The Dark One (32 page)

Again she flipped through the pages and found the old piece of parchment. She'd only been able to translate the first line when Hawkins rapped on her door again.

“Your breakfast, Lady Wulf,” he called from the other side. “May I enter?”

Rosalind stuffed the poem back inside the book and went to get the door for Hawkins.

“The coach will collect you in a half hour's time, milady,” he said. “I hope that will be sufficient.”

The way he eyed her undressed hair, Rosalind supposed it was a hint from Hawkins that she needed to take greater care with her appearance. She nodded. Rosalind would be hard-pressed to get breakfast down and dress
her hair. There was no time to go back to the poem, although she would as soon as she returned. The first line had intrigued her.

Damn the witch who cursed me.

The line kept running over and over in her head while she nibbled on toast and marmalade, then drank her hot chocolate as she dressed her hair. A witch. It was odd that Jackson said he was off on a quest to kill a witch. A curse. The Wulfs were supposedly cursed, by insanity, she had thought, but Armond said that wasn't true. Even the dowager had claimed she didn't believe the madness that had taken Armond's parents was inherent but brought about by the storm they were forced to weather.

What sort of storm? What sort of curse then? Her curiosity piqued, she more than ever wanted to hurry to the dowager's and have her fitting, then hurry back and read more of the poem. Perhaps it would enlighten her regarding Armond's secrecy about the curse. Of course she had no way of knowing if the faded parchment had anything to do with Armond or his brothers at all.

“Her Grace's coach has arrived,” Hawkins called to Rosalind through the door.

Rosalind went to her wardrobe and removed a shawl she hoped would disguise her outdated gown. She walked across the room toward the door, but she couldn't keep her eyes from straying toward the book. She opened the door and followed Hawkins downstairs. He saw her out, but as soon as the footman alighted and held the coach door for her, Hawkins bade her to have a good day and returned to his duties.

Rosalind accepted the footman's offer to help her inside, thinking the dowager's coach was nice indeed. Something made her glance over her shoulder toward the house next door, and there fluttering in the wind was the sheet draped over her former balcony.

“Oh dear,” she whispered.

“Milady?” the footman addressed her.

Conflicting emotions warred within her. Armond had said she was not to go next door alone again. But the silly man never stayed home long enough to see that she didn't find herself in this very predicament. What if Mary needed help with the duchess? What if the lady had come out of her lethargic state and could now converse with her? Rosalind refused the footman's offer of assistance.

“I've just recalled a former engagement,” Rosalind said to the man. “Please relay my apologies to Her Grace.”

As it was not his place to question her about the matter, the footman nodded formally to her, shut the door, and went around to tell the driver to return home.

Once the coach rumbled away, Rosalind was again torn. She had a suspicion Armond had probably told Hawkins that Rosalind was not to venture next door again. The steward might take it as his place to forbid her to go. She would go, she decided. Go and tell Mary not to hang the sheet anymore unless it was a dire emergency. When Rosalind needed to see her stepmother, she'd simply have to make arrangements with Armond to leave room in his busy schedule to accompany her.

Not that Franklin would gladly welcome them into his home. The matter left her mulling over possibilities as she walked down the rocky path past the stable, along the hedge, then across the lawn.

Mary had left the back door standing open. Rosalind entered the house through the kitchen. Even though the sheet had been hung, she took precautions, making her way quietly through the house and up the stairs. Franklin's door stood open. The room was empty. She hurried up the next flight of stairs and into her stepmother's room to see Mary wrestling with the woman.

“Now, calm down, Your Grace!” the housekeeper huffed. “You'll hurt yourself thrashing about so!”

“My word,” Rosalind whispered, then hurried forward to give Mary a hand. “What is happening?”

“I didn't know what else to do but signal you,” Mary huffed out. “I withheld the tea all of yesterday and this morning like you told me, and the lady has gone quite mad! I dare not tell Mr. Chapman about her condition for fear he'll find out I went against his instructions.”

Rosalind managed to pin the duchess's thin shoulders to the bed. She sat beside her. “Your Grace, you must lie still. You'll hurt yourself.”

“The tea,” she whispered, her voice raspy for lack of use. “I must have my tea.”

As upset as Rosalind was to find the duchess in her current condition, her heart leaped with joy at finally hearing the lady speak. “You mustn't have the tea, Your Grace,” she explained. “You have been drugged for months.”

The lady's brow was coated in a thin layer of sweat. In spite of that, she shook. “He's gotten me addicted,” she said through chattering teeth. “I feel as if I'll go mad without it.”

When Rosalind had ordered Mary to stop the tea, she had not taken into consideration that the lady's body would suffer serious withdrawal symptoms. She should have ordered Mary to weaken the tea with each serving, she realized. She turned to the housekeeper. “Mary, do you still have the leaves my stepbrother brought for you to prepare his mother's tea?”

The woman nodded. “Afraid to throw them out in case he asked for another cup himself and realized it wasn't the same.”

“Good,” Rosalind said. “Run downstairs and make the duchess a cup, very weak,” she instructed. “We were
wrong to take it away from her so abruptly. It has caused her to have a reaction.”

“I'll have it in a hurry,” Mary assured her. “The stove is still warm from breakfast, so it shouldn't take long to brew.”

While Mary left to prepare tea, Rosalind smoothed the lady's hair and tried to say soothing things to her. Despite her stepmother's symptoms, it was the first time Rosalind had seen any real signs of life from the duchess since she'd come to London. The situation gave her hope, but it also brought worry. What if her decision ended up injuring the lady worse than the doctored tea?

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered to the duchess, on the brink of tears. “I only meant to help you.”

To her surprise, the woman grabbed her hand and squeezed. “I've known you were here with me,” she rasped. “You have been a comfort.”

Lifting the lady's frail hand, Rosalind rubbed it against her cheek. “He's not going to get away with this,” she assured her stepmother. “I'll see to that.”

Violent shaking wracked the lady's thin body. “You are in danger,” she whispered. “He's a monster. My boy. I thought I could change him, but I have failed.”

“Don't try to talk now,” Rosalind said. “Save your strength.”

Mary bustled back in with a cup of tea. “I've got it, milady,” she said.

Together, Rosalind and Mary helped the duchess drink, and soon after she finished the cup, she settled down and fell back to sleep.

“I think she'll rest easier now,” Rosalind said to the housekeeper. “Give her more later, but keep making each cup weaker than the last until her body can tolerate being without the drug.”

“She's talking again at least,” Mary said. “Moving around like I haven't seen her do in months.”

Rosalind hated to leave the lady but had already stayed too long. “Mary, only put the sheet out unless it is urgent that you see me. Otherwise, I can only come if Armond is with me. My stepbrother is dangerous,” she said to the housekeeper. “You must watch your back with him and you mustn't let him know what you and I are about with his mother.”

“Never thought he was right in the head,” Mary confided to Rosalind. “I've only stayed for the lady's sake.”

“I must go for now.” Rosalind rose from her stepmother's bed. “If she worsens, hang the sheet. I'll come as quickly as I can.”

The housekeeper nodded. Rosalind hurried out of the room and down the stairs. She didn't breathe easy until she'd reached the hedge that separated the two properties and was once again on the rocky path leading to the house. She hoped to find Armond at home when she entered the house. By the quiet, she knew that was not the case. Hawkins looked surprised to see her.

“Back already, Lady Wulf?”

She only muttered a guilty “yes” and hurried up to her room. Once inside, she began to pace. Where was Armond? She needed to talk to him. She'd decided they might need to go behind Franklin's back and move the duchess. Rosalind needed to monitor her condition and be at leave to call for a doctor if necessary. She couldn't do that as the situation stood.

The day wore on and still Armond did not come home. What was he doing?

Armond sat in his coach watching the broker's office. Men had come and gone, but not the man Armond was looking for. The pain that had twisted his insides late last night had subsided, and he'd been able to carry on a normal day. He wondered when the pain would come again. When he wouldn't be able to stave off the effects of the curse that threatened to take him. He felt as if time was running out and he had to settle the matter of Chapman and his accomplice quickly and efficiently.

Reaching down to grab a small duffel, he emerged from his coach and approached the office. The man glanced up when Armond entered, recognition immediately dawning in his eyes behind the spectacles.

“So, you've come back?”

Armond strode to the man's desk and took a seat across from him. He decided to be blunt. “Is Viscount Harry Penmore one of your clients?”

The man blinked at him before he sputtered, “I've told you that I cannot give you information about the clients I serve.”

Too late, Armond had read the man's recognition of Penmore's name before he responded. “What property is he currently interested in?” Armond pressed.

“I cannot tell you,” the man insisted. “Who are you? And what right do you have—”

“I am Lord Wulf, the Marquess of Wulfglen, Earl of Bumont,” he interrupted the man, then he reached down and opened the duffel. He withdrew several stacks of money and laid them on the man's desk. “I wish to purchase the property Penmore has inquired about most recently.”

The man's eyes widened. “But you haven't even asked the price.”

“I'm certain this is more than enough, correct?”

Licking his lips, the man reached for a stack of money. “Yes,” he agreed.

“I want the location, and the key, and I want them now.”

“Of course.” The man's stringy hair bobbed around his shoulders when he nodded.

Armond slapped his hand down on top of the man's. “And you are to tell no one, especially Viscount Penmore, that the property has been sold.”

“Never buys anything anyway,” the man complained. “Just wants to know what is standing empty.”

And Armond knew why Penmore wanted that information. He would set a trap for Chapman and Penmore. This time, Armond would be hiding in the house they planned to use for their dark deeds. This time, they would not get away. He left the broker's office with the deed to the property and the key. He'd make a sweep past the house he now owned before he went to the dowager's to see how Rosalind progressed with her fitting.

Rosalind. Just the thought of her sent his blood racing through him. He felt a stab of guilt for the way he'd mistreated her last night. Her virginal body was not used to the demands he'd placed upon her. He'd had to force
himself from the house this morning lest he fall upon her again. Now that she had given herself to him, he could not resist her. He could not get enough of her. He wondered if he ever would. But then, that option would soon be taken from him. Rosalind would soon be taken from him. His life as he had known it would soon be taken from him.

It wasn't so much of a life, he realized, until Rosalind had entered it. As soon as he fell, he would leave her. He'd take refuge at the country estate, hoping his brothers would hide the fact that they knew anything about his whereabouts. Gabriel would take his place in the world, and Armond would suffer through whatever was left of his life. Rosalind could remarry, provided she could find a man willing to overlook her less than acceptable first marriage.

The thought of Rosalind married to another man made his hand twist tightly around the duffel he still held. He wanted no other man to touch her, yet his wants were selfish. She should have all that she deserved in life. A happy marriage, children. The latter thought caused him to twist his hand around the duffel again. What had possessed him to spill his seed inside of her a second time last night? He knew what had possessed him. He had only now to wait for it to possess him fully.

Rosalind held the poem again. She'd almost forgotten about it in her worry over the duchess. Rosalind had more trouble than she thought she would with the translation. Evening approached, and the light outside had begun to fade. She moved closer to the window. Some lines were less faded than others and drew her eye. She read them aloud to herself.

“ ‘Betrayed by love, my own false tongue, / she bade
the moon transform me. / The family name, once my pride, / becomes the beast that haunts me.'”

What family name? Her gaze scrolled down the crinkled parchment to the signature. She'd ignored the author's name at first because it was the most faded part of the poem, and therefore, the most difficult part to decipher. Rosalind squinted until finally she was able to make out the signature. “Wulf,” she whispered.

Chill bumps rose on her arms. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and her eyes watered. She blinked and stared outside of the window, waiting to refocus before she read further. When her eyes cleared, something outside caught her attention. It was the house next door and the sheet hung over the balcony that beckoned her.