The Spurned Viscountess (8 page)

“I saw only two men, but there may have been three. The trees and undergrowth were so thick it was difficult to tell.”

“And what happened?” He’d see how deep she would dig herself in with lies.

“Mary and I were walking along the path, following Mistress Baker’s directions to get to the Miller cottage. The directions she gave us took us through the forest.” She gestured at the trees behind them. “I thought Mary was behind me, but she wasn’t. I heard something crashing through the undergrowth. A deer bounded across the path in front of me. The next minute the men arrived, and they started shooting.”

“A deer? It sounds as if the men were hunting and you managed to get in the way.”

Her chin jerked up. “The men were shooting at me. I heard them say so. And if they were hunting, why did they grab Mary?”

Lucien found himself staring in fascination. Her argument had brought a delicate color to her cheeks while her blue eyes had darkened. They flashed at him, leaving him in no doubt of her feelings. She was furious because he doubted her. He wondered if he were wrong. Perhaps she was innocent.

“It is my feeling,” he said, scrutinizing her closely, “that someone wanted me dead. They hoped I’d lose control of Oberon and suffer a fall bad enough to kill me. What have you to say to that?”

“What have I—” She broke off to glare at him. “Come, Mary. I desire a bath.” With that, she whirled away and stomped down the slight hill, her maid trailing her.

The maid was limping, Lucien saw as he resumed a slow walk after the two women. Had she lied? She appeared dirty and windblown, but no more so than after a vigorous walk. Then he recalled the absolute disgust when she’d realized he thought she’d made the whole story up, followed by sheer incredulity on her expressive face. Lucien’s scar drew tight when he frowned, then slackened when his mouth eased into rueful humor. Ten minutes ago he’d been sure, but now he doubted his first instincts.

He ambled after the women into the village. This time the villagers appeared a mite friendlier, with the children swarming about the two women while the womenfolk bobbed brisk greetings as they went about their business.

When they walked past the public house, a stooped figure limped from the stables. His head was swathed in a grubby white bandage.

“Matthew.” Rosalind darted forward before pulling up in consternation. “Whatever happened to you?”

“Aye,” the maid chimed in. “We waited for you.” She looked him up and down and drew back suddenly. “Have you been drinking?”

Lucien winced at her shrill screech. The footman did too, his hands creeping up to hold his head. A large rip ran the length of his green St. Clare livery, while mud and straw splattered his white stockings. Lucien’s nose twitched when he stepped closer. Along with the pungent aroma of whisky, he smelled the distinct odor of stable manure.

“Have you been sitting in Nag’s Head drinking?” the maid demanded again.

“Shush. Let the man speak.” The English mouse stepped alongside the footman and touched him gently on the upper arm. A small gasp escaped his wife. Lucien sent her a curious glance. The color fled her face, leaving her cheeks pale. “I expect your head hurts, Matthew.” She turned to Lucien. “Is there somewhere Matthew can sit down?”

Lucien snorted. Matthew wouldn’t sit if he had his way. The footman had neglected his duties. He’d be lucky if he kept his job. “Explain,” he said curtly. There were a few too many accidents for his liking. He glanced at Rosalind. Beads of blood on her jaw line snagged his attention. A scratch. Concern welled, taking him by surprise. Pushing aside the unease, he concentrated on the footman. Lucien didn’t want to feel anything for the English mouse.

“I was on my way to meet up with Lady Hastings, just like ye told me.” He paused, saw the look on Lucien’s face and wavered on his feet.

“Sit, man,” Lucien snapped. “Before you fall.”

The footman slumped against one of the wooden pillars at the entrance to the Nag’s Head. “Took a short cut, I did, through the small alley that runs behind the stables. Someone hit me on the noggin. That’s the last I remember.”

Lucien studied the footman, weighing his words.

“Why do you smell like the bottom of a whisky barrel?” the red-haired maid asked.

Lucien bit back amusement. All he needed to do was stand and glower. The maid would ask the questions.

“Hush, Mary. Can’t you see Matthew is in no condition for your questions? We need a wagon or cart to transport him to the castle.”

“A cart?” Lucien said.

His wife drew herself up. “Can’t you see he has a headache? Matthew is in no condition to walk.”

Very well. Lucien’s eyes narrowed at his wife’s tone. He would organize a cart for the footman, but he had every intention of interrogating the man back at the castle.

Rosalind hurried down the dimly lit passageway, painfully aware she was very late for dinner. She glanced down at her puce-colored gown and the cream lace ruffles Mary had added at the last moment in an effort to improve the style. Not that she’d had much choice with the gown. Unbelievably, someone had entered her chamber whilst she was asleep and stolen every single item of clothing from her dressing room. The idea of someone watching her during an afternoon nap made her equally uncomfortable and angry. Yes, angry! Uneasiness assailed her every time she spent time in her chamber. It was like the weight of a stare constantly at her back, but now her apprehension was ten times worse. Someone had violated her privacy.

The chime of a clock made her hasten with an inelegant burst of speed. When she turned the corner, she paused to take a deep breath before sailing into the dining room with a pleasant smile fixed to her face.

“I’m sorry I’m so late,” she apologized. Bother, she hadn’t known they were having dinner guests. Why hadn’t someone told her? Mary hadn’t known either or she would have informed her.

The gentlemen stood, and Rosalind headed for the lone unoccupied seat. Of course, it was next to Lady Augusta.

Hastings stepped around the table and pulled out the chair for her. Rosalind couldn’t help but notice the quick, cursory inspection he gave her gown. Inclining her head in thanks, she slid into her chair while Hastings returned to his seat at the far end of the table. Every muscle in her body tensed when Lady Sophia engaged Hastings in conversation, even though she avoided looking at his flawed face. He leaned closer, and one of Lady Sophia’s delicate white hands fluttered out to touch him on the arm. Rosalind gritted her teeth. Why did that woman insist on flirting with her husband?

“What on earth are you wearing?” Lady Augusta asked.

“Looks like one of her maid’s gowns,” Lady Pascoe said.

Two bright red patches on her cheeks highlighted Lady Augusta’s anger. “Are you trying to make the St. Clare family look as if they require funds from the poor-box? That’s what the neighbors will think when they see the state of your gown.” She spoke in an undertone but still managed to stress her displeasure.

Rosalind inhaled sharply, struggling to hold back the angry words fighting for release. She picked up the glass of wine one of the footmen poured for her. “Someone stole my clothes.”

“Stole…Idiotic girl. Why would anyone want to steal your clothes? They are hardly the latest London fashions.”

“I have no idea.” Rosalind’s hand tightened around her wineglass until her knuckles showed white.

Lady Pascoe guffawed loud enough to turn heads. “Stole your clothes,” she screeched. “That’s the best story I’ve heard in weeks! Hastings wouldn’t buy you new ones, eh?” Chortling loudly, she slapped one hand on the wooden tabletop. “Congratulations! He’s going to have to buy you some now.”

“Elizabeth.” Lady Augusta’s displeasure cut her friend off mid-cackle. “This is a family matter. I do not wish the entire village to hear.”

“Soup, my lady?”

Rosalind nodded at the footman. He deftly served the turtle soup, allowing her a few moments of peace. This was going to be another difficult dinner.

The moment the footman finished and moved on, Lady Augusta started again. “I found that witch’s cat wandering outside my chamber. Your red-haired maid chased it about for fifteen minutes, disturbing my rest. I want the beast gone.”

Rosalind’s chin jerked up. “Hastings said I might keep it.” Lady Augusta’s frown didn’t diminish, and she thought she’d better try appeasement plus an apology. “I’m sorry the kitten disturbed you. I’ll make sure he stays in my chamber in future.”

“See you do, or I’ll order one of my footmen to drown the filthy beast.”

Rosalind sighed, knowing it was best to hold her tongue. She applied her attention to the delicate green soup.

The minute the women left the gentlemen to their port and pipe smoking, Rosalind escaped to the garden. Lady Augusta saw her heading for the door, but Rosalind ignored her summons by pretending not to notice.

Outside in the garden it was blissfully peaceful. Exactly what she needed in order to think about all that had happened this day. The graveled path crunched under her shoes while a light breeze whistled through the garden, rustling leaves in a pleasant musical sound. She passed the formal rose beds and kept walking until she reached a small pagoda overlooking the sea. At this time of night, all she could see was an inky blackness, but the swish of the waves was soothing. She sank onto a padded seat and let out a soft sigh.

“Why did I know I would find you out here on your own?”

Rosalind barely flinched at Hastings’s question. On an inner level, she’d known they would meet out here. It was becoming a ritual of sorts, meeting in the garden after dinner.

“I was thinking about the day’s events,” she murmured, very aware of his scent, his closeness. “What did Matthew say?” In the soft light of the torches, Hastings’s face expressed surprise. “I know you talked to him.”

Hastings hesitated then sat beside her. His thigh touched hers for an instant before he inched away. “Someone hit him on the head. He says he saw the man’s face but didn’t recognize him.”

Rosalind nodded. That was exactly what she’d read when she’d touched his arm. He hadn’t lied. “Do you believe him?”

“The man has a lump the size of a goose egg on the back of his head. It’s obvious he hit his head somehow. But he smelled like he’d bathed in whisky. He denies taking a drink. Why are you wearing that God-awful gown?” he asked, changing the subject with a suddenness that startled her.

“Because someone stole every gown from my chamber while I slept.” Would he believe her?

“I heard Lady Pascoe’s theory. Is she right?”

“No, she’s not,” Rosalind snapped, incensed he would think such a thing.

“Hmm.”

Irritated, she leaped to her feet. “I wouldn’t do something like that.” Her cousin Miranda would, but the idea of Hastings thinking her capable of such childish schemes upset her. “There is something odd going on, Hastings. Today someone shot at me, Mary was tied up, Matthew was hit on the head, and someone tried to kill you. And when I woke up this evening, I discovered someone had removed every single gown from my dressing room.”

Hastings shrugged. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable answer for everything that’s occurred. You interrupted men hunting. And I’m not convinced Matthew is telling the truth.”

He didn’t believe that. Rosalind was convinced of it. If she were to read him, she was sure her theory would hold. She glanced at Hastings and found him staring out to sea. Using her sight was an obvious solution, but did she really want to know his thoughts? Did she want a reminder of how deeply he loved the woman he held inside his heart?

Rosalind nibbled on her bottom lip. Who was the woman? Where was she now? Something awful must have happened to her, or else Hastings would never have married her. But what? Rosalind crept closer to Hastings as she worked up her nerve. She took a deep breath and slowly reached for his forearm and the sliver of tanned skin below his jacket cuff. Without warning, Hastings turned to face her. Her hand hovered in midair before dropping to her side.

They stared at each other for a long time. Rosalind swallowed, a shudder of excitement streaking through her body. This close, she saw his scar in merciless detail. Yet she didn’t notice the puckered, ruined flesh anymore. She saw Hastings.

The man.

His dark eyes bored into hers, trapping her helplessly in his gaze. Rosalind realized she wanted this man, her husband, to love her in the way he loved the dark-haired mystery woman. And if reading him with her sight helped her to learn him, she would touch him and open herself up to possible hurt because there was no other alternative.

This was the way forward to the future she envisioned for herself.

“What are you staring at?” He sounded defensive, and she automatically reached out in the hope of soothing him, her fingers colliding with the back of his hand.

The vision was more powerful with each touch. Crisp and clear, it was like being there. This time, she saw Hastings and the woman riding horses. They wore dusty clothes and maintained a slow pace so it was obviously a journey of some type. Two men rode with them, neither of them familiar to Rosalind.

Suddenly the vision changed. Hastings stood alone in the bow of a boat. Ahead of him, a chalky cliff jutted from the sea. The coast of England. Questions burned at her lips. She scanned his face. The raw and primitive grief on Hastings’s face made her ache to comfort him. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hug him tight. She wanted to tell him all would be well. Feeling like a sneak, she jerked her hand from his warm skin.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, striving for a natural voice.

The glazed look of despair disappeared from his face, replaced by gritty determination. “What are you talking about?”

“Your thoughts didn’t look pleasant.”

His firm mouth twisted with annoyance. “It was nothing.”

“There’s something strange happening at Castle St. Clare.” Rosalind was determined to persuade him the unusual occurrences weren’t the product of her overactive imagination. “What about your accident today? Have you discovered more?”

The flicker of impatience that slid across his face made her teeth grit together. Those men had wanted her dead. She would make him believe—if it was the last thing she did.

“It’s time we returned to our guests.”

Rosalind planted her hands on her hips, desperate for him to understand. “I’m watched all the time.”

“Servants,” he drawled with distinct mockery. “The castle is full of them.”

“Not in my room.” To her annoyance, her hands shook. Rosalind promptly hid them behind her back. “I feel as though I’m being watched every time I’m alone in my room. And before we were married, I was—” She stopped midsentence. It wasn’t difficult to see that Hastings thought she was imagining things or, worse, trying to attract his attention by making up tales. She intercepted his sardonic look and instantly her face burned with humiliation.

“Come,” he said, clearly impatient. “Our guests await.” In a silent order to obey, he offered his arm to escort her back inside the castle.

Both frustrated and irritated, Rosalind wanted to stomp her foot and shout at him for his foolishness. He should listen to her. But instead, she meekly accepted his escort. She’d have to think of another way and soon. Every instinct inside screamed that the escalating pranks would catch a victim before long.

Hastings led her into the Chinese Drawing Room. “Would you like coffee or chocolate?”

“Chocolate, thank you.” Her heart beat a little faster as their gazes met and held. Under his lazy appraisal, the deficiencies in her dress leaped out to taunt her.

“Ah, Hastings. There you are. I’ve been looking for you.” Lady Sophia batted her eyelids at him. “Lady Hastings. How…ah…interesting you look. Would you like me to give you my seamstress’s card? Of course, she’s very expensive but worth every penny, I think.” She smoothed white gloves over her form-fitting blue-and-white gown.

Rosalind’s backbone straightened and a rude word popped into her head. She wished Lady Sophia would cease her prattle and stop rubbing her breasts against Hastings’s arm. Censuring words trembled at the tip of her tongue, ready to spill forth, but Hastings took a half step away from Lady Sophia before she could utter them. The move brought him closer to her.

“Would you like some new gowns?” Hastings’s voice sounded low and husky and sent a shower of tingles shooting through her body.

Anticipation surged through her. Was it her imagination or was Hastings warming toward her? “I—”

“I could come with you,” Lady Sophia butted in. “To help you select the perfect gowns to show off your…ah…coloring.” She turned to simper at Hastings’s chin and blinked rapidly while her mouth curved into an artful smile.

It didn’t take much imagination for Rosalind to visualize the type of gowns she’d end up with if Lady Sophia had her way.

Lady Pascoe thumped to a stop beside them and leaned heavily on her walking cane. “Gel, do you have something wrong with your eyes?” she demanded, squinting at Lady Sophia.

“No, there’s nothing wrong with my eyes,” Lady Sophia said, puzzled.

“Then why do you keep blinkin’ ’em as if you had bugs inside?” As usual, Lady Pascoe hollered.

Rosalind caught her bottom lip between her teeth, trying in vain not to laugh. Two young men standing across the room were not so charitable. Their loud raucous guffaws were contagious, and Rosalind’s gaze dropped to concentrate on an intricate Oriental urn.

“Really,” Lady Sophia snapped.

“And what do you think of your wife’s gown, Hastings? Shocking, ain’t it?”

Lady Sophia simpered. “The color is atrocious.”

“Humph! Wasn’t talking to you.” Lady Pascoe peered up at Hastings, waiting for his answer.

Rosalind froze, her knees knocking together beneath the skirts of the puce dress as everyone in the Chinese parlor collectively waited for his reply.

Hastings slipped his arm around her waist and his mouth curled into an uncharacteristic smile. A sensuous smile that made Rosalind’s breath catch. “My wife has a pure heart.”

The walking stick thumped on the floor. Lady Pascoe’s head bobbed under her powdered wig. “Prettily said, Hastings.”

Several of the dinner guests readied to depart. Rosalind suppressed a yawn.

“Go up to your chamber.” Hastings removed his arm from around her waist, leaving Rosalind bereft.

“Good night.” Rosalind turned and slowly walked to the door.

She couldn’t prevent a glance over her shoulder at her husband, but he was already deep in discussion with Lady Sophia. Simpering ninny! The way she fluttered her eyelashes at Hastings and acted so superior about gowns and the latest fashion irritated her in the extreme. Of course, Lady Sophia thought she knew everything. Rosalind snorted. She wasn’t stupid. Lady Sophia wanted her husband or at least his title. Humph! Not if she had anything to do with the matter.

Then there was Hastings. Rosalind glared at a graceful statue depicting Diana, the huntress. Stubborn man. He’d rejected her warnings to take care even though a child could read the situation with ease.