Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (39 page)

“Please!” Edward shielded himself with his hand. “We do not use such titles.”

“Very well,
Mr. Overton
, as you doubtless know, Lady Overton is well provided for through the marriage settlements. And unless she wishes otherwise, she is entitled to live here until your inheritance is proved.”

“That can hardly take long.”

“Two months, perhaps.”

“Two months!”

“When there is no direct heir of the body, sir, the widow is assumed to be with child until it is clearly otherwise. We must wait for at least two months before you can be given unrestricted access to the property. However—”

“Since there can be no question of a child….” Edward turned to Rosamunde. “Can there?”

“I do not care to speak of intimate matters, Edward, but it is not
impossible
.”

Mr. Whitmore cleared his throat. “Quite so. Quite so. Two months is not so long, Mr. Overton, and you will be permitted an allowance from the estate in the meantime. For the moment, however, everything must remain unchanged. No property may be bought or sold or substantially altered. No commitments entered into, debts incurred.” He rose to take his leave.

Two months. Rosamunde rose and spoke. “Mr. Whitmore, Edward …” She turned to him, keeping her eyes lowered in case he read the expression there. “Though of course you must stay the night, Edward, I … I cannot feel at ease to have a young, unmarried man in this house for longer than that.”

“Then perhaps you should leave, Aunt. Your family would be pleased to have you.”

“Sir!” protested the solicitor. “Lady Overton has every right to stay in her home until the matter is settled, and you must respect her delicate feelings.”

It was clear what Edward thought of her delicate feelings, but he was balked. “It shall, of course, be exactly as you wish, Aunt.”

As he stalked out of the room, Rosamunde shivered. What now? Would he try to poison
her
? She would be extremely careful about what she ate tonight.

Edward was no longer the real threat, however. Her poor innocent child was. What was she to do? Once the solicitor had left, she went to sit by Digby’s body, and it took very little thought to accept that she could never claim the child as his. Once Edward was finished, Dr. Nantwich would be the new owner of Wenscote.

She sighed. If she bore the child openly, telling everyone that it wasn’t Digby’s child, she’d never live down the shame. She might take up that burden, but it would be a terrible stain on Digby’s memory, that his wife had deceived him in his last months.

For Digby’s sake, therefore, she must hide the pregnancy and bear the child far away. What then? She immediately thought of Brand, but there was no hope there. Even if he wanted to marry her, they still couldn’t have the child together. This child couldn’t exist without shaming Digby. The only honorable solution was to give the child to others to raise.

The child would not suffer. Only she would. Ah, but it would hurt.

Then there was Brand. He knew about the child. He had a right to some say, but would he fight her over this as he’d fought her that last night
in the dower house? What did he care about the honorable memory of a Wensleydale squire?

She covered her face with her hands, drowning in despair. She’d only tried to do her best for Digby, and now her life lay in ashes….

The door opened and Edward walked in. “We are arranging the vigil through the night, Aunt. Do you wish to take part?”

Rosamunde resented Edward taking charge, but at this point she could hardly care. “Of course. I believe Mrs. Monkton will want to take part, and Potts. They are the two here who have been with him the longest. What part of the night do you prefer?”

He gave a little bow. “I will accommodate myself entirely to you, Aunt.”

He really was being too pleasant, but she couldn’t chase after that either.

She summoned the two servants, and after some polite debate, it was agreed that she would take the first watch, Edward the second, Potts the third, and Mrs. Monkton the dawn period.

For the sake of the household, she tried to be calm and composed, to attend to all the little details. Still, her mind kept scurrying in destructive spirals of fear and hope, crashing again and again into the fact that Digby was not here, would never be here, would not come in smiling to support her. That a part of her life, her whole adult life in fact, was over, leaving her as alone and frightened as she had felt at sixteen.

Ah, Brand, weak though it is to think it, I wish you were here
.

When she heard her mother’s bells, she ran out to greet her, to fall into her warm, sensible embrace. Despite reality, she felt that nothing terrible could happen when her mother was in charge.

By the time she went to sit vigil, Rosamunde felt truly at peace with her situation and her soul. Her mother and Diana were both staying the night, and both had offered to keep her company, but this was a time for her and Digby to be alone one last time.

At first she tried lowering the sheet, but the shrunken gray features didn’t look like Digby anymore, so she covered him up again and sat nearby, remembering him when alive.

Her mind swirled from thought to memory, but then settled into speech. “I suppose I was dreadful sometimes. Sixteen, angry, scared. You gave me Wenscote, didn’t you? To play with. Did you really like the garden? I hope so. And the stud. And the sheep. You probably didn’t want your comfortable life turned upside down by a restless, bitter child. How much of the time did you stay here with me, saying you liked the peace of your home, when you’d rather have been at Richmond races or the sheep
fairs at Hawes and Masham? Like a heedless child, I took you at your word.”

She put her hand on the covers that lay over his hand. “Thank you. I hope I made you happy in the end.” She sighed, and spoke what needed to be spoken. “You know everything now, I suppose. I hope you aren’t hurt. I never saw the danger until it was too late, or I would have prevented it. I didn’t know about love like that, you see. Oh, that sounds wrong, too. I did love you. I do.” She brushed away some tears. “You can read it in my heart.”

She tested her own heart, and was at peace. She had loved Digby. Everything she had done, except perhaps for that one wicked night, had sprung from her love for him. Her love for Brand took nothing away.

“I wish you were here to help with the tangles, though,” she said. “Would you want me to keep Wenscote for the child? I don’t think so. You were as troubled as I was by bringing a stranger’s blood into it.” One hand still on his, she put her other hand over her womb. “It is the child of your heart, though, Digby. Be a special angel for it. It will need you.”

A feeling of such sweet peace came over her that it was like a blessing, one that made her weep. He’d always made her feel this way. Safe, warm, protected. She knew now he’d do the same for another needy child.

Smiling sadly, she rested her head on the mattress and let her thoughts wander over eight years of a special kind of love….

When the clock struck one, Edward tiptoed in. Rosamunde rose, stiff and tired, glad to be going to her bed, but sad to be taking a final farewell of her husband. This wasn’t him, however. He’d moved on. It didn’t seem wrong to leave Edward with this empty shell.

She nodded to him as she passed.

Then was caught, hand over her mouth, an arm shackling her.

She’d never have imagined he was so strong! She writhed and kicked, but could not break free. His grip switched so he had his arm tight around her neck. She tried to claw it down or scream, but he tightened his lock, almost throttling her.

“Try to call out again, and I’ll really throttle you,” he whispered. Then something cold pressed against her neck.

“Yes, a pistol, Aunt. One of Uncle’s. How kind of him to insist that I learn to use it.”

He slowly released her neck, and she gasped for breath, putting a hand to her aching throat. “You won’t shoot me. Everyone would know.”

“Perhaps I can make it appear suicide. But I don’t want to kill you. Just to get rid of that devil’s spawn in your womb.” He presented a small glass bottle before her eyes. “Drink.”

Teeth and lips clamped shut, she desperately shook her head.

“It won’t be too unpleasant, and it will cleanse you of your sins.” He sounded as if he believed he could persuade her! “Otherwise, I will kill you, and your babe will die, too. Come, come. Your life will be easier without a child. You’ll be able to find a young, handsome husband then. Perhaps the one who planted the unrighteous seed.”

All Rosamunde could do was shake her head, and keep her mouth clamped shut. She was afraid even to scream for he might manage to tip the stuff down her throat.

He suddenly jammed the pistol into the base of her skull, jerking a cry from her, but she sealed her mouth again before he could act. “Open up!” he snarled, mashing the cold bottle against her lips. “Swallow your medicine, you foul trollop. Purge yourself of your abomination!”

He kicked the back of her leg and she went down on her knees. He hit her with the pistol barrel so she couldn’t help but gasp. Some liquid splashed into her mouth.

She spat it out and tried to twist away.

He grabbed her hair in his pistol hand and pulled back, trying to jam the neck of the bottle between her lips….

Diana came suddenly awake. The house lay silent, but something was wrong. She and Rosa were sharing a bed, but Rosa wasn’t here yet, so it couldn’t even be one. She felt around on the table for her watch then held it into a beam of moonlight. Surely it said ten past one.

Then she heard something. A bang? Not on a door, but as if someone had stumbled against a piece of furniture in the dark. Downstairs?

Heart pounding, she eased out of bed, took her pistol out of her valise, and crept toward the door, more afraid of making a fool of herself than of real danger. She opened the door and peered out. They didn’t have housebreakers up in the dales. It had to be a servant moving about below. Yes, there were footsteps in the hall below. She relaxed, but then she tensed again. Was that a noise from Sir Digby’s room?

Where
was
Rosa?

Then, shocking after silence, steps pounded up the stairs, preceded by a candle’s wild flare. A man appeared, rushing for the master bedroom.

Brand Malloren!

Diana raised the pistol in both hands. “Halt!”

He charged through the doorway as if deaf, and true to her training, she pulled the trigger. The flame from the barrel blinded her. The detonation deafened her and rocked her backward.

Then she heard screams.

She stood, frozen in ice. No, she hadn’t prepared herself. She’d not prepared herself to hear that sobbing agony that went on and on….

As people called and doors opened, she dropped the pistol and staggered into the room. Rosa sprawled on the floor. She hadn’t hit Rosa had she? A man crouched over her. Another jerked and cried on the floor, blood spreading.

Not Brand Malloren.

Edward Overton!

She looked back at Rosa, and saw Brand was the man with her, supporting her unconscious form.

She fell to her knees by them. “Is she dead?”

“Fainted.” He held her closer. “Rosa, love. It’s all right. Wake up …”

Potts ran in. “Saints preserve us!” He went to Overton, who weakly begged for something. Help, death, mercy …

Mrs. Monkton appeared at the door and began to scream. Short, repetitive, high-pitched screams.

Rosamunde’s mother arrived, slapped the housekeeper, and went to Rosa, who had come around. In moments, she was taking her daughter away.

Diana just knelt there, still hearing the explosion of the pistol mixed with whimpered pleas. A gaggle of servants in all stages of dress stood wide-eyed in the doorway now, while the housekeeper sat collapsed in a chair. Blood was pooling on the floor. Voices were blending to a dizzying buzz.

This would never do.

Diana forced her weak legs to support her. “Now,” she said, proud of her level tone, “would someone tell me what is going on here?”

Unfortunately, at that point the buzzing drowned her thoughts and dark rushed in.

Chapter 24

B
rand looked around, feeling as if he was emerging from an insane fire. Two bodies lay on the floor. The Countess of Arradale and Edward Overton. Someone had called “Halt,” then fired a pistol. They must have shot Overton instead of him. Overton had been screaming, but he was quiet now.

Someone had taken Rosa away. That was as well.

He could hardly feel the passage of time between riding toward the house and seeing into this window—seeing Rosa struggling—and being here now with the aftermath.

Rosa was safe, though. That was all that mattered.

He knelt by the man lying in a pool of blood. The servant shook his head. “Not quite gone, sir, but soon. Took him right in the side and it’s in there somewhere. Did you … ?”

“Best not speak about it.” Potts had sent word that Edward Overton had returned to Wenscote. Brand had raced up here, driven by the certainty of danger. He picked up the pistol that must have fallen from Overton’s hand. Not fired. A bottle had spilled its contents on the floor.

“Poison?” Potts gasped. “Again?”

“Again?”

Potts gestured to the bed, and for the first time Brand saw the shrouded shape. “Sir Digby?”

“Aye, milord. But I was told not to mention …” he whispered. “I’m pleased, milord, that you shot Mr. Edward, and glad he suffered. That’s the truth, unchristian though it might be!

Brand didn’t correct him, though he had no idea who’d fired the shot. It couldn’t have been Rosa. Who else was there?

He rose to stand by the corpse, looking down at the remains of a man he’d liked, a man who had stood between him and his heart’s desire. His conscience twitched that he’d not sent a warning. He’d never thought Overton would go this far, but had he been selfish?

With honesty, he could say no. To serve his lady, however, he would arrange matters here as best he could. The first thing was to get rid of the
wide-eyed servants. The housekeeper, though glassy-eyed, seemed to have some of her wits back. “Why don’t you make some tea, Mrs. Monkton?” he suggested. “For everyone.”