The Spurned Viscountess (11 page)

The maid curtsied and withdrew. It was best. She couldn’t allow fear to rule her life. She slid from the canopied bed and picked up the candle. Holding it aloft, she walked the perimeter of the chamber, searching for a clue to prove she wasn’t sinking into madness.

There! There on the Persian rug. A trail of sandy footprints.

Rosalind didn’t think twice. She raced from her chamber, heading for Hastings’s adjoining room. In the early days of their marriage, she’d tested the connecting door between their rooms. Hastings kept it locked. She hammered on his door and waited. Nothing happened. She glanced over her shoulder. Was that something moving behind her? Deciding not to wait and find out, she opened the door and burst through. Something—Noir—streaked in front of her. Rosalind toppled to the ground with an unladylike grunt while her kitten scampered out of the room. The candle snuffed out when the holder hit the ground, leaving her in darkness.

“Ouch,” she muttered, rubbing at her knee with one hand.

“What the hell? Who’s there?” Hastings sounded belligerent and annoyed at the disruption.

“Me,” Rosalind said in a small voice as a candle flared to life. At least he was here for a change. She scrambled to her feet, mortified to realize she’d pulled up her nightgown to rub her bare knee. What must he think of her?

“What the devil are you doing in my room?” He sat up to lounge against the pillows, watching her with his dark eyes.

Rosalind’s chin lifted on hearing his tone. “Someone was in my bedroom.”

“A servant,” he said, holding up his left hand to inspect his fingernails.

Her eyes narrowed at the nonverbal slap. “Do you think I’m stupid?” The words tripped from her tongue before she could stop them. She stomped to the bed, and her hand snaked out to seize his arm. “Come with me,” she ordered. “I’ll show you.”

The intimacy of the moment exploded on her conscience all at once. Warm, naked skin pulsed beneath her touch. She averted her gaze, positive every sinful thought racing through her head showed on her face, and jerked her hand from his muscled arm before her gift shattered the intimate moment.

“Would you like me to dress first?”

Rosalind’s eyes shot to his chest. She had no idea how she’d missed the broad expanse of bare skin. Fascinated, her gaze wandered from the solid slab of muscle, up over the bulge of his biceps to his strong neck. Heat converged on her cheeks, but she was unwilling to halt her visual exploration.

“Rosalind?”

Rosalind looked up, met his gaze and quivered, helplessly trapped in the moment. She couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to look away.

Hastings swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Rosalind followed the movement. Long legs sprinkled with dark hairs…No clothes!

“Still feeling brave, Rosalind?”

Her heart thumped frantically against her ribs. She felt like a child who’d run about playing in the garden until she collapsed in exhaustion. She studied the rise and fall of his chest. A sprinkling of dark hair ran across it and lower. Two dark nipples showed, yet he looked different from her—strong and rugged, despite the puckered scar on his upper shoulder. The urgent desire to touch him made her hand tingle. While she hovered indecisively, battling against need, he stood. The covers dropped away. And Rosalind saw her husband in his full glory.

Her eyes bulged. Her pulse rate pumped in a rapid rhythm. Suddenly unsteady on her feet, she ran clammy hands down her nightgown to wipe them dry.

A soft sound jerked her gaze northward. The amusement in Hastings’s eyes made her fidget and step from foot to foot. Part of her wanted to run and hide while the rest wanted to act with boldness and that made her blush again. Curiosity burned inside her as she picked up her candle and relit it with Hastings’s. She had many unanswered questions. Was his skin the same texture as hers?

“Like what you see?” The instant the words left his mouth, Lucien wanted to curse. What the hell was he doing, taunting her like this? Taunting himself, his conscience prodded, because, like it or not, his body was reacting to her presence and basking in her innocence. Pretty soon she was going to notice, or at least wonder why his body parts were expanding.

Lucien grabbed a pair of breeches and stepped into them.

“I’ve nothing to compare you with, so I’m not sure.”

“Nothing to…” The raspy crack of laughter astonished him as much as it did Rosalind, if her gaping mouth was anything to judge by. He fastened the breeches, keeping his gaze on her face. Curious. Inquisitive yet brave, given the way he was guilty of barking at her on occasion. Why didn’t she give up on him? Swift on the heels of his thought came the realization he’d miss her attention.

She peered at him and he had to smother his amusement. Did she know he could see straight through the nightgown when she held her candle up like that? For a tiny thing, she was surprisingly well endowed. The stirring at his groin wrenched his thoughts to an abrupt halt.

“Who was in your room?” A change of subject would aid both of them. Hell of a lot safer.

“How should I know?” Her impatience was clear. “Come and look. Are there secret passages leading from my chamber? It’s the only thing I can think of that makes sense. How else could a person enter my room without making the door creak?”

Lucien stared, amusement bubbling to the surface yet again. That was the longest speech he’d heard from her since their visit to the cove. The mouse had the courage of a lion.

He bowed. “After you, my lady.”

She swept from the room and stalked ahead of him, her candle lighting the way. Lucien grinned. If she stuck her nose much higher, she’d trip over her feet.

The journey to Rosalind’s chamber took mere seconds. A crafty way of luring him into her bed? Lucien pondered the thought. His cock tightened. Then he visualized Francesca. “Damn,” he muttered, willing his body to obedience.

As much as he loved his first wife and mourned her passing, he’d come to admire Rosalind for her bravery and generosity in helping the village people without complaint. She was the perfect mistress for St. Clare, according to Aunt Augusta. But thinking about her in a sexual manner made him feel disloyal.

He stepped over the threshold and Rosalind lit another candle. He couldn’t help himself. She thrust the candle at him and directed his attention to the floor.

“See,” she said.

Lucien looked. A few grains of sand lay on the carpet. “The maid needs to do a better job cleaning your shoes.”

“What?”

Her shriek made him wince. And disappointment surged to the fore. It
was
a scheme to get him into her chamber. Lucien edged toward the door. If he stayed he might give in to temptation.

Rosalind glared at the splotches of sand on the carpet. “There were footprints.” Her frown appeared frustrated as she glowered at him. “They’re gone now, but they were there. The footprints were not my imagination.”

Lucien sensed she wasn’t going to let him return to bed until they settled the matter to her satisfaction. “Where did they lead?”

One cotton-clad shoulder lifted in a helpless shrug. “I’m not sure.”

“What do you want me to do?” A trace of impatience escaped. He was here, wasn’t he?

“No one is listening to me. Mary is missing. She wouldn’t just leave without telling me. We grew up together. She
hasn’t
run off with a lover. Since I arrived at Castle St. Clare, I’ve been shot at by hunters, pushed out of bed and been under scrutiny.”

“When were you pushed out of bed?” It was the first he’d heard of it.

“The morning after our marriage.”

“You thought I did it? No, don’t try to deny it. It’s clear from your face.”

“Well, who else would do it?”

The scar on his cheek pulled in reaction.

“Don’t look so affronted,” Rosalind snapped. “What else was I meant to think when you kept trying to get me to cry off?”

“That was—” Lucien stopped abruptly.

“Yes?” One blond brow arched.

“Different. I didn’t push you from your bed.” Lucien gave the walls of her chamber a fresh assessment. “So you think there’s a secret passage?”

“I’ve looked several times but can’t see anything unusual. There’s no other explanation. Do you remember playing in hidden passages when you were a child?”

Lucien’s head snapped up to stare at her. “I thought I made it clear my memory of the past is nil. How would I know if there are passages?” Frustration churned his gut, nagging like a painful boil. It was true that fragments teased him, but they usually disappeared like mist, leaving him angry and discouraged. He still didn’t believe he was the long-lost heir, Hastings. Nothing he’d seen or thought of so far proved or disproved the notion. No, he belonged in Italy on the Bacci estate. “There are no passages, no plot to murder you or your maid. If that’s all, I’m returning to my chamber.”

“Wait.” Rosalind lurched at him, grasping his arm so he came to a halt. An almost pained look etched into her face. “Don’t go.”

Startled, Lucien waited. Her hand tightened on his forearm, her warmth shooting up his arm and galloping to his groin. He smothered a gasp. The speed of his physical reaction astonished him. Francesca remained in his thoughts. Constantly. And he continued with his determined search for her killer. But he thought about Rosalind too. His scar pulled so he knew he was frowning.

She was the type of person who touched others often. It wasn’t an overly familiar action, more an offer of comfort. The strange thing was the way her touch warmed him and calmed his ruffled thoughts.

“There’s no one in the room apart from us,” he said. “Why don’t I summon a maid to keep you company? I must travel to Dover on business tomorrow. It’s a long journey. I need to sleep even if you don’t.”

Rosalind fought the need to shake him. He was lying. His need for sleep was an excuse for him to leave. Even if she hadn’t read his thoughts, she’d have guessed by the way he raked his hand through his hair. There! He’d done it again. Her husband was uncomfortable in her presence and it showed.

She grimaced at her bare feet. The warmth from his skin worked its way up her arm, followed by a tingling sensation. A picture started to form in her mind. Not that woman again! Fighting her was like battling a ghost. Impossible. And she’d had enough. But before she ripped her hand off his arm, the picture formed. A man?

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Hastings’s fingers smoothed her arm and he patted her awkwardly. Like one would pat a child on the head.

“Nothing is wrong,” Rosalind said. “Don’t you have an early start tomorrow morning?”

“Of course.”

Hastings strode to the door but glanced back over his shoulder once, his brows drawn together in a baffled expression. Rosalind bit back a snort. And he thought
he
was confused. He should try living in her shoes for a few days, with other people’s thoughts and memories swirling about his brain. Then he’d really know the meaning of confusion.

“Good night,” she said.

The door clicked softly as he closed it, leaving her alone.

Hawk.

Intense curiosity burned inside, and she wished Mary were here so they could discuss the matter. To think she’d come so close to actually seeing the man when she’d overheard him in the garden. This wasn’t the first time the name Hawk had come to her in a vision. Just this morning, when she was treating the stable boy’s cough, she’d read the lad’s mind and seen a faceless character. She frowned. The stable boy was terrified of the mystery man.

Rosalind paced the length of her chamber, concentrating on the two different visions. It was curious that neither was clear. She paused by the walnut dresser and nodded abruptly as she came to a decision.

The solution was obvious. She needed to investigate Hawk herself and discover the man’s identity.

Early in the morning two days later, and Rosalind was alone again. She sighed before turning her attention to the chafing dish of eggs on the side table.

“Gloomy pile of rocks.” The idea of staying inside the castle all day brought on the urge to scream, loud and long, until everyone knew of her displeasure. With Mary still missing, she decided to walk to the village and question the seamstress, whether Hastings approved or not.

The butler entered the room and hovered just inside the doorway. After a pause, he coughed.

“Did you want something, Tickell?”

“I do not wish to disturb you, my lady, but there is a boy from the village at the kitchen door. He refuses to leave until he sees you.” It was clear the boy’s impudence offended Tickell.

Rosalind pushed her plate away, unable to eat while her mind was full of worry about Mary. Perhaps the boy had news. “I will see him.”

“In here?” Tickell’s voice rose in horror.

Rosalind took that to mean the boy from the village was a dirty urchin with light fingers. Either that or the thought of Lady Augusta’s disapproval struck healthy fear in the butler. Good point. “I’ll come to the kitchen. Let me finish breaking my fast first.”

“You will come to the kitchens?” Tickell sounded even more critical of this decision.

“Give the boy something to eat while he’s waiting.” She picked up her bowl of chocolate, giving Tickell no further opportunity to object. She grinned inwardly as the pause between his speaking and moving to carry out her instructions lengthened. Finally, she heard a sniff then slow, plodding footsteps as he departed.

Ten minutes after Tickell’s footfalls faded, she pushed her bowl aside and, after two wrong turnings, reached the kitchen slightly out of breath.

The cook, a thin woman with bright red cheeks and wisps of brown hair escaping from beneath her cap, looked up from her pastry. “Oh, my lady! Are ye lost?”

“No, I’ve come to see the village boy. Tickell said he was waiting to speak with me.” Rosalind searched the smoky room, but the only child visible was the one stacking logs beside the hearth. He tossed a log on the blazing fire, the vigorous flames sending off sweltering waves of heat. An older boy was turning a spit bearing a large joint of beef. A chubby maid measured ingredients into a large bowl.

Tickell stalked from the butlers’ pantry to direct orders at another maid plucking a chicken. When silence fell in the kitchen, he turned. “Lady Hastings, there you are.” His vexation at her appearance was evident in his straight shoulders and compressed mouth.

Rosalind smothered a smile. “Where is the boy?”

“Outside.” A pained inflection filled his voice this time as he glanced at the door leading to the kitchen garden.

Rosalind betrayed none of her annoyance. “Has he eaten?”

Tickell allowed a slight sniff. “Yes, my lady.”

“Very well. I would like a pot of chocolate and two cups, please.” Rosalind noted three stools in the far corner near the door. “We will have our chocolate over there.” She swept past Tickell and across the uneven flagstone floor to summon the boy.

Outside, a grubby boy scrambled to his feet. His nut-brown eyes widened until they resembled the round buttons on her best cloak. As she studied him, he swallowed audibly, but stood his ground despite his unease.

She smiled. “Hello. I understand you wish to speak with me on a matter of grave importance.”

The child swallowed again.

“Come inside. I have sore need of a cup of chocolate. I expect you’d like one too.” Rosalind made her way back into the kitchen, past the disapproving Tickell and the gaping cook to the group of stools. The hesitant footsteps behind told her the child followed as instructed.

“Sit,” Rosalind said to the boy, promptly following her own instruction. “Ah, here is the chocolate now.” She smiled encouragement at the young maid. A footman arrived with a small wooden table and the maid set down the tray with the chocolate pot, cups and a plate of jam tarts.

“What’s your name?” Rosalind asked, once the maid left them alone. She poured the chocolate into the two cups and, after sharp words from Tickell, the routine in the kitchen gradually resumed. She added a spoonful of honey to sweeten the chocolate and handed the cup to the boy. She placed two tarts on a plate and passed it to the child as well.

“Billy.”

“Well, Billy, how can I help you?”

The boy’s hand trembled. To give him time to gather his courage, Rosalind picked up her cup and took a sip.

“’Tis my brother,” the boy mumbled. He chose a jam tart and took a cautious bite.

“Is something wrong with your brother? Is he sick?”

Billy nodded vigorously while stuffing the rest of the jam tart in his mouth. He swallowed loudly then coughed.

Rosalind hid her smile. “Take a drink before you tell me more.”

A slurp sounded as Billy did as she suggested. Then he placed his cup down and leaned toward her. “Bin shot,” the boy whispered.

Rosalind drew in a sharp breath.

“In the leg. He can’t work at his job in stables. Ma cries. I heard how you be a healer.” Billy looked at her with childish hope. “Will you come?”

Shot.
Rosalind glanced over her shoulder to see if any of the servants were listening. Satisfied none were close enough to hear, she whispered, “Who shot your brother?”

“Excise men chasing the smugglers.”

“Smugglers!” Rosalind slapped a hand over her mouth. Another glance reassured her no one had overheard. “Your brother is involved with the smugglers?”

“Aye, my lady.”

Hawk.
“I’ll come and see your brother. Finish your chocolate while I collect my bag of medicines.” Rosalind stood. “Wait for me here.” It would offer the perfect opportunity to ask questions about Mary’s disappearance and the mystery man, Hawk.

A loud grinding rumble sounded without warning. The ground shook beneath her feet. Billy gasped, his eyes huge in a terrified face. A scream from the cook echoed through the kitchen. The rumbling increased. Copper pots and stoneware thumped to the ground. Iron pans clattered across the floor before rattling to a noisy halt on the flagstones. The stack of logs by the fire toppled over.

“Lord save us!” a maid screeched.

Rosalind heard another praying at the top of her voice. A footman tripped over a log and cursed.

Tickell shouted for quiet. His hand lashed out, striking the nearest maid across the face. Her piercing screech subsided into noisy weeping.

Rosalind grabbed Billy’s upper arm. “Run outside. Wait in the garden and don’t come back inside. Hurry!”

Billy stood, but hesitated. Impatient, Rosalind shoved him in the middle of the back. “Hurry, Billy.”

The floor shook again and the flagstones lifted like a pot of stew bubbling on the fire. The beef roasting on the spit toppled into the fire. The meat hissed. A shower of hot embers shot out onto the hearth.

Dust and smoke filled the air, partially obscuring vision, making her eyes water. Another piercing scream rent the air. Rosalind whirled to see a maid disappear from sight. Her scream echoed eerily for a long time after she vanished through a hole in the floor.

“Tickell!” Rosalind grabbed hold of a sturdy table and inched toward the butler. “What’s happening?”

The floor shifted, sending Tickell lurching. An iron hook tumbled from the table where a maid had left it, striking him on the head. Blood gushed from his temple. At Rosalind’s shout, he glanced up, his face full of dazed confusion.

“Tickell, go outside into the garden. Take Cook with you.” Rosalind grabbed a sobbing Cook and shoved her at Tickell. “Go.” Her words were a sharp order and the butler obeyed without hesitation.

The rumbling ceased. A nerve-wrenching groan from one of the remaining maids sounded to her right. Rosalind edged closer to the huge, gaping hole that had appeared in the kitchen floor. When the dust cleared, she saw the sparkling blue of the ocean.

Rosalind patted the maid on the shoulder, intending to comfort her. Instead, she relived the maid’s memories of her friends toppling into the hole. Horrified, she wrenched her hand away. Her breathing sounded harsh and loud to her ears, the fearful image replaying in her mind.

Fretful cries and hysterical sobs galvanized her to action. “Are you hurt?” she demanded of the nearest maid.

“No, my lady.”

“Go and find Lord St. Clare or Mr. Soulden. Tell them I need their help.”

The maid sniffed and wiped a dirty hand across her tear-stained cheek. “Yes, my lady.”

Rosalind rushed to the side of the scullery boy, who lay on the floor, his skinny legs protruding from under a butcher’s slab. She felt for his pulse and swallowed. The poor child was dead. She moved on to the next. This time she felt a tiny, unsteady pulse beat.

Lord St. Clare burst into the kitchen. “Rosalind, child. What has happened?”

Charles followed a few seconds later. “What’s wrong? I couldn’t make sense of the maid’s blathering. She said the bottom had fallen out of England.”

Rosalind attempted a smile, but the sally wasn’t enough to overshadow her shock. “Not England. Castle St. Clare. The floor has collapsed and a maid has fallen through. We need help. Some of the servants are badly injured. We must move them in case more of the floor disintegrates.”

“Rosalind, child, let Charles and I deal with this. You go outside with the rest of the servants.”

“No. I can help. I’m skilled in healing. You need me here.”

“She’s right.” Charles assisted a pale, shocked servant to her side. The girl’s arm hung at an unnatural angle. “This girl is hurt. Where’s Tickell?”

“He’s injured. I sent him outside with Cook.”

The earl’s face paled in shock. “Good God, Charles. Look.”

Charles edged toward the gaping hole. Rosalind inched forward too, even though gazing down the crevice made her dizzy. The chocolate inside her stomach swirled in agitation, but awed horror propelled her to look. Far below, wicked rocks glistened with the sea spray. A briny tang filled her nostrils. The lifeless body of a maid floated in the water, hitting against the razor-sharp rocks with each fresh surge of the tide. Another body—the footman’s—draped over an out-hanging rock.

Rosalind squeezed her eyes shut. The sick sensation in her belly intensified. She didn’t want to look, but she had to. It could have easily been her down there.

Charles glanced over his shoulder. “Rosalind, we’re going to need help. Summon the stable lads and send a servant to bring Mansfield. He knows the coastline well. It may be easier to climb up rather than risk dropping ropes down.”

***

The meal that night was a simple one. Rosalind gazed down at her plate and wondered how the others were able to eat. The thought of it made her ill—all those poor servants.

“Summon Tickell,” Lady Augusta said, after slurping the last spoonful of game soup from her bowl.

“Tickell is ill,” Rosalind said. “I sent him to his quarters to rest.”

“But I want more soup.”

St. Clare sighed, looking old and tired. “Augusta, let the servants be. They have lost friends today.”

Rosalind laid down her spoon and stood. She stepped past Charles, their guest Mansfield, and St. Clare at the head of the table.

“Where are you going?” Lady Augusta demanded. “We haven’t finished our meal.”

“You wanted more soup.” Rosalind reached for the tureen sitting near Lady Augusta’s right hand. “One spoon or two?”

Charles chuckled. Mansfield grinned, but Lady Augusta let out a screech of horror. “Put that down,” she snapped.

Rosalind filled Lady Augusta’s soup bowl despite the woman’s consternation. “Anyone else?”

“I’ll have some, child,” St. Clare said. “Augusta, stop your snarling. The child is right. The servants who are unharmed have enough to do at present.”

The soup served, Rosalind slipped back into her chair. One thing preyed on her mind. Mary had burbled endlessly of the treasure but hadn’t mentioned any tunnels running beneath Castle St. Clare. “Did you know of the tunnels beneath the kitchen? Have they always been there?” Her voice wobbled a fraction as she thought of her missing maid. If only she’d return. Even her chiding would be welcome at this point.

St. Clare stared at his soup. “There have always been rumors handed down through the family of tunnels and lost treasure. I searched as a young lad, as did these two scamps along with Hastings when they were younger. None of us found a hint of a secret passage. I thought the stories of the lost St. Clare treasure were just that—rumors.”

“You didn’t find any concealed passages when you were looking?” Rosalind scrutinized their faces closely.

Charles shrugged. “Not a thing.”

“We did find the priest’s hole,” Mansfield said.

“That’s right,” Charles said. “I’d forgotten about that.”

Lady Augusta chuckled. “I remember how disappointed you were when you found it led nowhere.”

Doubt and a hint of suspicion rose in Rosalind. How could none of the family be aware of the labyrinth beneath the castle? She peered at each of the men. Was one of them responsible for the cave-in? “Someone knows about the passages. The digging is fresh. Our servants died because someone ordered the tunnels extended.”

“Rubbish,” Lady Augusta said.

“I think,” Rosalind continued undaunted, “that someone believes the rumors, and they’re searching for the St. Clare treasure. What are we going to do about it?”

***

Three days later, all those injured in the kitchen tragedy were resting peacefully and no longer required her presence. Rosalind hurried into the outer garden, her bag of medicines tucked over her arm. She’d discovered a shortcut to the village earlier in the week and intended to visit Billy and his family and search for Mary. After a swift glance over her shoulder, she quickened her pace, almost running in her haste to escape.

At least Hastings wasn’t here, demanding she take an escort.

“Going somewhere, Lady Hastings?”

Rosalind bit back a squeal of fright, but a tiny squeak emerged anyway. Heat filled her cheeks as she pulled her nose away from Mansfield’s snowy white shirt. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.” She took a rapid step back and saw Charles was with him.