Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (26 page)

Brand was moaning now, even though unconscious. Abruptly, Rothgar gestured for the doctor to give his treatment, then turned away. At some sounds, he turned back to see the doctor struggling to force the emetic down Brand’s resistant throat.

“Stop.” He strode over, took the glass and supported his agonized brother himself.

“Brand. Drink this,” he said in the commanding tone he’d learned to use with his siblings. “It’s unpleasant, but necessary.” He put the glass to his brother’s lips.

Brand turned away. “Tastes foul.”

“You haven’t tasted it yet, so how can you know? Do as you’re told.”

His brother’s eyelids fluttered open a crack. “Is it really you? I thought it was someone else….”

“Definitely me. And thus you must obey.”

“I keep dreaming, Bey….”

“I am no dream. Drink.” He placed the glass against his brother’s lips, and when Brand began to obey, tilted it. “All!” he commanded when Brand would have balked, and compelled him to drain it.

“’Struth, Bey!” Brand complained. A moment later, he vomited all over him.

Continuing to support his brother through choking and sobs of pain, Rothgar said, “How fortunate you are that this is not one of my favorite suits.”

“Hell and perdition. Don’t make me laugh. I feel turned inside out as it is and my head is indescribable.”

Despite the stink, Rothgar continued to hold him. “We had to expel the poison.”

“I’d have been sick on my own.”

“Would you?”

“I was last time.”

“Last time?” Rothgar took the damp cloths Kenyon had found and wiped his brother’s face. Then he fed him sips of water.

“I felt better after being sick last time, too. Need a long sleep.”

Brand’s eyes were closing again, so Rothgar laid him gently back on the pillow, which had been changed to a clean one. Most of the vomit had gone onto himself, so there was no need to move Brand to another bed.

“I’ll be able to thank you properly, then, my lady,” Brand muttered, so that Rothgar could hardly hear him. “Just don’t turn that crank any more….”

Once Brand had drifted off to sleep, Rothgar moved away and stripped off his outer clothes. His own man, Fettler, was already there with fresh garments and warm water for washing.

As he cleaned himself, he puzzled over his brother’s words.

My lady? He immediately thought of Lady Richardson, but that was folly. Almost the classic fallacy of
post hoc ergo propter hoc
. Because one event occurred after another, it must be caused by the other. There were thousands of ladies in the north who were candidates for this mischief, and
the last thing the guilty party would do would be to make herself so obvious in this inn.

Yet, someone had written that note on the Tuns’s paper.

Crank? he suddenly thought. Did that imply torture?

In his shirtsleeves, he returned to the bed and inspected his brother’s hands. Undamaged by struggle. He gently rolled up Brand’s shirtsleeves. No sign of marks, inflammation, or bruising. Trying not to disturb him, he pulled back his loosened breeches and eased out the shirt to look at his torso.

Brand’s hand came down quite firmly to stop him. “Optimist. Hag. Anyway, I want to beat you first.”

Brows raised, Rothgar pulled up the blanket over his brother and left him in peace.

There was a woman involved for sure, but not torture. He didn’t understand “hag” and “crank,” but Brand’s tone had been tender as much as anything.

Which could be difficult when it came to retribution.

He’d left the blankets in his private parlor, and once dressed, he went there and summoned Kenyon. “These were found with him?”

“Yes, my lord. Tucked snugly around him.” Anxiously, the man asked, “Will he recover, my lord?”

“I believe so. He hadn’t just been tossed there?”

“No, my lord. Carefully settled.”

A woman, for sure. Something had been cut off one corner of both blankets. Almost certainly a crest. Moreover, the quality matched the quality of the paper used in the first note. So, Brand had been dallying with a grand lady, had he, and come to grief?

Vengeful relatives?

That would more likely lead to a duel than poison. And would a vengeful mistress or relatives tuck in their victim so tenderly?

He thought again of Lady Richardson. It would be irrational to be here and so obvious a target of suspicion, and yet there had been something about her that plucked at his questioning nature. What?

Her paint had been far too heavy for daytime wear, of course. At first sight, he had assumed she was returning from some revel, still suffering from drink. Now, however, he wondered if she had been in disguise. Though she’d worn jewels enough for a ball, her dress had been simple travel wear.

And her maid had been deuced odd. Such a spotty creature might be expected to be shy, to hide her face, and yet he’d caught sight of her a time or two looking around boldly and moving with a degree of crisp authority.

Trying to make the unmatched pieces fit some pattern, he ordered a long-delayed meal, and summoned Brand’s secretary to share it with him.

The middle-aged man entered and bowed. “They say Lord Brand will recover, my lord.”

“It would seem so, Mr. Vickery, though these things are never sure until over with.”

“God be praised. He had eaten something to disagree with him?” Vickery sat to share the meal.

“And then tucked himself up cozily between fine blankets in a decrepit barn in an isolated field?”

Startled, Vickery followed Rothgar’s gesture to the blanket and rose to inspect it.

“Do you recognize it?”

“Not at all, my lord, though it is of finest quality. A traveling blanket, I would assume, and it once held a crest of some kind. Cut off recently, too, since the material has not frayed.”

“Quite,” Rothgar said as the man sat opposite again. “There would appear to be a lady involved. Do you know anything of my brother’s recent amours?”

The secretary shook his head. “None, my lord.”

Rothgar paused in serving himself soup. “You know of none?”

“I’d be deeply surprised if there were any, my lord. Lord Brand is not profligate in these matters. When traveling, he rarely engages in such amusements unless he should happen to encounter particular ladies of his acquaintance. He considers it too dangerous to take up local invitations without full understanding of the situation.”

Rothgar filled his soup plate. “I didn’t realize he was quite so cautious as that.”

“Not always cautious, my lord,” said Vickery with a fond smile. “Just wishing to be aware of the risks he takes. And in addition, he truly enjoys his work and it occupies a great deal of his time.”

“I see. And he hadn’t encountered any of his particular ladies recently?”

“None, my lord,” the man repeated firmly.

Rothgar questioned the secretary throughout the meal, but gained absolutely no new information. By then, however, his riders were returning.

Lieutenant Cripp reported briskly on the occupants of the coach. “None admitted to any knowledge of the message, or involvement with the New Commonwealth, my lord. None appeared to be in disguise.”

“How many women were there, and of what type?”

“Just two, my lord. One was wife to a lawyer traveling with her. Young, plain, and quiet. The other was a thin stick of a woman, middle aged and vinegary. She didn’t think much to being stopped, even with a crown for her time.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

The young man bowed stiffly. “May I ask now what connection this has to the New Commonwealth, my lord?”

“No, but you may continue your inquiries into the sect. Investigate the possibility of there being local gentry and nobility who are secret sympathizers.”

“Secret sympathizers?” Cripp echoed in sparking interest. “By the deuce, my lord, that would complicate things.”

“Precisely. Look into it, Cripp.”

Rothgar watched the man leave. That should keep the officer’s alert mind engaged. It was possible there was a conspiracy afoot that went beyond the sect, but he doubted it. Everything he had learned about them suggested they were strict and sincere about their exclusive way of life.

No, the attack on Brand was probably private business to do with some woman, and thus Rothgar didn’t want Cripp poking into it. It was his to deal with. Sooner or later, the woman involved was going to suffer for his brother’s pain.

By the time the coach reached the Ripon road—along a side road little better than a cart track, but passable—Diana had scraped off all her face paint and a good deal of Rosamunde’s. “We’ll leave some to hide your scars. It does work marvelously well.”

Rosamunde looked in the mirror and had to agree, though she didn’t like the pallid coating over her skin. “I can’t spend all my days like this.”

“But you could wear it when you go in public, and perhaps it can be tinted a more natural shade. We should stop in Richmond and have Dulcie teach you how to do it.”

“No. I must get back to Wenscote. I worry about Edward upsetting Digby.”

“If that Cotterite was telling the truth, Edward’s gone.”

“But for how long? He’ll doubtless stop by on the way back.”

Diana squeezed Rosamunde’s hand. “But soon, if the gods are kind, Edward will no longer be a threat. That will comfort Digby.”

Rosamunde winced. “The most extraordinary comfort for a wife to give her husband. Rejoice, for you have been cuckolded and will have another man’s child to raise!”

“Isn’t it what he wants?”

“The child, yes. But not the cuckolding.”

“That makes no sense.”

Rosamunde sighed. “I liked it, Diana. Oh, more than that! I fell in love with Brand Malloren. That’s the sin. That’s where I’ve cheated Digby. I worry that he will guess.”

Diana’s eyes never wavered. “You must not let him.”

After a moment, Rosamunde nodded. “You’re right. I must not hurt him. I will not even think of Brand Malloren again.”

“Is that possible?”

Ignoring the jab of her cousin’s question, Rosamunde said, “Anything is possible.” She placed her hand on her belly. “Just pray, pray hard, that there is a child. I cannot go through this again.”

“Anything is possible,” Diana reminded her, and she was right. Heaven help her, but if this hadn’t worked, she would have to do it again. Why was it so much more impossible than before? The situation hadn’t changed.

But it had. There was no point in hiding from the truth within her own head. She loved. No matter how foolish, how illogical, she loved Brand Malloren. Adultery had been an offense against her wedding vows. Next time, however, it would be an offense against something deep and meaningful within her. Though logic said it wasn’t so, she felt it would kill her.

Diana was consulting her map again. “I know a quiet inn off the main road. The Tup and Ewe. It’s owned by old servants of mine. We’ll stop there for the night.” She looked up with a quick, confident smile, clearly enjoying matching wits with the enemy. “Search the roads as he might, the devilish Marquess of Rothgar won’t find us there.”

Oh, for this to be just an adventure, a matter of out-witting pursuit. Diana was wise, perhaps, to avoid love, marriage, and entanglements. Rosamunde left the details of the adventure in her cousin’s hands and concentrated in sorting out her own mind. She firmly summoned visions of a long, happy future at Wenscote, with Digby, and a precious, healthy child and heir.

If she worked at this hard enough, perhaps over the years she’d reach the blessed state where Brand Malloren never entered her thoughts at all.

With a sense of déjà vu, Brand was nibbling toast and sipping tea, hoping his churning stomach would accept it, when his brother entered his bedroom and dismissed the servants.

“Is that preparatory to a stinging rebuke?”

“Only if you deserve one. I thought you might not want witnesses to your story.”

“Story?”

Brand was enormously relieved to have Bey here—he remembered enough of the night for that. On the other hand, he wasn’t ready to decide what to tell his brother. He wasn’t even sure which parts of his memories were real, and which were dreams.

“The story of how you came to be found in a broken-down barn,” Bey prompted.

“Was I? I have no idea.”

“What of a lady with a crank?”

Brand stared at his brother. “What?”

After a moment, Bey said, “Very well. Tell me what you do remember.”

“Some useful information about planned breeding programs,” Brand said flippantly, seeking time to think.

“As your employer, I’m delighted. That is not what I mean.”

Brand concentrated on the next piece of toast.

“Am I to understand that you don’t want me to discover who did this to you and why?”

Exactly, though it was instinct more than logic. Brand had no difficulty remembering his lady, her sweetness, and their blissful conversation. He’d never forget their passionate entwining. A candle in the window. Blackberries …

Rather more fuzzily, he remembered some arguments about the future. He thought he’d wanted her to leave with him and she’d adamantly refused.

Logic insisted she’d drugged and disposed of him, but his heart rejected it. Time would solve the dilemma. Memory of his last waking hours, and of whatever he’d eaten and drunk, would presumably return in the next day or so.

“It’s personal, Bey,” he said at last, knowing his brother wouldn’t like it. “My memories are still unclear, and I need to recall everything. Then I’ll take care of it.”

After a moment, Rothgar pulled out two pieces of paper and laid them on the bed. “Then you may want these notes. They were sent separately, both correctly telling me where to find you. One is written on high quality paper which has doubtless had a crest removed. The other is on the paper available in the guest parlor below, written with the inn’s pen.”

Brand picked them up and read them, but with only academic interest. If his lady had been so desperate to keep her secret that she had drugged him, she certainly wouldn’t make herself so obvious.

But, cold logic insisted, if not her, who? Was Yorkshire full of people trying to drug him and dump him in out-of-the-way places? But she wouldn’t—