The Spurned Viscountess (9 page)

Rosalind stepped inside her chamber and slammed the door shut. Her sight wasn’t necessary to divine the evil present at Castle St. Clare. It was there for any idiot to see, and if Hastings refused to listen, she’d investigate on her own.

She turned a slow circle, scrutinizing each wall in the flickering candlelight as if she’d never seen it before. Almost immediately, a sense of disquiet inched down her body, as if an unseen person spied on her. Malicious, perhaps dangerous. Her palms grew clammy with tension, but she bit back her fear and forced herself to continue her investigation. Noir, her kitten, crawled out of his basket in the corner. He yawned widely and ambled over to wind around her shaky legs.

Where was Mary? The candles were freshly lit so she couldn’t have been gone for long. Then Rosalind remembered that Mary had gone to meet one of the male servants. Rosalind coughed to clear the knot of apprehension in her throat. At this very moment, she craved the sound of another voice and a friendly face. She crouched to scratch Noir behind the ears. Briefly, she considered summoning a maid on some pretext, only to reject the idea. This was something she must do on her own. She gave the kitten a final pat and stood.

Forcing her jumpy nerves away, Rosalind marched to the closest wall to search for anything out of the ordinary. There must be a clue somewhere. She rapped her knuckles on the wall. A dull thud sounded. Rosalind knocked harder and scraped a hunk of skin from her knuckles.

“Ouch.” She sucked at the trickle of blood.

On hearing her sound of distress, the kitten padded over and meowed for her to pick him up. Laughing softly, she did as he demanded and he rewarded her with a noisy purr. The small half-drowned kitten she’d picked up off the beach was no longer recognizable. With his healthy appetite, Noir was growing at a rapid pace and getting into mischief.

“Yes, getting into mischief,” she said, trying to keep her tone stern, but failing dismally when Noir licked her hand. “I’ve no idea how you escape from my chamber. Mary swears the door is shut when she leaves.”

The kitten meowed in answer.

“Yes, I think Mary is frightened of you.” She smoothed one hand over the kitten’s glossy black coat. “Mary thinks you’re a witch’s cat too, because of your extra toes, your yellow eyes and your black coat. Luckily, I’ve managed to keep the other maids from studying you too closely.”

The wind wailed outside. Her candle flickered. In the distance, a shutter banged. Rosalind shivered. Another quick squall pelted the castle, blowing in from the sea without warning. The candle flame fluttered and died, plunging her chamber into darkness.

“Bother.” After she’d been pushed from her bed, she’d taken to sleeping with a candle lighting the room. Or trying to. The blessed things kept blowing out. A chill crawled along her arms and a swooping, hollow sensation danced in her stomach. She stumbled to her bed and placed the kitten down out of harm’s way, every sense alert. The darkness seemed to pulse and reach for her like a living being. Whispers of evil slithered over her skin, leaving dozens of raised bumps.

A creak drew a loud gasp. Was that a footstep? She swallowed, each breath sounding deafening to her ears. A soft rustle made her freeze. Was that the bed curtains? A footfall on the rug?

Rosalind fumbled her way along the length of the four-poster bed to a walnut dresser. She groped for another candle. Fingers worked like thumbs as she struggled to light the taper.

A loud squeak made her jump. Her head jerked. A breeze whispered against her cheek, and the candle blew out again. Rosalind smelled a whiff of the sea and something else…Tobacco?

Noir’s distant meow galvanized her to action. She needed a candle lit. Now.

“I’m not imagining things,” she said. “I’m not.”

Her hand trembled as she struggled to produce light. Someone was inside the chamber with her. Another meow sounded as the flame on the candle finally flared to life. She held the candlestick aloft, every nerve in her body screaming to run. But she held fast. She intended to show Hastings that the specters at Castle St. Clare were not the product of an overactive imagination. There was mischief afoot and, no matter how terrified, she wanted to prove it.

“Noir? Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” Rosalind crept about her chamber, searching for her pet. He was here somewhere. Right now, she craved contact with him to help steady her jangling nerves.

She searched every corner, under her bed, and in her dressing room. Finally, she came to the only possible conclusion.

Noir was no longer in the room even though she’d shut all the doors earlier.

***

A plaintive meow attracted Lucien’s attention. He paused in the passage leading to his chamber. A black creature flitted under the oak table in an alcove. Rosalind’s kitten. A slow smile spread across his face as the kitten batted a dust mote along the ground. The kitten sidled closer and pounced. His whiskers twitched a second before a sneeze exploded.

Lucien chuckled and scooped the kitten up in one hand, cradling it to his chest and smoothing his thumb over its furry head. A loud purr filled the silent passage.

“I think Rosalind might miss you,” he murmured. The kitten rubbed his head against Lucien’s thumb, silently demanding the stroking recommence.

Lucien strode down the silent passage to Rosalind’s chamber. It was adjacent to his, with a connecting door between the two rooms—a connecting door that remained firmly shut. So much for Lord St. Clare’s hope to bounce a grandchild on his knee. Pain spiked through Lucien’s heart. His unborn child had died along with Francesca. He would never have another child.

He pounded on the door. Footsteps sounded and the door cracked open.

“Hastings.” The gap between the door and the frame widened abruptly. “Hastings,” she repeated, her expression one of amazement and apprehension. Her right hand darted out to smooth her hair. She moistened her lips. “Ah, come in.”

The delicate blush on her cheeks, visible even in candlelight, made him freeze. An internal alarm clanged and his scar tightened as he grimaced. A tick started under one eye. “I’ve come to return your kitten.” He spoke harshly, unable to believe the thoughts darting across the English mouse’s face. Inconceivable! That she’d think…His brows pinched together. Good God. The woman…the last thing he wanted was to bed the scrawny English mouse. “Here.” He thrust the kitten at her.

“Don’t you want children?” she blurted out, taking the kitten without touching him. Her cheeks glowed a fiery red but she met his scowl unflinchingly.

“No!
I do not want children.
”

Judging by the pained look on her face, he’d hurt her feelings. Unable to bear a sudden onslaught of guilt, Lucien retreated and reached the door in two steps. It clicked shut behind him, sounding abnormally loud. He winced. Hell’s teeth! All he’d done was act civilly, and straightaway she’d made assumptions. The English mouse and Lady Sophia both in the same night.

Tension tightened his muscles while anger made him long to strike out—a wall, a man, anything to dispel the strain galloping through his body. His decision to keep a careful watch on his wife no longer seemed wise, not when his attentions made her jump to conclusions. Already, the woman featured too prominently in his thoughts.

He shuddered and started for his room before abruptly changing both his mind and direction. If he retired for the night, he’d have trouble sleeping or, worse, have nightmares again. He might as well go to the cove and search for smuggler activity. Not all the men wore masks. He wanted to find an inconspicuous place to watch the unloading of a shipment. Hopefully he’d recognize some of the locals who were involved and be able to work out the weakest link—the man he could break or bribe and receive some straight answers about Hawk.

The man had appeared mysteriously six months ago, from what he could gather. There must be someone who knew more. Lucien glanced out a nearby window. Thick cloud shrouded the sickle moon. The night appeared perfect for smugglers, and he was not about to pass up a chance to find the elusive Hawk.

“Ah, Lady Hastings. We meet again.”

Rosalind’s head jerked up as a man’s voice cut into her turbulent thoughts. Mr. Soulden. Cousin Charles, she reminded herself.

He sauntered toward her, a slim and fashionable figure in a white shirt, a heavily embroidered lavender waistcoat and matching breeches, his wig a lighter hue of lavender. Quite the gentleman, he should have looked out of place amongst the wild, overgrown hedges and gardens but didn’t.

Rosalind returned his smile even though she’d never felt less like smiling in her life, not since Hastings’s last firm rebuttal five nights ago. His blunt words continued to rattle around inside her head until she wanted to scream. Their underlying sentiment had sliced like a dagger, cutting wounds that went deep. Even now, days later, she wanted to crawl away and tend her injuries in private. She considered waving at Charles and continuing her walk but decided it wouldn’t do to upset the only person who had extended the hand of friendship since her arrival. Now that Mary had found someone, a man she spent her free time with, Rosalind was often alone.

Lonely.

The smile felt stiff and foreign on her lips—more a grimace than anything. It was the best she could manage. She inclined her head in greeting as Charles picked his way around a haphazard bed of purple and white petunias and stopped before her.

“Cousin Charles,” she murmured.

“Might I escort you on a turn about the garden?” The corners of his mouth quirked upward as if inviting her to share in a private joke. “It’s a glorious day.”

Her grimace never faltered. “I’m afraid I’m wandering aimlessly, without real purpose.”

His blond brows arched, and he indicated the drawing materials she held with a languid hand. “May I not help you find the perfect bloom to paint, the perfect pastoral scene?”

His unfailing good spirits made guilt surface. And even though Rosalind felt like moping alone, she decided to make an effort. “I thought of painting the sea, not that I’m a gifted artist. It is something to do out of doors.”

“I’ve noticed you try to avoid Aunt Augusta,” he said, his smile turning sly.

Rosalind’s gasp was instant and loud in the silence of the garden. “No, I don’t!” The defensive note in her voice drew a frown. It was true. She avoided Lady Augusta as much as she shunned mice. In fact, if the truth be told, she would prefer to face an unpredictable mouse.

“Let me take your drawing materials for you.” Charles tucked her hand in the crook of his free arm and, by common consent, they wandered down an overgrown path that led to the far end of the formal part of the garden.

“I am not avoiding Lady Augusta.” Rosalind broke the silence that had fallen between them. At least she’d done one thing right in her panic to leave the castle without seeing Lady Augusta. Her gloves were in place, protecting her hands against thorns and possible visions.

“I’m not accusing you of anything.” He flashed a grin. “When Aunt Augusta gets in one of her moods, there’s no gainsaying her.”

The irony in his tone jerked Rosalind from dark thoughts of her marriage. Lady Augusta was always in a mood. The woman was cranky and outright obnoxious. Nothing Rosalind did pleased her, which was why she’d escaped outside. “She never snaps at you.”

“You didn’t hear her this morning.”

Rosalind sighed. “Probably after she found me absent.”

“No, she never mentioned you. I was in the firing line today. According to Aunt Augusta, I spend far too much time gadding around the countryside. I need to settle down with someone of her choice. Unfortunately, her choices don’t find favor with me. Last one giggled and the one before had teeth that would look better in a horse.” He shuddered and patted Rosalind’s arm. “Go on, give me a smile. Don’t let Aunt Augusta wear you down.”

His sympathetic words made tears build at the back of her eyes. Rosalind looked down at the gravel path, glad when it narrowed to the point where they could no longer walk side by side. She blinked fiercely. She’d been a fool to think marriage was the answer to her problems. Before marriage, the dream of children and family was impossible, but now it was equally improbable because Hastings refused to acknowledge her. He was frequently absent from the castle. When present, he chose to ignore her.

The path widened and Charles took possession of her arm again. Unbidden, a tear trickled down her face. It splashed onto Charles’s shirtsleeve, immediately followed by another.

“Do you know where Hastings is?” Charles asked.

A sob broke free. “No.” As if he’d tell her where he was going.

Charles stopped walking without warning, dragging Rosalind to a halt. He peered at her in astonishment. “Are you crying?”

“No.”

“You are. What’s wrong?”

Rosalind sniffed. “I’m not crying.”

Charles grasped her upper arms and reached out to trace one finger across her cheekbone. The sun glinted on the teardrop sitting on his finger. “Crying, just as I suspected. What’s wrong? Would you like me to find Hastings for you?”

“No!”

“No?”

“Hastings is busy. I don’t want to bother him.”

Charles stepped closer and gently wiped her cheeks with the back of his hand, a soft smile of sympathy on his face. He was close enough for Rosalind to smell him—the faint scent of shaving soap, the rice powder coating his wig, and cloves and cinnamon on his clothes. He drew her closer still until her cheek rested on his waistcoat, the silver embroidery scratchy against her skin. His hand smoothed down her back. After resisting for an instant, Rosalind relaxed into his comforting embrace.

“From what I hear, marriage is not an easy thing. Since his return from Europe, I have found George changed.”

“Don’t you mean Lucien?” Rosalind asked.

Charles chuckled. “Yes, of course. Lucien, as he prefers to be known.”

Rosalind sniffed and pulled away enough so she was able to see Charles’s face. “How has he changed? What was he like as a boy?”

“I arrived at Castle St. Clare after my parents died in a carriage accident. St. Clare and Lady Augusta treated me like another son, and Hastings and his best friend, Viscount Mansfield, treated me like a brother. The three of us were inseparable, always in scrapes but always a threesome. We went on our Grand Tour together. St. Clare hired a tutor, and the three of us started on our big adventure.”

As Rosalind watched, Charles seemed to drift back into the past. She touched his arm to regain his attention. “What happened?” Although she’d heard rumors, she needed facts from someone who knew firsthand.

Charles blinked the past away. “We were in Italy. After spending time in Florence, we traveled down the coast, intending to visit the ruins at Pompeii. We were in Naples at a tavern. Mansfield and I decided to leave early and return to our rooms. Our tutor came with us, but Hastings had met a woman and he stayed. It was a huge joke to us all.” He paused and coughed. “Not fit for a woman’s ears, really.”

“Go on,” Rosalind urged. “Please, I’d like to know.”

“It was a contest between us, as most things were. A game.”

“A contest about women?”

A trace of red flirted with his cheekbones and he grinned crookedly. “Ah, yes. Hastings wanted to win. He and Mansfield were always very competitive.”

“So he stayed on at the tavern.”

“We never saw him again. None of us worried until late the next afternoon. We searched for days. The woman was the last person to see him. We questioned her but she was unable to help. They spent most of the night together, parting in the early hours of the morning when it was still dark. It was as if he’d disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“Were the people in the tavern questioned? The woman’s servants?”

“Everyone. For almost a month we searched the area, describing Hastings, but he’d vanished.”

Rosalind frowned. “I don’t understand how he arrived back at Castle St. Clare.”

Charles took her arm and they walked through a crumbling stone archway into the wilderness outside. The blue of the sea was visible, and the muted thunder of waves beating at the cliff base became audible.

“I’m not sure Hastings knows. He doesn’t remember what happened, and he’s tight-lipped about where he was before returning to St. Clare. As I said, he’s changed. He’s no longer outgoing and cheerful. I’m not sure I’ve seen him smile since his return. He’s distant, not just with me, but with Mansfield too, and he’s known Mansfield since the cradle. We used to do everything together. And now we don’t.”

A silence fell between them as they strolled along the path, each deep in their own thoughts. Rosalind wondered what had happened to Hastings. After seeing his scar, it was obvious he’d been attacked and injured, but what else had happened to cause an outgoing man to change so much?

“He doesn’t want marriage with me.”

Charles stopped in the middle of the path, a frown on his face. In the heartbeat before he spoke, Rosalind heard the call of a sea bird and the buzz of a bee collecting pollen from the profusion of nearby flowers. Miserably, she focused on the sounds to counteract her embarrassment.

His fingers tipped up her chin, forcing her to look at him. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“No, he tried to call off the wedding before the ceremony.” The words burst from her, once her initial shock faded. “And now he ignores me. I’ll never have children.”

Charles’s mouth fell open. He blinked. “You mean…?”

Rosalind lifted her shoulders in a wretched shrug, color scorching her cheeks.

“Oh.” Charles cleared his throat. “Give it time. Hastings has much to deal with these days.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t believe time would heal the breach between them without help. Charles hadn’t heard Hastings last week. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind. Hastings had meant it when he said he didn’t want children.

“I’m sure I’m right. Ah, I believe this is the perfect spot for you to capture the vista. What do you think?” He stopped by a stone wall.

Rosalind nodded, hardly caring where she set herself up to draw. In truth, she wanted to think, not paint. She needed to decide how to cope with Hastings, with Lady Augusta, the mystery of her disappearing clothes, and that was just the start.

Like it or not, she and Hastings were married. She must make some sort of life for herself.

Charles set her drawing materials on top of a flat stone. “Can I do anything else for you before I leave? Help you set up?”

Rosalind forced a cheerful smile but remained chilled inside. “Thank you, Cousin Charles. I’ll be fine on my own. Will you be here for dinner?” The idea of his company at the dinner table appealed, especially if they were to dine without company tonight. A shudder worked its way down her spine when she imagined Lady Augusta’s pointed remarks and fault-finding, along with Hastings’s silence and scowls. Cousin Charles’s lighthearted company helped immensely during the longwinded dinners.

“Mansfield is home from London, dancing attendance on his mother. We’re attending a puppet show in Whittlebury. Lady Sophia and Lady Radford are organizing the outing. No doubt Mansfield will arrive at Castle St. Clare for dinner. He has had some interesting experiences. He returned to Italy for a time and traveled to the East, to Constantinople. Sultan Abdul Musa befriended him after Mansfield saved the sultan’s brother from a runaway horse that almost trampled him. Mansfield’s stories of life in the sultan’s palace are…colorful,” Charles ended with an embarrassed splutter.

“I look forward to meeting him.” Rosalind hid her amusement. He meant the tales were not suitable for a lady’s ears.

Charles grinned. “You’ll like Mansfield. Most people do. Would you like to go to Whittlebury with me?”

And give Lady Sophia another shot at ridiculing her dress? Rosalind shook her head. Not until the dressmaker completed her gowns. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“All right.” With a quick wave, Charles sauntered away.

Rosalind frowned as she watched him depart. And sighed, feeling sorry for herself. Why wasn’t Hastings more agreeable, like his cousin?

***

“Lady Augusta wants you.”

The rough male voice almost two hours later startled Rosalind. She leaped off her perch on the stone wall, her hand fluttering to her breast. The footman waited in silence, his face impassive. She studied the intelligent glint in his brown eyes before deciding against a plea to tell Lady Augusta he couldn’t find her. She frowned. If she refused to return to the castle, he’d probably escort her by force. He looked the sort to follow orders.

Heaving a resigned sigh, Rosalind packed up her drawing materials. Lady Augusta had trapped her neatly this time. “Where will I find Lady Augusta?”

“In the Blue Drawing Room.”

Rosalind inclined her head. “Thank you.” She walked past the South Tower and into the courtyard. The squeaking of leather shoes and the rustle of fabric indicated that the footman followed her. She stopped and turned to fix him with a haughty stare. “I know where the Blue Drawing Room is located.”

“Lady Augusta bade me escort you right to her.” His expression remained blank, although goodness knows what the man was thinking. Lady Augusta was treating her like someone lacking in wits.

Rosalind’s chin jerked up. “I’ll change my gown before I attend Lady Augusta.”

The footman proved equally stubborn. “Lady Augusta said immediately.”

While they engaged in a duel of wills, Hastings appeared in the courtyard. A thrill of anticipation struck Rosalind unexpectedly hard, and her mouth dried as though she’d eaten too much pickled meat. Was her husband going to acknowledge her this morning? She swallowed, fighting to hold her emotions in check. Or would he walk right past her, treating her like an unfortunate encumbrance?

“Good morning, Hastings.” Rosalind decided to take a stand. He was her husband whether he liked it or not. She halted in front of him so he would need to step around her to avoid knocking her to the ground.

He stopped inches away. His dark eyes narrowed although she thought she saw a flicker of surprise, and perhaps approval. A tic kicked to life at the bottom of his scar.

Rosalind watched in fascination, the pulsing of the muscle right near his firm mouth. “Good morning,” she prompted again. Her heart skipped a beat at her daring, at the strange flash of emotion in his dark eyes. She’d be lucky if he didn’t imprison her in the North Tower with the ghost if she kept this up.