The Spurned Viscountess (23 page)

Rosalind stared at the stout door. A daring plan formed in her mind. That was it. Her means of escape. Probably her only means of escape, but she’d need to remain vigilant to make it work.

She surveyed the contents of the tray. Lumps of meat swam in a bowl of thin gruel. A crust of dry bread accompanied the stew. Rosalind picked up the bread knowing she needed her strength. It tasted as bad as it looked, and she dropped it back on the tray to wait for the return of the girl.

An hour passed, then another. Rosalind yawned and glanced at the bed but knew sleep was a luxury tonight. She stood and walked the length of the room, determined not to slumber and miss her chance of escape.

Finally, she heard the key scrape inside the lock. She tensed and crept closer. The flutters inside her stomach intensified. This had to work. Once Mansfield had her on the ship to France, escape would be near to impossible. She didn’t want to leave St. Clare or Lucien. Lucien—there was no telling what Mansfield would do with her husband before he killed him. Rosalind shuddered, knowing Lucien’s death was inevitable if Mansfield wanted to succeed. She daren’t fail.

The door creaked when it opened, and candlelight poured into Rosalind’s room. Annie halted when she saw Rosalind.

“You were meant to put yer tray on the floor,” she said accusingly. A frown puckered her brow.

“I forgot,” Rosalind replied, infusing her voice with contrition. She sauntered over to the bed and sat on the edge, not far from the table where the tray sat. “I’m sorry.”

Annie chewed on her bottom lip and stared at Rosalind in clear dismay. “Can…can you bring it here?”

“You want me to carry the tray over to you?” Rosalind tensed inside, ready to spring at the girl the minute she came close enough.

Annie blinked. Even in the dim light, Rosalind saw the desperation in the girl’s pale green eyes. Annie licked her abused lip, looking from the tray to Rosalind. It was clear she didn’t want to leave without the tray and risk the old woman’s wrath.

“Please, miss.”

Rosalind felt a flash of guilt. The old woman would likely beat the girl if she returned empty handed. Then Rosalind thought about Mansfield and what he intended to do to them all. She hardened her heart. “Come in and get it,” she said, waving a languid hand at the barely touched dishes. “I won’t hurt you.”

The girl’s eyes rounded. She edged a few inches inside the door, but looked ready to bolt at any sudden move on Rosalind’s part. Rosalind scarcely breathed, watching Annie closely even though she pretended disinterest in the tray and the girl’s presence.

“Be it true yer a witch?” Annie blurted.

Ah, gossip. Rosalind thought rapidly and came to a quick decision.
What do you want from a witch, Annie?
One thing came to mind. Rosalind wanted to smile with triumph but inclined her head slowly so she didn’t frighten the girl. Finally, gossip might help instead of bringing heartache. The tittle-tattle might help save Lucien. “Yes, I’m a witch.” She watched the girl closely, measuring her reaction.

Annie glanced over her shoulder in a furtive manner. Both uneasiness and desperation slid across her face when she turned her attention back to Rosalind. “Do you do potions?”

“What did you have in mind?” A man was involved here, and unrequited love. Rosalind bit back a satisfied smile, reassured by her initial deduction. Her plan would work. She’d make it work.

After another quick glance over her shoulder, Annie took a deep, shuddering breath and seemed to come to a decision. She crossed the threshold, closing the door behind her, her apprehension regarding Rosalind overtaken by the need for love. “A love potion. I need a love potion.” Her blurted words confirmed Rosalind’s guess.

She pretended to consider the request before saying, “There’ll be a price.”

Annie crept toward the dirty dishes, nearly going cross-eyed as she kept one eye on Rosalind and the other on the door. “I’ve saved some coins. How much do you charge?”

One loud
boo
and the girl would take off like a startled hare. Rosalind quashed the guilt inside and forged ahead. “No money.”

“But you said there’d be a price.” Like a dog whose master beat it, Annie cowered, poised to run. Scrawny hands quivered at her sides. Her gaze skittered over Rosalind without settling. She bit her bottom lip again in clear indecision. “I can’t let you go. She’ll beat me.”

Not if Rosalind had anything to do with it, but she couldn’t make the promise and be sure she could keep it. Without warning, she leaped from the bed and seized the girl by the forearm, holding her easily. Apart from emitting a small squeak, she didn’t cry out. She stood stiff and trembling, tears filling her eyes. Rosalind experienced the full spectrum of her distress. Annie’s frantic thoughts and fears slid stealthily into her mind. Guilt bloomed afresh, and Rosalind made a silent vow to come to the girl’s aid once life settled. But for now, she’d have to take advantage of her in the same way everyone else did. Annie was her only means of escape.

“Don’t hurt me. Don’t put a spell on me.” The girl shivered so much Rosalind felt like a bully. The stream of panicked thoughts coming from her didn’t help.

“If you let me go, I’ll help you,” Rosalind said. She pushed Annie down on the bed and stood over her.

Annie shook her head from side to side, her wide panicked eyes stirring Rosalind’s guilt anew. “She’ll kill me.”

Rosalind grabbed for the large key but the girl refused to yield it. “If you don’t give me the key, I’ll make warts grow on your nose, your mouth, and your hands. Your sweetheart won’t want you. You’ll be ugly. No one will want you.”

Tears streamed down the girl’s face.

“I’ll turn William Harrow into a frog,” Rosalind warned the terrified girl. “Give me the key. You don’t want William to suffer, do you? You wouldn’t want him to know he suffered misfortune because of you.”

Annie’s terrified gasp filled the room. She cowered even farther away, her panic clear. She swallowed, finally finding her voice. “How did ye know his name?”

“I’m a witch,” Rosalind muttered, glancing at the door. This was taking too long. Mansfield might arrive at any moment, or the old woman, and then she’d lose everything.

Rosalind sprang suddenly, grabbed the girl’s hand and pried the key loose. She winced at the flash of pain in her ankle, but forced her discomfort aside. Escape was imperative. She wouldn’t get another chance. With the key in her possession, she crept to the door and slid it open to peer into the passage outside. When she saw there was no one to witness her escape, she slipped out as quick and fluid as morning mist. She locked the door and pocketed the key. Deep sobs penetrated the barrier, and Rosalind knew the pitiful sound would haunt her in weeks to come.

***

The moon shone through the window high above him, the light hitting him in the face. Lucien’s eyelids flickered before he jammed them shut. Pain, sharp and intense, knifed through his head, the moon’s glow aggravating the steady throb. He heard a groan. His groan. Nausea rocked his gut, yet his mind impelled him to move.

Lucien lurched to his feet, and a moan squeezed past his clenched teeth. There wasn’t any part of his body that didn’t hurt. He sucked in a slow, cautious breath. Then another. One thought crystallized in his hazy mind and stuck there.

Rosalind. Where the hell was she?

He gripped a sturdy pillar for balance while he took stock of his surroundings. Despite the limited light, he noted the old wooden casks in various states of repair stacked beneath the lone window. A scuttle of feet told him he had rats or mice for company. He let go of the pillar and wobbled, unsteady for an instant, before righting himself with the help of a wall.

Dust rose with each move he made, tickling his nose and teasing a sneeze loose. The sound reverberated in the cavernous prison, sending renewed pain surging through his aching head. He frowned, having no idea of his location. He listened carefully, trying to fix his locality. Apart from the steady drip of water and the rustle of rodents, he heard nothing to aid him. Presumably the casks indicated the King’s Head. Odd that he couldn’t hear the drunken gaiety of patrons. He fumbled his way along the wall, searching for a door. He blundered into a cobweb and sneezed twice before he located the exit.

“Rosalind,” he whispered, picturing her blond beauty in his mind’s eye. He’d give almost anything to hold her right this moment. He had to find his English mouse.

He thought back, examining his memory for clues. He’d led Oberon through the lane, despite his misgivings. Someone had struck him when he’d exited onto the main thoroughfare. He hoped Oberon was safe. Had Mansfield hit him? Lucien scowled, trying to make sense of his jumbled thoughts. No, the other man had gone ahead to order the drinks. Lucien discarded the idea of treachery, but his mind kept circling back to the idea. If the motive was robbery, he’d still be lying in the lane. His incarceration in this dark hole made things appear more sinister than mere robbery.

One hand reached up to investigate the knot at the back of his head. Blood came away on his fingers. His father always said St. Clares had hard heads, and several pub brawls when he was younger had proved it. Lucien’s teeth clamped together as he rode another wave of pain. What the hell had Mansfield hit him with?

Mansfield
.

His father…

Lucien froze. A hazy memory surfaced, shimmering through his throbbing brain. As usual, he tried to seize the fleeting thought before it disappeared. Instead of escaping, the memory solidified as he eagerly grasped it.

Lucien concentrated as another emerged.

And another.

Memories poured into his mind like after-dinner port splashed into a glass. It was as if a barrier in his mind had broken, allowing the memories to flow free.

He remembered his past.

All of it.

Lucien stumbled against the door and attempted to open it. He stepped back and ran at the door with his shoulder. A sharp throb of pain burned the length of his arm. Cold pierced his damp jacket and breeches, pebbling goose bumps over his limbs. But elation surged as memories piled one on top of the other. One particular memory hit him hard.

Betrayal.

A friend’s betrayal.

Mansfield’s betrayal
.

Lucien recalled the night in Naples. He remembered his friend walking up to him in the deserted street in the early hours of the morning.

“Mansfield.” Lucien swayed, worse for local wine. His shirt and jacket reeked of the woman’s cheap perfume and sex, but he felt loose and limber after the spectacular ride she’d given him. “Thought you went back to our rooms.” Damn, he wished Mansfield would stand still. His friend kept splitting into two men. Two friends angry with him wouldn’t do at all. “Sorry ’bout ’fore,” he slurred.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Mansfield muttered, ignoring the apology.

“I’m gonna win our bet.” Lucien’s small step turned into a stagger, but he righted himself before he hit the ground. “Whoa! Ground’s moving. Tonight was number ten.”

“I don’t care about our stupid bet. You’re drunk,” Mansfield sneered, glancing past Lucien instead of looking him straight in the eye. “Think I can forgive your insults to my mother? To me? I am the rightful St. Clare heir and, by damn, I’m going to claim my place. You might have won Edwina, but I’m not having you steal my birthright too.”

Befuddled, Lucien stared at his enraged friend. Brother? Was it true? If so, he’d never suspected a thing. A foreign sound drew Lucien’s attention. He spun around. Three men with clubs and knives stood behind him.

“Robbers! Draw your pistol!” Lucien cried to Mansfield. He darted a quick glance at Mansfield and blinked. His friend stood unmoving, his expression disinterested.

The first blow caught him on the shoulder, numbing his right arm. His pistol dropped to the ground. A knife flashed out, slicing the length of his face. Blood gushed from the wound, shrouding his sight.

“Make it look like a robbery,” Mansfield instructed tersely. “But make sure he dies.”

Lucien was dimly aware of Mansfield leaving.

“There be someone coming,” one man warned.

They dragged him to a dark alley, kicking and beating him savagely until he lost consciousness.

Lucien shook himself from the black fog of the past. He’d been drunk. Vulnerable.

Mansfield had acted as decoy while his paid men had come up behind him with knives and bludgeons, striking him repeatedly, leaving him for dead. By God, Mansfield had abused his trust and now he’d captured him again. But Rosalind—did Mansfield have her? Worry filled him at the thought of her in Mansfield’s clutches. He’d endangered Rosalind by marrying and bedding her. The possibility of an heir between Mansfield and the title had pushed him over the edge. And where was Charles? Was his cousin part of the scheming?

Fury propelled him away from the wall. Lucien stalked the boundaries of his confines, ignoring the dull ache in his head as he searched for a way out.

He stumbled over a barrel. With his mind functioning more clearly, he smelled the stale scent of dried hops, of beer. An unused cellar. But where, if not the King’s Head? And how the devil was he going to get out? He paused, listening carefully for a noise, any sound to alert him to the presence of another.

He heard nothing apart from the rustling of rodents. Frustration grabbed him. He tested the door with his shoulder for the second time. Although old, it was stout and built to last.

Lucien sank to the floor, his back resting against the cold wall. He’d have to wait until someone came, then overpower them. It was his only hope.

Shouts and cheers from the public rooms increased in intensity as Rosalind crept down the stairs. The stench of smoke and beer, boiled cabbage and unwashed bodies assaulted her nostrils. Raucous laughter spilled through a partially ajar door, masking the creak of the wooden stairs under her feet. She caught flashes of movement and faces—a barmaid carrying tankards, a group of rough laborers, two well-dressed men. Mansfield was probably inside the taproom, so she hurriedly continued down the last two stairs instead of gawking.

Fear of discovery made her heart pound and her limbs tremble, but she forced herself to speed. There would be only one chance. She mustn’t falter.

The door leading to the taproom burst fully open and a couple staggered out. The man kicked the door shut and the couple fell against the wall. His hands swept under his partner’s full frothy skirts, displaying white thighs to Rosalind’s incredulous eyes. As she watched, the man fumbled with his trousers. She pressed a hand to her mouth to hold back her cry of shock. They were going to do it right in front of her.

At least the door leading to the tavern was shut now. The couple was engrossed in each other. Surely escape was but a few steps away, as long as they didn’t see her. Rosalind ducked her head, letting locks of hair fall across her face. She scuttled past the couple, trying to ignore the animal grunts of lust.

Rosalind tugged at the side door to the small street off the main thoroughfare. Her hand, moist and sweaty, skidded across the latch. Her teeth clamped down on her lip as she glanced over her shoulder. She wiped her palms across her skirts, took a deep breath and tried again. This time the latch slid smoothly under her grasp. She opened the door and slipped through, closing it with a snap.

After scanning for danger, Rosalind shot away from the King’s Head. Somewhere to hide. A plan. Quickly, before Mansfield discovered she’d escaped. She ran, lifting her skirts so she didn’t trip.

Once clear of the King’s Head, she ducked into a narrow alley. Her chest heaved as she gasped for breath.

Lucien.

Good grief. She wasn’t thinking too clearly. Mansfield had probably incarcerated Lucien at the King’s Head too, if he hadn’t killed him already.
Fool
. She’d have to go back and search for him.

Or find someone who knew of his location. The thought slid into her mind. She swallowed. She’d have to use her gift again, perhaps intimidate another person with stories of witchcraft.

Rumors would fly about St. Clare, and now Whittlebury, like mythical witches on broomsticks. People would point and jeer, if they didn’t try to burn her first. All hope of a normal life with Lucien seemed far away. Saving Lucien would effectively spell doom for her hopes of a secure future. Rosalind dithered, trying to decide on a course of action—help Lucien or seek aid from someone else. It was so late she had no idea who to turn to for help.

“Hello, dearie.” A filthy hand grasped her arm while another pinched her bottom. “Fancy company?”

Rosalind started. Panic pumped through her veins before she regained control. She straightened and glared down her nose at the leering men. “Let me go.”
Act like a weakling and you become weak
.

“Hoity-toity! Too good for a tumble with us.”

Rosalind scowled. “Do you know who I am?”

As she spoke, she opened her mind, letting one of the men’s thoughts wash through her. For the second time today she embraced her gift and shoved away the consequences. Too bad if people discovered her differences. Lucien’s life depended on her finding help. She loved him and could never live with the knowledge she hadn’t tried her best to save him.

Aha!
“Prudence won’t mind?” she asked, quirking one eyebrow at the man holding her captive.

The man jerked from her touch. Even in the dim light, she saw his face pale. But his friend laughed.

“What are you laughing about?” Rosalind glowered at the other man who still groped her backside with one wandering hand. “Your woman will cut your balls off if she catches you with your hands on another.”

The man removed his hands so quickly, Rosalind fell against the cold mud walls of a building. She’d only repeated his thoughts, but her cheeks felt fiery hot because of the coarse language she’d used.

“Yer a witch,” he snarled, but his strong tone conflicted with his stance. Shock showed clearly on his round face.

Intimidate. Yes. Rosalind stalked the closest man. Twice as wide and a foot taller, he backed away as if plague pustules covered her face. She suppressed a grin as heady power rushed through her, lending strength and resolve.

Both men cringed. “Don’t put no spells on us. We won’t tell anyone we seen you,” the bum fondler pleaded.

What he meant was he valued his home comforts. He didn’t want his woman to discover his roving eye. “The King’s Head. Tell me about the public house. Where are the cellars? Below or out the back of the building?” Rosalind eyed the men expectantly. When they stared at her in mute silence, she took one threatening step toward them. “Who runs the public house?”

“Digby,” the hulk blurted. “The building be old. Two buildings joined together.”

“Cellars?” Rosalind demanded.

“Rooms out the back.”

“There be cellars below,” the fondler added.

Rosalind nodded. The men backed from the alley. “Is there a cellar man or does Digby look after his own cellars?”

The men edged away until she could see only the one dark silhouette.

“Digby.” The man’s voice shook, but Rosalind wasn’t sure if it was her or Digby the men feared most. She wanted to demand more answers but the echoing thud of footsteps told her the cowards were fleeing. She made a click of disgust at the back of her throat. Two men twice her size, intimidated by her. Fancy that.

Rosalind exited the far end of the lane and scanned the road. Light spilled from the King’s Head, and customers overflowed from inside onto the street. Her light-colored gown stood out like a beacon. Wind whistled down the road, tearing her hair, plucking at her skirt. She yanked her hair away from her face and melted into the shadows of the buildings. A baker. A drapery. A blacksmith’s forge. The King’s Head took up the rest of the street.

When Rosalind reached the smithy, she turned down the alley running between it and the drapery. A stench made her nostrils flare. The farther she crept into the alley, the worse the smell became. Her eyes watered. Her stomach flipped in protest, but Rosalind kept moving. She needed to find a rear entrance to the public house before Mansfield discovered her absence.

The overhang from the roof obliterated every scrap of illumination. Rosalind heard a disgusting squelch coming from beneath her shoes. Swallowing her rising bile, she hastened her pace. Cautious steps sounded behind her, ratcheting up both fear and her vivid imagination. Rosalind ran. Her gown caught on something sharp. She yanked. The rip of fabric sounded before she wrenched free. Rosalind burst from the alley, her breaths coming in wheezy pants.

“Who’s there?” A man’s voice, low and husky, did nothing to slow her galloping heart.

She froze, trying to decide if he was friend or foe.

A dog’s growl sounded, mean and threatening.

“Don’t let him hurt me,” Rosalind begged. “Someone’s chasing me.”

“Show yerself.” The blunt voice sounded as frightening as the dog’s warning rumble.

Rosalind clutched her skirts and crept into the light. Off to her right, a huge man restrained a black dog by its collar. His large biceps and muscular shoulders told her she’d run into the blacksmith. But friend or foe? She halted close enough for him to see her, but far enough away for her to attempt to run if he meant harm.

“Sit,” he ordered the dog.

The dog sat, but didn’t take its eyes off Rosalind. Neither did the blacksmith.

“Lass, what are you doing out at this time of night? ’Tis not safe. A wee bit of a thing like you. The men from the King’s Head will eat you for dinner and spit out yer bones.”

Rosalind eyed him cautiously. “I think my husband is imprisoned at the King’s Head.” Tense, she studied his reaction. If he showed the slightest malice, she’d make a run for it.

He scratched at his sparse gray hair. “Aye. Strange goin’ on there. I try to stay out of it, mind, but a man gets curious.”

Rosalind edged closer. “Could you tell me where they’d keep a man imprisoned?”

“Cellars out back.” He nudged his head to the right. “Along there. Maybe upstairs.”

“Thank you.” Rosalind edged past the dog, heading toward the public house.

“I know you,” the smithy said. “You be the witch from St. Clare.”

“I’m not a witch,” Rosalind protested weakly. Lady Sophia and her malicious gossip had spread rumors faster and farther than Rosalind liked.

The man eyed her closely. “You have healing powers.”

Rosalind acquiesced with a bob of her head.

“Aye.” He nodded as if pleased he’d recognized her. “Thought as much. You be the one who saved my sister’s child when she ate poison berries. Thought she’d die, we did. Right grateful we are. I’ll come with you.”

The man looked like a mountain. He’d attract attention she could ill afford. Still, she was touched at his offer. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”

He hesitated. “If yer sure. Tell you what. If you need aid, summon me. There be plenty urchins about keen to earn coin.”

At last a man who wasn’t terrified of her gift. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

She left the smithy and tiptoed through the shadows. Light glowed from the public house, spreading out and dispersing the shadows so there was nowhere to hide. With her luck, someone would appear the moment she left hiding. Still, she couldn’t hover here till morning because they’d notice her absence by then.

For long seconds, she dithered. Then she took a deep breath and ran to the door at the rear of the public house, climbing the two steps that led into a porch. She grasped the handle and tugged. It was locked. Cocking her head, she listened, her ear close to the door. It sounded as though this entrance led directly into the main taproom. They’d hardly stash Lucien there. Frowning, Rosalind slid from the shelter of the porch and glanced farther along the building. A small, dilapidated structure, attached to the main part, caught her attention. The door looked almost new. Rosalind glanced both left and right, running across to investigate.

“Lucien,” she called in a low undertone. She gave the door a tentative knock with the back of her hand. “Are you in there?”

“Rosalind?” Shock and disbelief coated his voice.

He was there! Relief made tears well in her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but he spoke first.

“What the devil are you doing here?”

Rosalind’s eyes narrowed. He might be her husband, but he was also an ungrateful lout.

“Rosalind, are you there?”

“Of course I’m here.” After she freed her husband, she’d smack him over the head with a sharp object. That would knock sense into his addled brain. “I’m going to get you out. Do you know where the key is?”

“Listen. Leave me. Go and find help. Summon Charles, no, not him—the magistrate, but whatever you do, keep away from Mansfield. He’s dangerous.”

“I know he’s dangerous,” Rosalind snapped. “He kidnapped me. The man’s not only dangerous, he’s deranged and a smuggler. He murdered Mary. He’s the one you’ve been searching for. Mansfield is Hawk.”

“Hawk?
The bastard.
Rosalind!” Lucien roared. His voice carried a distinct edge this time. “For once in your life, do as you’re told. Go and summon help.”

Rosalind sighed. Unfortunately, without the key, she wouldn’t have a chance of setting him free. The door was made of strong English oak. “All right.” She’d go for help but intended to return.

She ran back in the direction she’d come from, uncaring if she was seen. Help was closer to hand than Charles. It was time to call in that favor after all.

It sounded as though she made a lot of noise as she raced to the smithy. Yet no one challenged her. A light shone from beneath the closed rear door of the blacksmith’s premises. Her fists pummeled the door. “Smithy!”

“’Old yer horses. I’m coming. Aye,” the giant man said, his voice a low rumble as he unlocked the door. “It’s you.”

Rosalind met his fearsome gaze without a flinch. “I’ve found my husband. Please, I need your help.”

The man stepped back inside. Rosalind’s jaw sagged. He wasn’t going to help? But then he returned, a rifle in his hands. Rosalind stared at the menacing weapon and opened her mouth to protest.

“Where is he? The cellar?”

Rosalind snapped her mouth shut. He was right. A weapon might prove necessary. She nodded. “Yes, if the small building to the side of the King’s Head is the cellar.”

“Stay here,” the smithy ordered, stuffing the gun out of sight beneath his grubby coat.

Her chin shot up. She was not staying put. And she was sick of men telling her they’d take care of her. She stepped forward and halted when the smithy gazed at her. Finally, she nodded. “He’s in the room over there. The door’s locked.” She’d wait just inside the door until he left.

Unhurried and heavy footsteps sounded. Rosalind strained to hear, her heart thumping against her ribs. When she could no longer hear his footsteps, she slipped from the smithy’s premises and followed.

At the corner of the public house, she paused. The smithy was at the door and, judging by the sounds, he was trying to break the lock. She sidled closer, but just as she was about to announce her presence, a man exited the rear door of the public house. Tall and familiar.

Mansfield.

Rosalind pressed against the wall in an effort to hide. When he rounded the small porch, he’d see the smithy at the locked door. Mansfield paused, glancing over his shoulder. Fear blossomed inside Rosalind. If he saw her or the smithy, the escape attempt would be over before it started, and she’d end up in France before they discovered her missing. Everyone at St. Clare would assume she and Lucien were together. The cowardly part of her wanted to close her eyes and pretend none of this was happening. Except, if she did that, Mansfield would grab her before she could escape.