The Greatest Lover in All England (21 page)

With a whimper, Rosie dropped to her knees, crush
ing the letter as if that would crush the villains who had taken him. Sir Danny would die. No one could save him now. The torturers of Newgate Prison were famed for extracting a confession. Closing her eyes, she dropped the letter and clutched her stomach. Sir Danny was famed for fearing pain. He would confess to anything, and he would hang—if he were lucky.

She'd seen the traitors' heads rotting on spikes on London Bridge. She'd seen them splash into the Thames when the wind blew. But she never imagined her beloved Sir Danny, her honorable Sir Danny…She whimpered again.

Like an infant seeking comfort at her mother's breast, she crawled toward the desk, toward the desk kneehole. Tony's chair was pushed in; she shoved it out of the way.

Dim and warm and close. Hugging herself, she listened. Where was the deep, loving voice? Why didn't he call for his Rosie anymore? Hot tears leaked from her eyes and burned her cheeks. Had she lost him? “Dada,” she whimpered. “Please, Dada, come back.”

But he didn't. She couldn't even hear the echoes of his speech
.

It was her fault he was gone. She'd taken something of his. Something he wanted very much. What was it?

Closing her eyes, she tried to remember. She saw a babyish hand reaching out and grasping a shiny ring. A special gold ring. Dada's precious ring, decorated with two entwined ‘Es' and set with a sparkling red stone. She saw the chubby fingers decorated, one at a time, with the ring. She saw it roll back and forth, too big for the fingers, and she saw the young child's hand clutch it tight in a fist
.

In the darkness under the desk was her hiding place. There she kept her own precious possessions.
She knew Dada didn't want his special ring sitting out. Even though he'd warned her never to touch it, he'd be happy if she kept it safe while they went to London to visit the queen
.

Rosie's eyes popped open. Her secret hiding place. She watched as her adult hand reached out and fumbled among the ornate carvings and knobs. Dust feathered to the floor as she searched, not truly knowing what she sought and not believing it was there.

But it was. Her fingertips touched a loose, cool, round object. Carefully, she lifted it from its protected position and crawled free of the kneehole. Raising it to her face, she looked at it.

She held a gold signet ring, embossed with two 'Es' and set with a bloodred ruby.

She
was
Lady Rosalyn Bellot, daughter of the earl of Sadler. She was the heir to Odyssey Manor.

Had she ever really doubted it? Doubling her fist over the ring, she held it over her heart. Aye, she remembered the manor, the lands, the servants. She remembered Hal and his betrayal. She remembered everything.

Had she ever really doubted that Lord Sadler was her father? That he was the man whose voice spoke in her dreams?

The child Rosalyn had taken his ring because it was his, because she adored everything about him, and when he'd wanted it back, she'd been too scared and embarrassed to admit she had it. Then he'd died, and the child had blamed herself. Like the ring, the knowledge of his death and her own culpability had been stored away, hidden and unacknowledged.

Another man had come into the child Rosalyn's life. Another man different from her true father in wealth and rank, yet so alike in his capacity to love she had
transferred her affection to Sir Danny. Her first “Dada” had become a lifeless body that walked only in the halls of midnight. If she didn't rescue Sir Danny, he would walk, also.

It was Tony's fault. All Tony's fault. Why hadn't he rushed to rescue Sir Danny? She wiped her nose on her sleeve. Even now, the torturers of Newgate might be stretching him on the rack, and she stood here because she hadn't known. Why hadn't Tony told her of Sir Danny's imprisonment so she could rush to his assistance? Why…?

She laughed, a bitter, unhappy laugh.

Of course. She knew why Tony hadn't told her. Because she
would
rush to Sir Danny's assistance. She wasn't a youth anymore, free to roam the roads, free to fight for a cause. She was a woman. Nay, worse, a noblewoman, good for nothing but breeding and sewing.

Why had Tony withheld the information? Why, to protect her, of a certainty.

Snatching the wadded up letter from the floor, she smoothed it out and read it again. It was dated yesterday. Tony received a package every morning from London, and this had been in it. This explained his serious mien as he vowed to find Sir Danny and keep him safe. This explained his eagerness to send her as far away from London as possible.

But nothing could explain his deception, and in no way could she explain her need to him. She only knew she couldn't proceed to a new life, a new love, if she lost the man she considered her father—again.

Moving quickly, smoothly, she tied the ring around her neck with the ribbon from her hair. Opening the door, she slipped out and went in search of the trunk in which was stored a young man's clothing.

She had been protected long enough.

 

“Sir Anthony, Parson Selwyn has arrived.”

Tony turned from his contemplation of the laden dining room table and greeted the parish clergyman. “Ah, Parson, how good of you to come at such short notice.”

“'Tis a pleasure, Sir Anthony, to serve you.” Removing his cape, the little man handed it to Hal without a glance. “Although I found myself quite astonished at your request that I wed you to Lady Rosalyn Bellot tonight.”

“A sudden request,” Tony acknowledged. He watched as Hal fumbled with the cape, holding it with shaking hands, staring at it as if he'd never seen such a costume in his life. “But not completely unexpected.”

Parson Selwyn folded his hands over his protruding belly and lifted his nose into the air. The younger son of lesser nobility, he obviously found it painful to serve the bastard of an earl. “Not completely unexpected, but as your clergyman I must counsel you before you proceed on such a course. Such unseemly haste ill befits the lord of Odyssey Manor.”

As long as the man kept a civil tongue in his head, Parson Selwyn's opinion mattered little to Tony. What mattered was Hal. He crumpled the cape into a ball and placed it on the laden side table in the midst of a platter of golden lamb pastry. His shoulders stooped, his lined face was gaunt with distress. Like a man pursued, he constantly shot glances behind him. What disaster, Tony wondered, had been visited on Hal?

Oblivious to Hal's distress or Tony's concern, Parson Selwyn blathered, “If you will recall, Sir Anthony, one of my Sunday sermons pertained to the evils of a rapid matrimony and the results thereof.”

Hal whimpered, shrinking beneath Tony's gaze like a slug exposed to caustic salt.

Parson Selwyn droned on. “Lady Rosalyn is the daughter of Edward Bellot, earl of Sadler, a noble house of impeccable ancestry, and when Her Majesty discovers Lady Rosalyn's existence, she might wish a different union for her.”

Was Hal about to collapse? Tony held out his palm and walked toward the steward.

Emboldened by Tony's inattention, Parson Selwyn rocked back and forth on his heels and said in a stern tone, “Although it is a sensitive issue, I feel I must speak freely. You are a bastard, and as such are damned by the Almighty to a lesser—”

“What?” Tony spun around and glared at the parson.

“I was saying”—Parson Selwyn frowned, the staff of his self-importance propping him up—“that you are a bastard and since Lady Rosalyn can trace her ancestry back to the Conqueror, it would be inappropriate—”

“For you to finish the sentence.”

The parson lowered the lofty tip of his nose. Tony stood stiff and still, one hand on his sword, one hand on his dagger, and the willingness to use them etched on his brow. Parson Selwyn blanched. “I meant no disrespect, Sir Anthony.”

“If I did not need you to perform the ceremony, and perform it now, my good man, you would not live to see another dawn.” Tony stalked toward Parson Selwyn with murder on his mind while the parson backed up with cowardly dispatch.

“Sir Anthony, I simply tried to do my duty by playing devil's advocate.” Parson Selwyn put a chair between himself and Tony. “I wouldn't have you surprised when others say what I have said.” He skidded around the edge of the laden dining table. “'Tis sad,
but true, this union has the appearance of a marriage forced on Lady Rosalyn by a man who holds her captive.”

Tony stopped stalking the absurd little man. It was true. Others would say he had forced Rosie to be his wife. It was true. When he discovered her heritage, he determined to marry her, and would have married her if she'd been one hundred years old. It was true. If Rosie were allowed to take the fruits of her heritage to court, she might find a man she could better love.

But she would never find a man who could love her better.

Tonight, Mistress Child had done just as he requested. Every one of Rosie's favorite foods was represented in this sumptuous supper. Wild fowl and venison steamed in rich gravies. The rich odor of wheaten bread warmed the air, and conserves and marmalades waited to be laden thereon. The pinnacle of the cook's artistry was the rainbow of jellies that glistened, mixed with a variety of flowers and herbs and formed to represent the manor itself.

It was a wedding supper to remember.

He would make the wedding night one to remember also. He would make every day of their lives one to treasure. She would never regret her marriage to him.

If only the queen hadn't chosen this moment to summon him, just when he needed to rescue Sir Danny. Her letter had been vague: a gracious forgiving for his previous insolence, an invitation to join the Christmas court at Whitehall, and a casual mention of his continued position as master of the Queen's Guard. His enduring good fortune was contained within the letter, but more important, beneath the cordiality ran a thread, tight with tension. Something worried the queen, something serious enough for her to forgive Tony his effrontery about Essex. While the queen was
old, Tony had total respect for her keen mind. If she perceived danger, if she suspected Essex of rebellion, then to her side Tony would fly.

But without Rosie. Without his bride.

Wanting to see her, wanting to marry her, he bellowed, “Hal!” No one answered him, and he realized Hal had slipped away. “Hal,” he called again, striding through the door and into the gallery.

A strange scene met his eye. Hal and all his servants stood as motionless as stone statues. His sisters sat before the fire, also frozen by the spell which held his servants enthralled. No one moved, no one looked at him, and the chill of foreboding shuddered down his spine. “What is it?” he asked.

No one answered.

He stepped closer to his sisters. “Ann? Jean? What's wrong?”

Ann turned her head away. Jean looked at him, then looked at the tips of her slippers that peeked from beneath her skirts.

Spinning around, he searched the room. “Rosie?”

Jean croaked rather than spoke. “She's gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

Jean shook her head. “Just gone.”

He waited to hear the joke. “She can't be gone.”

“She packed her bags.”

“Impossible.” He started for the grand stairway, moving as quickly as he could, yet not quickly enough. Shoving open the door of her chamber, he sprang inside. “Rosie?” Her dresses had been laid neatly across the bed, but in the middle of the room a trunk gaped open, showing its remaining contents. He knelt and tossed through them, seeing the young men's clothing, knowing what it meant, yet refusing to believe the truth. He remembered the night before, the
morning after, Rosie's bright and shining pledge to marry him.

She couldn't be gone.

Battered and bruised, Lady Honora came from her room to lean against the door frame. She observed him through her one good eye. “She's gone.”

“Someone kidnapped her,” he declared. Absurd, he knew, but he couldn't stand to admit that Rosie would seduce him, lie to him, take his seed with every expression of gladness, then flee him.

“No one kidnapped her.” Lady Honora enunciated her words carefully, her face so swollen even her lips were affected. “She's only an actress, cut from the same cloth as Sir Danny. He pledged to send me word of his travels, and I've heard only once. She's treating you as he treated me.”

“Sir Danny?” Tony rose to his feet as the idea surged through his mind. “Sir Danny!”

He rushed toward the door and tried to step around Lady Honora, but she caught his arm. “What about Sir Danny?”

He shook her off, and in her weakness she let him, but she slowly followed him as he rushed down the stairs and into his office. A single glance revealed that his papers had been returned to his desk, placed in stacks—read, perhaps, by a woman desperate for news of London and her father.

Frantically he sought the letter he knew should be there. He found it nowhere.

“What are you seeking?” Lady Honora had reached his office at last, and her weakness made her no less formidable.

“A letter.”

“With news of Sir Danny?”

He didn't answer, but she took that as an affirmation.

“What has he done?” she asked. “Is he dead?”

“Not dead. Not yet.”

“He's in danger?” Lady Honora's face flushed with distress. “My God, I have to go to him!”

Her cuts and bruises shone on the pale palette of her face, and Tony cried, “Doesn't anyone trust me to handle this? I will handle this. I'll take care of him. Trust me.” Going to Lady Honora, he took her hands and found them shaking. More gently, he said, “Just trust me. You can't go to London in your condition. You can barely stand. I promise I'll beg the queen. I'll bribe the jailers.”

“He's in the Tower?”