Punish Me With Roses - a Victorian Historical Romance (5 page)

She found it hard to retain her composure. "I cannot believe it either."

When they parted, her uncle looked behind her and she realized that it was the first time he was seeing Rafe. "What are you doing here?"

"I just love reunions." He smirked like it was some kind of private joke.

Her uncle frowned. "Then perhaps you'll want to reunite with your friends back at the pub."

The man nodded, the implication not lost on him. He tipped his hat and disappeared into the trees.

"Who was that man?" she asked, even though she already knew his name. She was more interested in discovering where the hostility between them had originated.

"He's not important, dear. Not in the least."

"But why did you ask him to leave so quickly? He was rather nice to me on the way over."

This question he didn't even answer. Of course, he had to have heard her. But just as Mr. Rafe Randel had taken the hint quickly, so did she. She didn't ask about him again.

Chapter 3

"You're not sick then?"

"Fit as a fiddle," he said with a pat to his ample stomach.

"Were you sick when you wrote the letter?"

He chuckled, deep and long. "It would be quite the miraculous recovery if I had been."

"Then what am I doing here?" She paced the drawing room, sparing only quick glances for the old dog lying at her uncle's feet and the untouched tea tray that sat on a small table. She felt immensely foolish.

"I can easily tell you what you're doing here. You're visiting your uncle, who
isn't
sick, but who wanted to meet you just the same."

"But why the lies? You could have told me the truth and I would have come anyway." She realized that her words highly contradicted the scene Hugh had made when she'd decided to leave. If she hadn't done what she had, she wouldn't be in Cornwall. Sick uncle, dead uncle, or buried uncle, she'd still be lying abed dreaming of where she'd go if she had her freedom.

"That letter is just something your father and I used to do. It's a kind of code we worked out. Surely you spoke to your parents about it all?"

She had to sit down. "You don't know?"

"Know?" He leaned over to run a hand down the hound's graying back of fur. "Don't tell me, Victoria. I don't think I want to hear it." He must have heard the dismay in her voice.

"They died within weeks of each other." She found herself studying the dog as seriously as he.

"Who went first?"

"Father. And then I think mother just died of a broken heart."

He swallowed hard. "How could she?"

She couldn't avoid the emotion any longer by pretending that the dog interested her more than her uncle's sad eyes. Their gazes met across the room. "My mother felt she had lost everything."

"But she still had you, Victoria. If you were my girl, I'd be so proud." His expression was of the utmost sincerity.

Then she had to look away. But she didn't run to the other end of the room. She slumped into the other wing-backed chair, even though she knew the etiquette of such an action was lacking. Not that any of that was important to her. "Dear uncle, I hate to say it, but you hardly know me. I'm not sure you would feel the same way if you did."

He guffawed, shaking his head in a way possible only by a very healthy man. "Nonsense! I'm a very good judge of character."

She laughed, but before she could respond, she lost her cool veneer of careless relaxation. A tear slipped down her cheek. "This character is a murderer."

He leaned forward. "Come again?"

She felt secure in her decision to confide in him. "I suppose if you hadn't heard about my parents, then you couldn't have heard about Hugh Clavering."

"Did you kill him, darling?"

"I suppose I did...but it was an accident! Truly. I put arsenic in the brandy, but I only intended to make him ill. I was shocked when he was found dead the next morning."

"Then you're not to blame."

"I think you're being a little biased. I'm completely to blame." Forgetting her manners a second time, she wiped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. "I only told you the circumstances to assure you that I'm not as cold-hearted as my actions would indicate."

"You can't blame yourself." He stood up and stepped over the sleeping dog.

Her ashamed gaze fell to her lap and she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder a moment later. "Why shouldn't I blame myself? I don't know how I'll feel in the future, but this isn't something I can move past so quickly. Actually, it's not something I should even
try
to ignore. I need to pay for my actions." Her voice broke on the last words. "I shouldn't have come here."

"But I'm so glad you did. This dilemma of yours isn't something you should decide immediately. You should think it over...overnight."

"Maybe they're looking for me. I can't stay in Cornwall, pitying myself, while an inquest is being undertaken at Blackmoore."

"Will there be an inquest?" He moved to stand in front of her.

"I don't know. I left too soon...right after they read the will."

"Aye...that doesn't look good." He scratched his head, giving the matter some thought. "What was in the will?"

"The fortune was left to Mark Freely and if he is deceased, to me. It was made out before I went to live with Hugh."

"Who is this Freely character? The name sounds familiar."

"Hugh's valet. Hugh didn't have many friends."

"And where is Mark Freely?" He started to walk to the sideboard, away from the tea and towards a full decanter of port.

"That's the worst part," she replied. "I think I killed Mark too."

Alexander turned the glass in his hand, watching the firelight beam through the crystal and cast inspired designs onto the wall. It seemed that every new thing he'd learned about Victoria had been accompanied by more questions. How many times in the last two days had he had to revise his opinion of her?

It was really quite convenient that she had been headed for Cornwall all along. He could investigate and watch her every move from the comfort of his own home. The next morning he'd find out why she was visiting John Fyn.

Wouldn't she be surprised when she found out that the man she'd left at the inn was her new neighbor?

He thought of his father and brother. He hoped they wouldn't interfere when they realized where Victoria was. It was
his
job and
his
business to handle. They gave the smugglers so much free reign that he didn't trust them to do anything else that was lawful. He also doubted their ability to carry out the plan if they were to see the tempting murderess. His father, old dog that he was, would probably court her.

He left his chair, still cradling the glass in his palm, the stem slipped between his fingers. He opened the glass doors and stepped outside. He'd noticed that Hugh had a similar set-up at Blackmoore. Both studies opened up into a garden. When the house was full, it was a convenient place to watch strolling ladies.

The moonlight glinted off his glass when he reached for a piece of his late mother's favorite rosebush. It leaned languorously against the house. A hard thorn bit into his finger, but he smiled just the same. The scarlet, blood-colored petals felt soft against his hand...it was how he'd imagined Victoria's skin might feel.

He'd thought it odd that she would put flowers on her victims' graves. She couldn't have done it for show. It had been in the middle of the night. The only thing it could have signified was that she was feeling remorseful. Still, it was a rather romantic gesture for a woman consumed by guilt. Perhaps she'd reveled in the irony and assumed secrecy of her gesture.

Alexander left the flower where he found it, having satisfied his curiosity. His mother's roses were the exact same kind as the ones his murderess had left on her victims' graves.

The house was quiet when Victoria awoke the next morning. It reminded her of the morning Hugh had died and such a thought was enough to make her want to pull the covers over her head and wail. But she needed to get her life together and she couldn't do that from her bed.

After she'd washed and dressed, the maid told her that her uncle was expecting an important shipment. He was in the bay and wouldn't be back for quite some time. He was a busy man, her uncle. Certainly not the sick invalid she'd imagined.

She thought a bit of exploration would do her good.

When she walked outside, however, she saw enough to satisfy her interests for that day.

"Miss Carter, what a lovely surprise." Alexander Trevelyn leaned against the horse that was hitched in the yard. He absent-mindedly stroked its mane as he waited for her reply. He didn't look the least bit surprised. In fact, he even looked as though he'd been expecting her.

"Mr. Trevelyn! What are you doing here?" She couldn't help but back away self-consciously. As handsome as he was, even more so in the warm morning sun, she wondered if he'd followed her. Because if he had, it could only be for one reason.

"I live here," he replied.

"Here?" She looked at her uncle's house and frowned.

"I meant in Coverack."

"Are you a fisherman?"

"Are you a fisherwoman?"

She narrowed her eyes and fixed him with an indignant stare. "Do I look like one?"

"No, but with a name like Betsy Carter, you might be the fisherman's daughter. But weren't you headed for Dover?"

She walked closer, leaving the shadow of the house. Her heart beat unevenly with anticipation. She'd beat him once already and once she got over the initial shock of seeing him, she'd be on top once again. She blushed at the ensuing thought. "Change of plans."

"I trust you slept well?"

"Without a moment's hesitation."

He smiled.

She felt herself gain the same expression, thinking of cool bed sheets, restless nights, and him. "Do you live very close?"

He was still paying attention to the horse. "Just around the bend, you might say."

"I was only wondering how you happened to be standing in this yard. It's almost as if you were waiting."

"I get around."

"I'm sure you do."

He turned toward her, his hand falling away from the horse. "Are you aware that there isn't much to do in Coverack? No balls, no society parties, and absolutely no eligible gentlemen."

"I've never concerned myself with any of that."

"What do you do for fun where you're from?"

"Mostly what you just described, but I wasn't usually a participant."

"And where was that again?"

"Scotland, of course."

He laughed.

She laughed too, in spite of herself. She hadn't been able to think of a suitable lie, so she'd just made a farce out of the conversation.

"Did you take the stage from there?"

"Only the distances that I didn't walk."

He adjusted the rim of his hat. "Perhaps you should go back for a parasol. The sun is bright this morning."

"Don't worry about me, Mr. Trevelyn. I don't plan to be outside very long."

"Then how will I be able to show you around?"

"That's quite simple. You won't."

He drew patterns in the sand with the tips of his Wellingtons. "All jokes aside, I would be honored if you would allow me to show you the highlights of Coverack."

"I though there weren't any."

"Well, it isn't much by London's standards, but it's home. We have some quaint local sites. And if you're a fan of nature, I could give you a visual feast."

She bet he could. "I suppose it would be better than exploring by myself."

He looked at her again. "Certainly. We could go as far as St. Keverne where I could show you why our coast isn't popular by some standards."

She was about to walk closer, then hesitated. She could hardly comprehend the situation she was in. It had happened so fast. One moment he was a small part of her past, scaring her with his prying questions. The next moment he was within her realm of safety, making him seem warmer...safer. Certainly more attractive.

She cleared her throat and wished she could cough up some of the emotion that was causing her knees to buckle and her limbs to quiver. "Is that, uh, your horse?"

"Yes. She can be occasionally temperamental, but all the most interesting ladies are."

She smiled at the reference. Maybe he wanted to show her that the night at the inn was caused by strained circumstances and not instinctual warnings. Her heart beat faster. "She may be interesting, Mr. Trevelyn, but is she truly worth the trouble?"

"I knew she was from the first moment I saw her."

They were silent, but her heart was not. She hoped that only she could hear it pounding beneath her bodice. She looked at him and their gazes did not diverge. While part of her thought she was being forward, the stronger part of her was captivated by the glint in his eyes. The hint of something deeper, something hidden, and something that she couldn't yet determine. It was enough of a draw that even in the heat of the morning, she couldn't see anything but him. She no longer heard the birds' awakening songs and she no longer smelled the primroses in the nearby hedgerow. She was captured.

He coughed, breaking the thin spell that bound her to him. He then said, "From the smell of it, my pretty horse just made a mess in your yard." She realized that the reverie had only been over a span of ten seconds. Perhaps less.

She should have been mortally offended at his comment, but she wasn't. Somehow, she'd managed to find it funny. She only moved aside, away from the offending end of the animal. Her mirth turned to distress, however, when her eyes alighted on the front of the horse's saddle. She didn't know what to do, but knew that the breaking into tears would be completely unacceptable. She couldn't, however, hide her initial reaction, which was pure, unbridled terror.

A red rose was wedged beneath the saddle, its stem short and made to fit without giving the animal too much distress. It was the same breed as the kind at Blackmoore. She wasn't an expert botanist, but that breed was unmistakable with its sharp color and full bloom. She realized that she was trembling when she saw her reaction mirrored in Mr. Trevelyn's eyes.