Rosamund woke in her own bed with a smile on her face. Not just because of what had happened last night, though her body still thrummed with remembered pleasure. And not entirely because of the last words he’d said. She didn’t know whether she ought to put much stock in that confession, under the circumstances. She certainly hadn’t expected it. But now that she had it, she was going to hold onto it.
She was going to make him see that he deserved happiness as much as she did.
Stretching, she sat up as the maid came in with hot water and wished her good morning. It would be good. She had something now that no one, not even Charles, could take from her.
“G’mornin’, Miss Gorse.” The young woman curtsied. “Her Grace sent me to help you dress.”
This, of course, meant borrowing more from Paris’s sister’s wardrobe. But the Duchess of Raynham’s clothes were considerably more lavish, both in style and quality, than plain Erica Burke’s had been. Rosamund chose a morning gown of fawn-colored poplin with a narrow stripe of pink, and with the maid’s skillful pinning, the dress looked as if it had been made for her.
“Pretty as a picture,” pronounced the maid. “Now, if you’ll sit down at the dressing table, I can help with your hair.” Rosamund, who was still in a mood to indulge herself, complied eagerly. The maid picked up a brush in one hand and section of hair in the other. “Goodness me, ma’am. What’s happened to your neck? Oh dear, and here on your cheek, too.”
Rosamund peered into the mirror at the mottled pink skin to which the maid pointed and remembered the pleasing burn of Paris’s rough beard. She flushed, turning her face redder still.
“Well, Her Grace keeps a pot o’ cream for rashes and things,” the maid reassured her and went back to fussing over her hair. “She makes it herself, in the stillroom at Hawesdale. From flower petals and the like. Seems she’s always getting’ her hands into something she shouldn’t.”
Once her hair was arranged, the sweetly scented lotion was found and applied. Not everywhere, of course; Rosamund was rather enjoying the more private reminders of Paris’s touch.
What had been his first thought upon waking up this morning? He’d fallen into such a deep sleep last night, she hadn’t been able to rouse him. Hadn’t been able to tell him what was in her heart. Though she’d been tempted to sleep beside him, it would have been inviting discovery. Instead she’d cleaned things up as best she could, managed to cover him with sheets and blankets though he’d still been lying crosswise on the bed, and sneaked back to her own chamber.
Would she see him at breakfast this morning? And if so, how did lovers keep from blushing whenever they laid eyes on one another?
She needn’t have worried. The breakfast parlor, a bright and airy room at the rear of the house overlooking the garden, contained only the duke and duchess and a pair of footmen, one on either end of a long sideboard filled with chafing dishes. Raynham laid aside his newspaper and rose when she entered. “Good morning, ma’am.”
“I hope you slept well, Miss Gorse,” said the duchess, smiling. Rosamund could not decide whether the words hinted at knowledge of anything that might have interfered with her rest.
“Thank you, yes.” The unvarnished truth. She couldn’t remember when she’d felt more relaxed, despite the worries that plagued her. “And the lecture—was it all you’d hoped?”
“Oh, indeed. Very informative. I’m hoping to supplement Mr. Beals’s research by examining the local botanical remedies for these tropical fevers. People do tend to underestimate the power of plants and flowers.”
“They underestimate the power of lady botanists, too,” said her husband, whose eyes were once more focused on his paper. “At their peril.”
Erica’s eyes flashed and then softened as she looked toward her husband with what Rosamund could only describe as a private smile. “Let me get you a plate, Miss Gorse,” she said, remembering herself and rising.
“I can serve myself. You’ve done so much already.”
“Nonsense. I’ve never been one for sitting still. Eggs? A bit of toast?”
A footman poured a cup of steaming chocolate and set it down at the empty place at the table. Rosamund realized suddenly that no fourth place had been set. “Your brother does not join us this morning?”
Erica gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “He was up at dawn. Might’ve gone for a ride with Raynham, but no. He insisted he had work to do. I daresay he’s arranging for his return to Dublin.” Her voice dropped, but Rosamund could’ve sworn she heard the duchess mutter, “Eejit.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” Rosamund did not realize she had grabbed her fork at the wrong end until she felt the tines prick deep into the soft flesh of her palm. He couldn’t really be leaving her, not after last night?
As soon as the old doubt rose, she scuttled it. It was true that on each of the prior occasions when they’d shared an intimate moment—that first kiss, the inn in Wales—she’d woken to discover him gone. But he’d always come back to her. She had to trust that he would do so again.
Just then, a commotion in the corridor drew everyone’s attention, and without any announcement, the Dowager Duchess of Raynham entered the room, with her daughter, Daphne, and Bell in tow. Raynham’s stepmother was an elegant, fair haired woman, surely not forty years of age, who moved with the grace one expected of a duchess. Her daughter, dark haired and sallow, looked to be a little older than Daphne.
“Good morning, all,” the dowager duchess said, kissing both her stepson and her daughter-in-law on the cheek. “I hadn’t thought to call quite so early, but…” She gestured at the three girls huddled near the door, who giggled rather conspiratorially. “Daphne and Bellis were adamant that Viviane meet the famous Miss Gorse first thing.”
Stunned, Rosamund curtsied to the duchess and was nearly knocked over by Daphne and Bell, whose arms encircled her waist as she rose. “This is a pleasant surprise. I expected you to have forgotten all about me by now.”
“Oh, Miss Gorse,” Daphne chided. “How could we? We wouldn’t be in London if it weren’t for you. Paris never would’ve brought us otherwise.”
“And we wouldn’t have Eileen if it weren’t for you, either,” added Bell.
“Bell rescued the kitten,” she reminded them, as she greeted Lady Viviane and they all moved toward the table.
“But you rescued Paris,” said Erica, in a voice only for Rosamund’s ears.
Mr. Burke had said much the same only the day before. Instinctively, she parted her lips to deny it. She was the one in need of rescue. She was hardly in a position to be rescuing others.
But the noise level in the room had risen tremendously, drowning out any reply she might make: voices and laughter and the clatter of silver and china as one of the footmen set three more places at the table. She hardly noticed when Mr. Remington entered with a letter for the duke.
“Miss Gorse.” Raynham’s voice, though entirely unlike Paris’s, had its own way of slicing through the chaos and commanding attention. She might almost wish that every head in the room had not turned to look when he spoke.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“A note from Ashborough.” He gestured with the piece of paper in his hand. “As we feared, your brother has arrived in town. It seems he does not know everything, however. He wrote this morning to enquire whether any member of Mr. Burke’s extended family might tell him where you were to be found.”
Rosamund released a shaky breath. “And?” Bell, still standing beside her, gripped her hand. She wanted the answer to that question herself.
“Our next step depends at great deal on you, Miss Gorse. As you may or may not know, Ashborough acquired a vast fortune playing cards. I’m given to understand he’s quite adept at what gamesters call bluffing.”
She could not quite decide whether the Duke of Raynham was making a joke. “Do you mean to say he would lie? For me?”
Raynham gave a single nod. “If you wish it.”
A temporary reprieve, at best. She shook her head. Lies were no way to live. And she could not continue to rely on others. She wanted this matter done, once and for all. “Yesterday, you indicated a willingness to meet with my brother.”
“Of course. I am at your command, Miss Gorse.”
“Write to him, please. Arrange to see him as soon as possible. This afternoon, if it can be done.”
He nodded again. “Setterby will not trouble you after today.” The slightest flick of his hand sent a footman scurrying for pen and ink. “You may entrust the matter entirely to Ashborough and me.”
She lifted her chin and straightened her spine and said in her most governesslike voice, “No.” Last night had given her a taste of her own power. Whatever came of it, she meant to go on making her own choices. She was done running from her brother. “I will be coming with you, Your Grace.”
A chorus of concerned gasps rose around her, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see a flash of red as Erica shook her head. But she kept her gaze focused on the duke. A flicker of surprise—or was it approval?—crossed his otherwise impassive expression and was gone before she could even be sure she what she had seen. He bowed and tossed the letter onto the table. “As you wish.”
* * * *
They arrived at Finch House shortly before one o’clock, a considerably larger party than Rosamund had imagined. Daphne and Bell wished to see their parents; Erica had agreed to accompany them. The Dowager Duchess intended to call on Lady Ashborough, which meant of course that Lady Viviane had come too. And surely Eileen was secreted in the basket dangling from Daphne’s arm. Rosamund knew she ought to take comfort in the fact that everyone, even strangers, had rallied around her in this hour of need.
And she might have, if only everyone had included Paris. Why had he hidden himself away again?
Philpot bowed them in and led them to the same drawing room as the day before. Lord Ashborough rose to greet them. “Making our morning calls, are we? I’m sorry to say that my wife finds herself in some discomfort this morning and has decided to keep to her bed. Her mother is with her now, and Mr. Burke has gone out to fetch the physician. Just in case.”
Despite the lightness of his voice, worry lined his handsome face. Rosamund recalled Bell describing her sister as being “in expectation of a happy event”; never before had she understood how pallid and ridiculous a euphemism it was for the anxiety and anticipation surrounding childbirth.
“I’ll go to her, if I may,” said the Dowager Duchess. “I may be of some assistance.”
Erica announced an impromptu plan to take the girls on a nature walk through the garden at the center of Grosvenor Square. Once she had rummaged through her sister’s escritoire for paper and pencils, and taken Elf’s leash in hand, the four of them—five if one counted the dog, and six if Rosamund’s surmise about the kitten was correct—set out. Rosamund wondered whether the duchess knew what she had in store for herself for the next hour.
Then, of course, only she and Lord Ashborough and the Duke of Raynham remained. “You mustn’t trouble yourself about me,” she insisted to the anxious marquess.
He managed a smile, though it lacked yesterday’s carefree charm. “To be quite honest, Miss Gorse, I welcome the distraction. I fear I might just run mad if left to my own devices.”
For once, he did not seem to be exaggerating for humorous effect.
“All right, then,” said Raynham. “Your brother is due on the hour, Miss Gorse, and his letter suggests that Dashfort will accompany him. We have some thoughts about how to proceed, but what did you have in mind?”
She knew from Daphne and Bell that Raynham was a military officer. For a moment, she considered deferring to his judgment. But she did have one advantage: she knew the enemy they were to face.
“My brother has great disdain for those without power, myself included.”
“He is a bully, you mean.”
“I did not always understand that to be the case.” She nodded. “But yes. And because of it, he likewise has great esteem for gentlemen such as yourselves. He will want you to think him clever.”
“I know the sort, ma’am,” said Lord Ashborough. “They’re easy enough for a player with some skill to pluck.”
She recalled what the duke had said about Lord Ashborough’s gambling days. If he’d made his own fortune, other men must have lost theirs. And just once, she would like to see Charles be the loser.
“I wish you to frustrate him. Aggravate him. Make him angry enough to reveal what I have never been able to determine: why he has tried to do this to me.”
“But surely he will not speak in front of you,” the duke pointed out.
“Is there a room where I might stay hidden, yet overhear your conversation?”
“My study adjoins the library downstairs,” said Lord Ashborough. “If the door between them is left ajar, you will hear rather more than one could wish, I fear.”
“I have heard a great deal already, my lord. But today, when the moment is right, I have something to say.”
Raynham nodded his understanding, and the three of them went to await their callers.
The single chime of the longcase clock was still vibrating through the room when Philpot knocked. “The Earl of Dashfort and Viscount Setterby to see you, milord, Your Grace.”
She could hear the creak of chairs when Raynham and Ashborough rose, the muffled sound of two sets of booted footsteps, Lord Dashfort and her brother, crossing the plush Turkey carpet. Her vivid imagination had no difficult conjuring faces.
“I thank you for your assistance, gentlemen.” Charles’s voice sent a shudder through her, and she gripped the side of the wooden chair on which she sat to stop herself from leaping to her feet. “May I present Lord Dashfort, my sister’s betrothed.”
“Gentlemen.”
There was a general rustle, the scrape of chairs as the gentlemen seated themselves. Lord Ashborough offered refreshments and was refused. Then an awkward silence fell.
“I understand you have a sister, Duke.” Charles spoke first, in a wheedling, obsequious tone she had never heard him use. “I hope she is no trouble to you, as mine has been, so regrettably, to me.”
Raynham was quick to quash his hopes. “A spirited sister is hardly reason for condolence, Setterby. And my sister has naught to do with your visit.”
“Of course, Duke. My apologies.” Quickly, he changed tactics. “Your letter, Lord Ashborough, gave me to understand that Mr. Burke is here. I wish to speak with him. I’m quite sure he knows where my sister may be found.”
“Here?” Lord Ashborough drawled in his deep voice. “By no means. I said I believed Burke to have recently arrived in town.” A clearly dismissive laugh. She recalled what Raynham had said about his skill at bluffing. “I daresay no one has ever before mistaken me for my brother’s keeper.”
Even at this distance she could hear her brother’s sharp intake of breath. And she felt certain that Lord Dashfort’s querulous “Setterby?” would only add to his frustration. Good.
“I own I find it strange that your sister would not keep her promise to Lord, er—Dipfoot, was it?” asked Lord Ashborough. “Did she have some objection to the match?”
“Though I’ve done my best to check it, I’ll own she has an obstinate streak.”
“I say,” Lord Dashfort chimed in. “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”
Charles was quick to soothe him. “In the right hands, as I’ve told you, I’m confident she can be brought to heel.”
“Forgive me, Setterby.” Lord Ashborough again, sounding bored. “I thought this matter concerned your sister? Yet you would appear to be discussing a horse, or perhaps, er, some sort of dog?”
That brought Charles to his feet. She heard his bootheels strike the floor. “Damn it all. You know quite well what I mean.” She could picture the little globs of spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. “Surely, among gentlemen, we can speak of the jilts as we like.”
“I am quite familiar with how gentlemen speak of ladies. Whether they are present or not.” Raynham’s voice was solid ice transformed into sound. By suggesting her brother was something other than a gentleman, he seemed to want to provoke a response beyond mere conversation. A challenge? No—she couldn’t have a man’s death on her conscience.
“Come, Dashfort,” Charles ground out. “This is obviously a waste of precious time. Time we might better put to use tracking down Rosamund.”
She stood, unable any longer to keep still.
“Really, Setterby,” the earl protested. “It seems an awful lot of trouble. The more I think on it, the less inclined I am to believe that your sister and I will suit. I haven’t any wish for another difficult wife. Perhaps it would be best if you just returned what I gave you.”
Charles cleared his throat. “That won’t be possible.”
Dashfort stood. “I say. I can’t afford to—”
“Oh dear.” She crept close enough to the door to see Ashborough tip back in his chair. He was observing the conversation between her brother and Lord Dashfort like a spectator at a badly-acted play. “Sounds like someone intends to renege on a debt of honor. Tut-tut, Setterby. Badly done.”
“Stay the hell out of my affairs, Ashborough.”
“Gladly. Get the hell out of my house.”
Her brother was all cold fury. She thought for a moment that he really would leave. But Lord Ashborough had a keen instinct for just how far a man could be pushed. Charles rocked back on his heels and folded his arms across his chest. “Not without my sister.”
“No.” As she pushed into the room, four heads swiveled in unison. For just a moment, her resolve faltered. Old habits—even bad ones, like deference and obedience to her heartless brother—were not easy to break. Charles would have lunged toward her, but Raynham rose and stepped between them. She continued speaking as if there’d been no interruption. “And if you try to force me, I’ll—I’ll tell everyone I saw a ghost at Kilready Castle.”
He’d so often tried to make her believe what wasn’t true or forget what was. But she suspected that whatever perverse value she held for him would be sorely diminished if the world thought her mad.
Dashfort looked stunned. “You what?”
“You dare to threaten me with some nonsense from a gothic novel? Well, keep it up and you’ll soon find yourself living in one. The day you turn one and twenty, I’ll wash my hands of you,” Charles snarled. “You’ve got nothing to your name—why, I’d wager even that dress is borrowed. If you won’t marry Dashfort, how do you mean to survive?”
She willed her spine straighter. “I’ll work. I’ll find a post as a governess—”
“A governess? You’ll be lucky to find work as a scullery maid when I’m through. You’ll have nothing, nothing!”
The hinge on the door leading into the library from the corridor creaked as it swung inward. She realized now that it must never have been shut tight after her brother and Lord Dashfort had been shown in.
Paris stepped into the room. He did not look at her. His dark eyes were fixed squarely on her brother. Despite his rather rumpled clothes and unshaven jaw and mussed hair—he’d been running his hands through it again—he commanded perfect attention when he spoke, as he always did.
“That’s a lie, Lord Setterby. And you know it as well as I.”