A Most Sinful Proposal (18 page)

T
he door opened a fraction and Augustus Von Hautt’s heart began to speed up. Sometimes lately his heart beat so hard that it hurt his chest, and he had to put his hand over it, to hold it in. This was one of those moments.

“There you are,” the familiar voice said, and the door closed again. “I was worried.”

“You told me to come here when I needed to.”

“Of course I did. Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, shivering a little. He’d lit the fire but the chimney was full of soot and wouldn’t draw properly.

“Look. I have some food for you. Eat up and you’ll feel better. You always feel better when you’ve eaten.”

It was true, he did feel better on a full stomach.

“Why did you frighten Lady Longhurst?”

He met those familiar eyes and looked away. “She deserved it. My mother…”

“Augustus, you can’t go about punishing people because they remind you of your mother. You loved your mother, you know you did.”

“I hardly knew her.”

“Well,
she
loved
you
.”

He finished the food and pushed back his chair with a sigh. He did feel better now. But so weary; his eyelids were drooping.

“You’re the only one who has ever loved me, Bo-bo,” he murmured, using the old childhood name, the sound of it comforting him.

He could hear the fire being stoked, the warmth spreading through him as he dozed. He knew there were things to do, important things. He had to find the rose, but that could wait until tomorrow, when Valentine set off after the final name on his list.

Beauchamp.

Was it fate? Or just luck? Well, whatever it was, Augustus was pleased things had worked out this way. The end was coming.

Soon he would have completed his life’s work and he would finally be able to rest.

V
alentine hadn’t visited the town of Bentley Green before, and he found it an industrious little place. Bentley Green was a market town, and because it was market day there were numerous people about, competing with the noise made by the farm animals penned in the market square. Stalls had been set up, selling eggs and cheeses and other farm produce, while children played at tiggy around the barrows and carts. Marissa laughed at a farmer who stood with his booted feet apart, discussing the weather and shouting encouragement to his flustered wife, as she chased an escaped goose through the melee.

They left their horses and carriage at a stable and set off to find what information they could on the Beauchamps. Before too long George declared he was hungry.

“We should have bought another picnic basket,” he added. “Why didn’t you think to tell Mrs. Beamauris to pack it, Valentine?”

“I have more important things to think of than your stomach, George.”

“Nothing is more important than my stomach,” George declared.

Marissa giggled.

She seemed happy today and he played at being happy, too, although he was beginning to wonder if he’d ever find the Crusader’s Rose. The rose had filled his life for so long that he didn’t know what he’d do without it, and yet, strangely, the idea did not fill him with despair. Not when Marissa was by his side.

There were two taverns in Bentley Green: the Fox and Hounds, which had a private parlor, and The Crosskeys, which didn’t. They chose the former.

At first the landlord of the Fox and Hounds was reluctant to hire the parlor out to them.

“We have plenty of so-called gentlemen willing to pay to seat themselves in here away from the common folk,” he said suspiciously, looking Valentine up and down. “Why should I let you have the whole parlor for only three persons when I can fit a full dozen in there?”

“Because I am Lord Kent and I do not want to share,” Valentine said in a cold and haughty voice.

The man returned his stare, and then gave a respectful nod. “Fair enough then, Your Lordship. This way.”

Valentine caught George’s grin at Marissa as they made their way down the narrow, musty passage. “Valentine is an approachable fellow most of the time, but don’t ever forget he’s a lord of the realm.”

“Being a lord of the realm comes in handy,” Valentine retorted, “as you may find out one day.”

“Never,” his brother said firmly. “I am not hang
ing out for your title, Valentine. That is yours to pass down to your son.”

Caught by surprise, Valentine’s gaze slid to Marissa and quickly away again. She was looking down, her face in shadow, but he was certain he saw the curve of her mouth, and her dimple, and wondered what she was thinking.

The parlor was shabby but at least they were able to eat their meal in peace, and the food was well-cooked and plentiful. The landlord followed the serving girl in and asked if all was to their liking. From his change in attitude it was obvious he’d made inquiries about Lord Kent and, liking what he’d heard, hoped to do further business with him.

Valentine took the opportunity to question him about the Beauchamp family.

“Beauchamp? Aye, I know them. What do you want with them, if I may be so bold, Your Lordship?”

“That’s none of your business. Answer the question.”

The landlord of the Fox and Hounds seemed to respond well to Valentine’s autocratic manner. “They used to live in the great house about two miles south of Bentley Bottom, but one of the Beauchamps had a liking for London gambling tables and they went bust and lost it, oh, probably two generations ago. Now and then the place gets leased by visiting gentry, but it’s been empty for a year or more. Too big, you see, and in need of too many repairs.”

“And what happened to the family after they lost the house?” Marissa asked.

“Some of them still live in the village but now
they’s as poor as church mice. The rest are scattered far and wide.”

“And this house…it was definitely the only one owned by them?”

“Used to be owned by them. Aye. There was another house on the same land before that one, but it was pulled down to make way for this present one. At the time the Beauchamp lady wanted everything bigger and better—she even had the flower beds and the orchard dug up, so’s she could plant a garden in the new fashion. Ten years later they lost everything.”

Grimly Valentine nodded his dismissal.

“She had the flower beds dug up?” Marissa repeated, when they were alone again. She didn’t need to say more; they were all thinking it.

Is there any point in looking for the Crusader’s Rose?

“We have to make certain,” Valentine said. “Even if it is not the original building the land has been in the family for centuries. The rose may have seeded into the new garden.”

Once more he was clutching at straws and he knew it, but he couldn’t afford not to be thorough in his search. If he missed something and then Von Hautt found it, he’d never be able to live with himself.

Back in the market place, the stallholders were beginning to pack away their wares and the farmers were loading up their carts and preparing for the journey home. The weather had been fine for days, but now the summer sun had disappeared beneath a bank of cloud, and there was a distinct smell of approaching rain in the air.

It didn’t take them long to collect their equipage and horses and set off to the south. Bentley Bottom was a scatter of cottages, soon passed. None of them spoke as they headed along the road, fields on one side and a thick copse of trees on the other. As they left the shelter of the trees Marissa suddenly made a little sound in her throat, and Valentine turned to see what was wrong.

She was staring to her left. “How utterly horrible,” she said with a shudder.

The house was like a great dark bird, glaring down at them, and even Valentine, who was usually not susceptible to atmosphere, felt a prickle of dread.

“Good God.”

“Is that it, do you think? The Beauchamp house?”

She sounded as if she hoped not, but he pointed out the faded name attached to one of a pair of crumbling pillars flanking a narrow lane. Beauchamp Place. They turned up the lane and drew closer to the house. There was a depressing decrepitude about the brick façade, and several windows were boarded up.

“No wonder it is unoccupied,” he said. “I can’t imagine anyone choosing to live here.”

“It’s like something from a fairy tale,” Marissa said, managing a lopsided smile. “One of the more unpleasant ones.”

“The garden doesn’t appear to have been touched for a hundred years.”

Marissa followed his gaze and her face fell. “Oh dear.”

A ramshackle wooden gate barred their way, and
beyond it brambles grew rampant across what were now only memories of pathways and borders and arbors that must once have been neatly trimmed.

George stared. “How are we going to search this place? We need a team of helpers with scythes and shovels and—and pickaxes.”

Valentine waved a hand dismissively. “I know what I’m looking for,” he said, with far more confidence than he was feeling. He glanced at Marissa again. She looked cold and downhearted and he wanted to put his arms about her and hold her until she was warm. Instead he said, with polite diffidence, “Do you want to wait in the carriage, Marissa?”

She seemed surprised, and then pulled a scornful face. “No, of course not,” she declared. “What a poor creature I’d be if I did that. I’ve been to worse places than this, believe me.”

“But not with me,” he said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “This isn’t the sort of place I would ever willingly bring you to.”

Thankfully George was busy trying to open the gate and hadn’t overheard him. But Marissa was watching him, her dark eyes seemingly trying to see inside his head and discover what he was really saying.

“What sort of place would you prefer to take me to?” she said quietly. With a sideways glance at George, still busy with the gate, she lifted her hand, and he knew she wanted to trace the shape of his mouth, just as he knew he wanted to press his lips to hers.

“There is a garden in Italy, growing on the side of a hill.” His voice sounded shaky, uncertain, far
from the autocratic tone he’d used in Bentley Green. “There is an orchard and you can pick oranges from the trees and taste the sun in them. They crush their own grapes and make their own wine. I’ve dined in a courtyard full of flowers and music and laughter, with moths dancing around the candle flames. Perhaps, one day…”

She was gazing at him, her expression soft and dreamy, a little smile playing on her lips. “Valentine…”

But then George came up, interrupting. “That gate will fall down if I get it open. We’ll have to climb over it.” He held out his hand to help Marissa down to the ground. “Do you think you can manage?”

She nodded. “I—I think so.”

George tested the strength of it, putting his boot on the first wooden bar, before swinging his leg over the top and dropping down to the other side. Impatiently, Marissa gathered her skirts out of the way with one hand, holding her bonnet with the other and prepared to follow.

“No.”

Valentine was down from the carriage before he had a chance to reconsider. He swept her up in his arms and held her nice and securely against his chest. Startled, she clutched hold of her bonnet, and looked up at him with wide eyes.

“That’s better,” was all he said. “George?”

George chuckled as he held out his own arms to receive her. “Ready.”

“There’s—there’s no need. Really,” she said breathlessly.

“My brother being gallant,” George teased, “that’s
something I haven’t seen for a long time. Make the most of it, Marissa.”

Valentine ignored them both, swinging Marissa up and over the top of the gate, and depositing her gently within George’s grasp. A moment later she was on her feet in the garden, and Valentine vaulted over behind her, landing with a thump and striding off into the wilderness.

“Follow me,” he called, heading into the dank greenery.

“Follow me,” Marissa muttered an hour later, wiping a gloved hand across her brow, and glaring down at the remains of a tangled patch of forget-me-nots, the sticky seeds clinging to her skirts.

Since Valentine had marched off into the garden like an explorer heading into darkest Africa, Marissa seemed to have gotten nowhere despite hours of hard work.

“Anything that looks like a rose, call me to take a look,” he had instructed before he disappeared entirely. “Remember, the Crusader’s Rose should be flowering at this time of year, but if it’s struggling in this mess it may not have the necessary light and nourishment to flower. The leaves are a pale green and the thorns have a reddish tinge and are hooked over like a hawk’s claws.”

George had dredged up a sigh from the depths of his being. “I hope you know you will be reimbursing me for this. My tailor’s bill needs paying and I am going to tell him to send it to you. I’ll probably need a new set of clothes after I’ve fought my way through this jungle.”

“Then you should not have worn your London best, George. This isn’t a stroll along Bond Street, you know.”

George swept his brother’s ensemble a scornful look. “One of the Kents has to keep up appearances, Valentine.”

The two of them headed into the garden, still arguing, until their voices faded completely.

At first Marissa remained close to the gate, exploring the edges of the garden, but eventually she was drawn further and further into it. Narrow paths were still evident, their bricks moss-covered and slippery, while dark and mysterious tunnels of undergrowth tempted her away from the light. Soon she was barely aware of the two men, apart from the occasional snapping of a twig or the rustling of leaves, and even that began to blend in with the natural sounds of the place.

She was completely immersed and it was only when a rumble of thunder sounded overhead that she realized how much time had flown by. Surprised, she looked around her. The light was fading, as the approaching rainstorm trailed its dark skirts over Beauchamp Place. If it had been creepy before it was more so now. Almost as if something was watching her, waiting to pounce.

And gobble her up.

“Valentine?” she called, her voice a squeak. “George?”

Neither of them answered. She forced back her panic, reminding herself that until a moment before she had been deaf and blind to anything but the
search for the Crusader’s Rose, and no doubt they still were.

Marissa stood up on her tiptoes, peering through perennials that were now as big as small trees, but it was impossible to see through the close-growing greenery from here. She needed to find a high point.

The sky lit with lightning, and a moment later there was another growl of thunder. Marissa knew she’d had enough. Pushing her way along one of the paths, she glanced up at the Beauchamp house looming above her, its dark windows like watching eyes. Lightning flashed again and just for a brief second she saw a figure, standing within the frame of the window, silhouetted against the room behind him.

He was watching her and she stared back. His hair was pale. Fair, like Valentine’s or George’s? Or was it gray, like Baron Von Hautt’s? Then the figure stepped back into the room and was gone, merging into the shadows.

“Valentine!” This time her voice was surely loud enough, but still there was no answer.

The wind suddenly gusted up around her, tossing leaves and branches. Rain splattered down in big drops, just a few at first, and then more rapidly. Wet now as well as frightened, Marissa forced her way through a great mound of tangled vines. Ahead of her lay a relatively open space, set in the middle of the garden. Low brick walls delineated what appeared to be the remains of a pond but was now little more than a muddy ditch.

There was something lying down there at the
pond’s edge. Clothing and a pair of boots…Her heart began to beat harder. She reached the wall and climbed over it—it was only waist-high, but broken in places. Sharp rushes caught at her skirts and crackled under her shoes, but she no longer noticed. Now she was closer she could see exactly what was lying in the pond.