Lady Rosabella's Ruse
Love. Wasn’t it love that had brought Rosa to Sussex and to the house of a woman with a less-than-stellar reputation? An actress who had married an elderly nobleman. When Rosa saw Lady Keswick’s advertisement for a companion at this house, so close to where Rosa had grown up, the opportunity had seemed heaven-sent.
And if she was wrong about her father’s love? What then? Her hands clenched inside her gloves. She would not let such doubts enter her head. The idea was too painful to contemplate.
‘Oh, I say, nice shot!’ Lady Keswick cried, dragging Rosa’s attention back to the contest. Lady Smythe had hit the bull and was now laughing up at Lord Bannerby. It was the first time she’d seen the young woman look even moderately happy since she’d arrived. Bannerby tucked a loose strand of copper hair behind a shell-like ear with a grin that said his intentions were all bad, while Stanford glowered at the pair from the sidelines as if he wanted to challenge Bannerby to a duel for that touch.
Jealousy between rival males. Something in Rosa’s chest felt uncomfortable, the way a pebble in a shoe felt. A painful irritation.
She really didn’t belong in this house. The sooner she left the better. And tonight’s search would end all her difficulties. It must.
Garth stared up at the haloed moon and drew on his cigar. He sent a stream of smoke upwards to form a cloud above his head. A fluky gust of wind whipped it away. He enjoyed a smoke before bed, yet hated the smell of stale cigars first thing in the morning. So here he stood on the terrace to blow a cloud after the rest of the guests had retired. Some to their own rooms. Some to those of other guests.
He grinned as he recalled Bannerby’s obvious confusion when he’d chased him away from Penelope’s door. Hopefully that would be an end to the man’s ambition.
His lip curled. All he needed to do now was get the foolish wench to go home before a braver man than Bannerby tried his luck. Hapton, for example.
Garth turned the cigar in his fingers and observed the glowing tip through narrowed eyes. If he could get her out of here quickly, perhaps Mark need never know.
A scandal of that sort would make life for Mark unbearable. Unsupportable. The stupid wench.
He drew hard on his cheroot, fury at her deception a low fire in his stomach.
The sky turned dark. Rain spattered on his shoulders and in his hair, left dark spots on the terrace flags in a sudden rush of wind. The shower ceased. The cloud cleared, leaving the moonlit landscape grey and full of shadows. He gazed at that telltale ring of moisture around the moon and the increasing number of clouds floating by. More rain to come.
A door opened and closed somewhere around the corner. Someone coming in or going out? Mildly curious, he stubbed out his cigar and strolled down the steps. As he rounded the corner, he glimpsed the back of a figure enveloped in a black cloak. A woman, he thought from the slender shape and quick short steps. A chambermaid off to meet her beau in the village? He frowned. If he remembered correctly, the village lay in the other direction. There was something familiar about the hurrying figure. One of the guests?
A smile pulled at his lips. Intrigue was rife in this house, but why would one of the guests need to leave the comfort of a well-appointed bed in pursuit of bliss? Tantalised, he followed and caught another glimpse of the quick-paced shadow disappearing into the woodland to the east of the house, then a whiff of jasmine.
Mrs Travenor? Rose. Her height should have given her away, but she was the last female he would have expected to see scurrying off to an assignation. Was he, then, so naïve? Hardly.
She might have purity in her face, but beneath her still surface, she was as wicked as any woman. A pang of disappointment stilled him. No, he wasn’t disappointed. He was glad. It meant his instincts about her were right. He would only be disappointed if she’d proved to be virtuous.
Arriving at the entrance to the woods a few moments later, Garth saw no sign of the woman. Paths led in three directions and, with no sound to guide him, he halted.
He inhaled. Was it imagination, or did a trace of her perfume linger on the rich damp air? Where was she going? It was not a good night to meet a man out of doors unless there was some handily placed folly somewhere in the grounds. A vision of the exotic Mrs Travenor in the arms of one of the burly gardeners filled his mind. Or might she prefer the cheeky butler? Neither image fit. Unease rolled through him.
A suspicion rose that the quiet widow might be up to something nefarious. If she was meeting a servant, or even one of the guests, she would not be heading into the woods. There were too many other convenient places, dry places, within doors or nearby. No, the lady had some other less straightforward purpose.
His jaw clenched. He lifted his face as rain pelted down. He felt the sting of it on his cheeks and eyelids and mentally shrugged. It was none of his business what Lady Keswick’s temptress-nun-come-companion did with her nights, no matter how much she aroused his curiosity.
Hell, she aroused more than that, he realized, as his blood thickened and an image rampaged through his mind of her dressed as a nun pressed up against a marble column with him filling her body. No wonder he was hard within the tight confines of his pantaloons.
Moonlight speared through a gap in the clouds, revealing nothing but trees and lawn.
A wry chuckle escaped his throat. Another lying little baggage keeping secrets. It would behove him, for the sake of his hostess, to find out what they were.
She’d gone out by the side door, and he did not doubt she would come back the same way.
Rosa stopped to listen. Had she heard footsteps on the flagstones behind her? A shiver ran down her back at the thought of one of Lady Keswick’s dissolute guests finding her out here alone in the dark. Whoever or whatever she’d heard, there was no sound of them now. Aside from the wind in the trees, the whole world seemed remarkably quiet. Any creature with any sense was huddled somewhere out of the wind and rain. She pulled her cloak tighter around her and continued on.
Since she arrived two weeks ago, she’d several times walked this way in daylight, familiarising herself with the paths meandering through the park, ostensibly exercising Lady Keswick’s pug, Digger. The fat little thing hated to walk and in the end he’d sat down and refused to budge beyond the edge of the lawn. Now she was resorting to night-time expeditions.
On one of her earlier rambles, she’d found the shortcut leading to the woods belonging to Gorham Place, the square red-bricked mansion where she’d lived out her childhood. She trudged on.
Deep in the forest, at the edge of Lady Keswick’s estate, the sharp sound of fast-flowing water cut through the muffling effect of her hood. A fence blocked her path. In one of the brief moments of moonlight, she found the stile, an ancient right of way, leading to the bridge across the stream meandering between the two estates.
While the bridge was in a poor state of repair, she’d crossed back and forth several times during one of her daytime forays and knew it would safely hold her weight. Darkness slowed her steps to a crawl. She looked up at the sky, waiting for the moon to reappear and light her way. Rain slapped her in the face and she turned away, holding the hood close while the wind tugged at her skirts. As the cloud drifted on, she could see where the muddy footpath changed to the slippery wooden slats of the bridge.
Carefully holding the rough wooden railing, she crossed the shaky structure, testing her weight on each rotting plank before stepping forwards. At this rate it would take her all night to reach the house. Perhaps she should turn back and try on another evening, one with better weather.
Gritting her teeth, she pressed on. She couldn’t bear the thought of going back without at least looking upon the house where she had spent the happiest years of her life. In those days, she’d been secure in the knowledge of her parents’ affections. Now, as she crossed six feet of rotting wood, the doubts crowded in. She forced them to the back of her mind and hurried on, emerging from the trees and crossing the expanse of ill-kept lawn until she reached the drive. Stray moonbeams bounced off darkened windows revealing the house. Gorham Place.
Dear old house. So full of happy memories. Idle enquiry in the village had revealed no one lived here. The house had been let for a while after her father remarried, but now it lay empty and abandoned, with only a gardener employed to see to its maintenance. A man who would know her. But would he let her inside to search?
Her wet hem clinging to her ankles, she strode quickly to the walled courtyard around the back. A light flickered in an upper window of a cottage adjoining the stables.
Taking courage from a swift deep breath, she lifted the cottage’s iron knocker and let it fall with a loud bang. The sound echoed through the night.
Chapter Two
Heavy steps coming downstairs emanated from within. And then the echo of a chest-rattling cough. ‘Who is it?’ a voice wheezed.
‘Mr Inchbold,’ Rosa said. ‘It is Rosa Cavendish. Do you remember me?’ She held her breath, fearful and excited all at once. When she’d heard in the village of the guardian left here to mind the place, the familiar name had given her hope.
A bolt rasped in its hasp and the heavy oak door swung creaking back. ‘Lady Rosabella?’ the white-haired and bent old man said querulously. ‘Is it really you?’
Relief rushed through her in a warm flood of memories. ‘Yes. It is me. It was more than I dared hope to find our dear old Inchbold still here after all this time.’
Dim muddy eyes peered at her. The wrinkled face cracked a smile. ‘Welcome home, my lady. Welcome.’
It seemed so odd to be called my lady after weeks of being plain Mrs Travenor. ‘Thank you. I’m so happy you are here. Are you well?’
The gnarled hand holding the lantern on high trembled weakly. Not surprisingly. Inchbold had been ancient the last time she saw him, eight years before. ‘Well enough, my lady. Am I to open the gate? If you’ve a carriage, there are no grooms, no servants. Best if ye go to the inn in the village. Come back in the morning. Is your grandfather with you?’
She swallowed. ‘No carriage. Only me. I wondered if you might let me in the house?’
A gust of wind whipped around the corner of the cottage, bringing another smattering of rain. The lantern flickered and died to no more than a glow, then flared up.
‘Come in, child, come in. No sense in standing out in the rain.’ He turned and led the way down a short passage past the stairs into a small square parlour stuffed full of old furniture. He brushed half-heartedly at a chair, sending a cloud of dust upwards. ‘Sit down, dear girl.’
She perched on the chair edge just as she had as a small child, while he set the lamp on the table. He peered down at her, his bushy white brows drawing together over his hooked nose. The lines on his face had deepened and spread out over his face. Shiny pink scalp covered his head, apart from the odd tuft of thin white hair. ‘What brings you to Gorham Place at this time of night after all these years, my lady?’
Even bent as he was, and trembling, shades of the man he’d been clung to his shoulders. As steward and trusted retainer, he’d been kindly but firm to his master’s daughters.
‘I really did not expect to find you here after all this time,’ she said. ‘When they mentioned your name in the village, I had to see for myself.’
He gave a gusty sigh. ‘When your grandfather closed up the house and took the knocker off the door last year, I thought of applying for a new position elsewhere, but he needed someone to keep an eye on the place, maintain the grounds, like, so I offered. Too old to start again. But why are you here?’
She clenched her hands in her lap. ‘My father’s will was never found. This is the only place I can think to look.’
Inchbold frowned, his lined face a map of crevasses. ‘Your grandfather searched, my lady. He went through everything in the house.’
Disappointment, sorrow, bitter defeat tangled in her chest, leaving her breathless from the pain. She stared at her twisting fingers, blinking away a hot rush of moisture. Finally, she drew a breath around the lump in her throat. ‘I see.’
When she could bring herself to raise her gaze, Inchbold’s brown eyes regarded her sadly. ‘There is one thing I recall. I didn’t mention it to your grandfather. It didn’t seem important at the time.’
She forced herself not to hope. ‘What is it?’
‘Not long after your ma died, I had occasion to visit your father in his study. He had me and the footman, William, that was here then, sign a paper. Witness to his signature.’
Hope unfurled a tentative shoot. ‘You think it was a will?’
He shook his head. ‘It could have been anything. Not my business to ask.’
‘Then I must search for myself.’
At his expression of shock, she clenched her hands together. ‘It is too important to trust anyone else. I can’t believe Father did not make provision for me and my sisters.’
‘How are Lady Meg and Lady Sam?’
‘Well,’ she said, lying to save the old man’s feelings. Sam had never recovered from an ague caught out in the rain and Meg was losing hope. She leaned forwards, closing the distance between her and the old man, looking into his dull brown eyes. ‘Dear Inchbold, won’t you let me in the house for old times’ sake? I promise Grandfather will never know.’
He shook his head.
Rosa wanted to scream. To throw herself at his feet and beg. She straightened her spine. ‘Why not?’
‘The woman who comes to dust once a week has the key.’
She frowned. ‘But you can get it?’
Unwillingly, he nodded. ‘Tomorrow, I can. But last week Barrington, your grandfather’s solicitor, came down from London and showed a gentleman around. He’s leased the house starting the first of the month.’
Her stomach dropped. She’d wasted too much time, hesitating in fear of finding nothing, preferring to dream of a perfect answer to her problems. She shot up from the chair and paced to the window. ‘Then I must begin right away. Tomorrow night.’
All this time, she’d held on to the flicker of hope their father had kept his word, despite every derogatory thing her grandfather had said about his feckless fanciful heir and his dreadful foreign first wife. Rosa had clung to the belief that sooner or later the will would be found. She’d worked and schemed so she could search for herself and then she’d hesitated.
Such a coward.
She turned to face him, looking into his worried face. ‘Please, dear Mr Inchbold. It won’t take long. A few hours at most.’
‘All right. I’ll get the key, tomorrow. Where will I find you?’
‘At the Grange. I am employed as Lady Keswick’s companion.’
Horrified, he gaped at her. ‘You are staying at that den of iniquity? The parish is up in arms about her buying the place. The gentry won’t have nothing to do with her. Oh, my lady, how could you?’
Rosa drew herself up straight. ‘How could I what, Mr Inchbold?’
He stared at her, his eyes wide, his jaw slack. ‘Did anyone tell you, you are just like your mother?’
‘Frequently. But not as a compliment.’
He winced. ‘Well, you should be proud, you should. She was a fine woman, your mother. A proper lady, no matter what they said.’
‘She was an opera singer from Italy, Mr Inchbold. The reason my grandfather cut my father off without a penny until she died.’ And now he was doing the same to her daughters.
He looked sad. ‘His lordship would never leave you and your sisters with nothing. While ‘tis more than my job is worth to help you search, I’ll turn a blind eye.’
Relief flooded through her. At last someone who cared. ‘Thank you, Inchbold.’ She rose to her feet and hesitated, pressing her lips together. ‘You won’t tell Grandfather you’ve seen me, will you?’
A wheezy cackle ended in a cough. ‘Lord, my lady, your grandpa don’t come nigh or near this place. He certainly doesn’t communicate with the likes of me. Nor I with him. Just with old Barrington.’
Naturally. Grandfather was far too high in the instep to have anything to do with servants or the children of an opera singer, even if they were his own flesh and blood.
She smiled and patted his hand. ‘Thank you, dear Mr Inchbold. I will return tomorrow evening. Oh, and by the way, I go by the name of Mrs Rose Travenor.’
His frown deepened. ‘Be careful, my lady. Your Grandpa is not a man to cross.’
As her parents had discovered.
Only the torches at the doors gave off any light as Rosa approached The Grange. As it should be. She slipped quietly around to the side door she’d left open. Her heart picked up speed. What if someone had come along and locked it? Slowly she lifted the latch and pushed. The door swung back on silent hinges.
She let go a sigh of relief and stepped over the threshold.
A large warm body smelling of cigars and sandalwood blocked her way. A man. She leapt back.
The man grabbed her arm and raised a lamp high. She blinked in the glare shining on her face, unable to see her assailant. ‘Back so soon, Mrs Travenor?’ he mocked. ‘Whoever you are meeting can’t be much good if he is finished already.’
Stanford. She recognised his voice. A flash of heat followed by the cold of dread left her breathless. She drew herself up to her full height. ‘Stand aside, Lord Stanford.’
He hung the lamp on a hook on the wall. It cast eerie shadows on his harsh features. She shivered. ‘Please, let me pass.’ She made to push by him.
He put a hand against the wall, blocking her way.
She could feel the heat of his body only inches from hers, his dark insolent gaze raking her face. ‘Where have you been?’
Her heart rattled. Her breath quickened. ‘Out for a walk.’
‘At this time of night?’ He made no attempt to hide his disbelief.
‘Where I go is none of your business.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he mused, not moving an inch. ‘But Lady Keswick might be interested to hear about her little companion’s forays into the night. Or does she already know?’ The amused smile on his lips made her want to hit him.
He lifted a hand and brushed back the hood of her cloak, trailed a finger down the side of her face. ‘Who are you meeting, hmm? A lover? Or some man you must meet in secret because … he has mischief on his mind?’
Inwardly, she trembled. She hated how weak he made her feel, as if her knees had no more substance than overcooked asparagus. She straightened her shoulders and forced herself to meet his dark gaze and saw more than she expected. Heat.
She drew in a shaky breath. ‘Lady Keswick has no interest in what I do in my free time.’
He laughed. A cruel low chuckle, full of arrogance. ‘And if I tell her I suspect you are up to no good, if I tell her I suspect you have some criminal intent sneaking out at night? What then, do you think?’
She edged back, away from the heat of his body, free of his overbearing presence that seemed to scramble every thought in her head. ‘Why are you wandering the halls at night?’ she asked haughtily.
His smile broadened. ‘Waiting for you.’ His low murmur was a silky stroke to her ear. ‘I saw you leave.’
A shiver slid down her spine, far too pleasant to be entirely fear driven. The thought of such a man waiting for her was far too distracting. Her brain seemed full of him, instead of coming up with a reasonable explanation.
‘Well, here I am,’ she said, lifting her chin and meeting that penetrating gaze full on. Pride that her voice held steady, despite the trembles rushing through her body, gave her courage. ‘And you can tell Lady Keswick whatever you wish. Now if you would excuse me, I would like to retire.’
His eyes widened a fraction. He turned sideways and leaned against the wall, tipping his dark head back. ‘Not until you tell me where you were.’
‘Why?’
‘Let us say I am curious.’
She swallowed. ‘I told you, I went for a walk.’
He turned to face her, his eyes gleaming. ‘In the woods, in the pouring rain?’
‘I couldn’t sleep. I find the fresh air helps.’
‘I know an excellent cure for insomnia I’d be willing to share.’
The salacious undertone in his voice sent shivers across her shoulders. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you.’
He chuckled softly. ‘Such a polite little nun. And yet I do think you are tempted.’ He leaned closer.
Tempted? She stared up at him, staring at the smile on his sensual mouth a mere whisper away, the scent of brandy and cigars filling her nostrils. If she leaned forwards just a fraction, she had the feeling he would kiss her.
Her lips tingled at the thought of how his mouth might feel on her lips. Her body ached to be held close to that magnificent breadth of chest. A moan of longing rose in her throat and only by dint of will did she stop from giving it voice.
Heaven help her, he was tempting. The man was a rake and a libertine and he thought her a widow. An experienced woman.
Her heart banged a fearful tattoo against her ribs. Her blood ran in rivers of molten lava. Did he know the effect he was having? A swift glance into his eyes told her he had no doubt about what he was doing. He was playing with her. Tormenting her the way a cat toyed with a mouse.
‘Let me pass,’ she said, knowing she was begging for release, not from physical restraint, but from the spell holding her enthralled.
‘Tell me where you went and I will let you pass. If you are sure you really want to go.’
She swallowed. ‘How many times must I repeat myself before you believe me?’
His smile turned hard. He stepped back and bowed. He gestured for her to continue on. ‘Then I must bid you goodnight and hope you find sleep.’
A breath she didn’t know she’d been holding rushed from her parted lips. Ignominiously, she ducked her head and scuttled past him. For some reason, she felt curiously disappointed.
Oh, dear. It seemed she really had wanted that kiss.
The showers of last evening had turned into a steady drizzling rain overnight. Most of the company gathered in the library around two in the afternoon. Tucked in a quiet corner at her employer’s elbow with her needlework, Rosa forced herself to hide her impatience for the day to be over and her night of searching to begin.
Her only fear was Stanford saying something to Lady Keswick and preventing her from going back to Gorham Place tonight. He couldn’t.
Digger snuffled and snorted through his dreams, using her feet as his own special pillow.
While the men conversed about the sports news in desultory tones, the elegant ladies compared notes on various creams and potions designed to improve their complexions. Lady Smythe and Lord Stanford had yet to put in an appearance.
Every so often, Lord Bannerby kept looking at the door with a frown. Poor man. He was clearly suffering.
The door opened and Lady Smythe sauntered in dressed in a morning gown of blue muslin with rows and rows of diamond-pointed lace at the hem and cuff. Her copper-coloured curls created a halo around her head. She looked like a fairy queen. ‘It is still raining,’ she announced.
Observant as well as beautiful. Oh, dear. Was the acerbic wit of these ladies rubbing off? It wasn’t Lady Smythe’s fault her petite beauty made Rosa feel ungainly.
The various groups scattered around the room looked up and offered greetings.
‘What on earth will we do now?’ Lady Smythe said. Her rosy lips formed tragic lines. ‘We were to go riding. I had my outfit all picked out. It took me ages to find something else.’
An excuse for her tardiness? And still no sign of Lord Stanford.