believe in his reluctance.”

  “That’s a dreadful thing to say. Leopold loves me and I him. Just because you prefer to avoid respectable women doesn’t mean I am so easily swayed into a man’s arms. I almost believed your story about the governess. Did she finally discover you never intended to marry her? How typical of you to seduce the help.”

  Anger trickled through him. Meredith was an incomparable, both in bed and out of it. And he would marry her one day. He wasn’t keen to rush to that point and scare her away. “What did you hear about Miss Clark?”