When She Was Wicked (30 page)

That image of her mother was the one she remembered most clearly. There’d been happier times—walks in the park, ices at Gunter’s, and skating on the river. But those memories were colorless and unfocused, like she was viewing them through gossamer. No, the sharpest recollection Rose had of her mother was from that terrible night.

The last time she ever saw her.

Rose shook her head to clear it and breathed deeply. She was no longer a green girl but a woman, and it was time for her to face the truth. Life was sometimes ugly and unpleasant. But she didn’t have to dwell on those bits.

Instead she imagined how delighted Olivia would be to see a book on James’s favorite subject—Ancient Egypt—beside her bed when she woke.

Rose quietly retrieved her slippers, clutched the book of poetry to her chest, and headed for the library. The corridor was dark; one lamp flickered halfheartedly on a small table at the top of the landing. She picked up the lantern and tiptoed downstairs, grateful that the entire household seemed to be asleep.

Running into someone when she was alone was… awkward. They would politely greet her, and she would murmur something unintelligible, smile, and nod.

Her sudden withdrawal from the world over two years ago was a source of grave concern to Olivia and Owen,
and she regretted worrying them. But something inside her had fragmented that night.

She vaguely recalled having been a happy, whole person before. Sometimes, in her dreams, she was transported to a time when she’d laughed with Olivia and Owen, hugged Papa, and played the piano for Mama. But the memories were murky and distorted—as though she gazed at her reflection in a muddy, swirling lake.

She hadn’t yet figured out how to put herself back together again. Some days, when her emotions were calm and quiet, she felt certain it was only a matter of time before she’d be able to fill the cracks and return to the person she’d been before. Other days, it seemed there wasn’t enough paste in the world to mend her, especially without either Mama or Papa there to help her.

She entered the second-floor room, inhaling the familiar musty smell all self-respecting libraries possessed. Lord and Lady Harsby’s collection was impressive, and the room was well-appointed—thick carpets begged one to walk barefoot and plush armchairs invited one to test their soft cushions.

The travel guides stood in militarily neat rows on a bottom shelf, ready to serve. Finding a couple of books about pharaohs and mummies was an easy matter. Tucking them under an arm, she proceeded to the large bookcase dedicated to poetry. She returned the volume she had and plucked another—a rich leather volume of Donne’s.

The lush imagery and angst drew her in, and before she knew it, she’d settled into a cozy wingback chair, taken off her slippers, and tucked her feet beneath her. Torrents of rain occasionally blew against the large windows, and lightning flashed, providing brief glimpses of the room’s
treasures. The minute hand on the grandfather clock made a revolution, or perhaps two. Rose savored the peace and stillness that were so scarce during the daylight hours.

Eventually, however, her eyes blinked in protest. She closed them—just for a moment. After a quick rest, she’d finish the page and sneak back to bed.

But the chair was so comfortable, sleep so seductive.

A tickle on her neck interrupted her slumber. She brushed a hand across her throat, but the sensation persisted. She ignored it.

When a clap of thunder rattled the windows, however, she opened her eyes and bolted upright.

Lord Winthrope leaned over her, his foul breath hot on her face.

A scream rose up in her throat and stuck there. She cowered against the back of the chair and pulled her robe tightly around her. The book of poetry fell off her lap, thudding to the floor.

“So much like your mother.” His words slithered across her skin. “Stunningly beautiful and aloof. But underneath your superior façade lies a woman with a predilection for… naughtiness.” He grasped the base of her throat, putting pressure on her windpipe. Air became terrifyingly scarce.

Trembling, she shook her head. He didn’t know her at all. She was
nothing
like Mama.

“Oh, but it’s true. She resisted at first, too. Once I introduced her to the more sophisticated pleasures”—he rubbed his crotch—“she couldn’t get enough. You saw us that night, didn’t you?”

She stared blankly, refusing to give any indication of the truth. Inside, though, her heart beat wildly. He knew.

“Your mother worried that you’d tell your father about us. What a ridiculous notion!” He snorted and pointed at the poetry book on the rug by his feet. “You’re reading about sex when you should be trying it. Aren’t you curious to know what all the fuss is about?”

Disgust and the pressure on her throat made her gag.

“You have much to learn, my pretty lass.”

The vein in her neck pulsed frantically beneath his clammy hands. Her feet itched to kick him, but in her vulnerable position, she couldn’t afford to anger him. She pounded the arm of the chair with her fist, desperately hoping a stray servant would hear it and investigate, but the corridor outside the library was void of light or movement.

Frustration welled inside her. A normal girl would scream and awaken the household.

Curse her stupid voice for deserting her. And curse the wretched weakness that prevented her from reclaiming it.

Lord Winthrope leered with undisguised lust and straddled her on the armchair, pinning her to it. He leaned in closer, the rum on his breath stinging her eyes.

She would
not
be a victim of this grotesque excuse for a human being. Summoning every ounce of courage, she opened her mouth, took as deep a breath as she could, and—

Nothing.

She tried again. Inhaled, and tried to let loose a yelp, a squeal, a grunt. Anything to alert someone to her predicament.

But her windpipe constricted, and the only audible sound she made was a faint gasp—worthless and futile. Oh, why hadn’t she asked Anabelle to accompany her? Tears burned at the backs of her eyes.

Winthrope raised a brow and smiled smugly. “It must
be awful for you, being a mute. All kinds of thoughts run through that sweet little head of yours, but you’re reduced to primitive hand signals, much like an ape. I could do anything I wanted to you.” As if to prove his point, he stuck a hand inside her robe and grabbed a fistful of her nightgown. She heard the wrenching of the fabric, and cold air rushed over her shoulder and arm.

Stop
. She pleaded with her eyes, but he didn’t look at her face. His lecherous gaze slid over her exposed skin and down her body.

“I believe I shall give you your first lesson. It is called ‘How to Please a Man.’ If you tell anyone of this little encounter, using your odd gestures and pitiful looks, they’ll think you insane. Even if your brother and sister could understand you, which is doubtful, they’d never believe me capable of such atrocities.” He laughed cruelly. “They don’t know the half of it.”

Keeping one hand on her neck, he groped at her breasts, squeezing painfully. She tried to heave him off, but her wriggling only incited him further. He thrust his hips toward her, and his arousal poked her belly, making her want to retch.

If Charles were here, he’d surely snap the earl’s neck. But he wasn’t, and she had to be strong. She couldn’t allow the earl to violate her. Not without a fight.

He lunged forward, his tongue sliding over his teeth like a ravenous wolf.

Blindly, she reached for the table beside the armchair. She knocked over a small trinket; it fell to the rug soundlessly. The earl tightened his hold on her neck, and bright spots shot across her vision like warning flares off the bow of a ship.

She reached again and this time grasped the base of the lantern she’d brought with her. It had some weight to it, and the metal edges were sharp. It was her one and only chance to escape, and unless she acted quickly, blackness would descend. She clutched the thin iron handle and, using all her might, swung the lantern at the earl’s head.

W
ake up.” Olivia’s voice held a note of urgency that made the hairs on the back of Anabelle’s neck stand on end.

Prying open her eyes, she groped for her spectacles on the bedside table. After sliding them onto her nose, she glanced at the clock. Barely seven in the morning—very early for Olivia. “Is something wrong?”

“I can’t find Rose.”

Anabelle threw back the covers and reached for her robe. “Did she sleep in your room last night?”

“I don’t think so. She wasn’t there when I woke, so I checked the other bedchamber.” Anabelle followed as Olivia walked into that room and gestured to the madeup bed. “No one’s slept here. I have an awful feeling, Anabelle.”

So did she, but she pasted on what she hoped was a reassuring smile, wrapped an arm around Olivia, and gave her a squeeze. “I’m sure she hasn’t gone far. Perhaps she woke up hungry and wandered downstairs for breakfast. Or decided she needed some fresh air.”

“No, that can’t be it.” Olivia pulled Anabelle by the hand into her bedchamber. “Look, her robe and slippers are missing.”

“Maybe she changed in the other room.” But a quick check of the armoire disproved the theory. Each of the two dozen gowns Rose brought to the house party hung there, just as they had the night before. Where on earth could she have gone in her nightgown? “Have you ever known Rose to roam the house in her sleep?”

“Never.” Olivia bit her lip. “We need to wake Owen. He’ll know what to do.” She started toward the door, but Anabelle grabbed her wrist.

“Not yet. Let’s change quickly and check a few rooms. If we haven’t found her in the next quarter hour, we’ll alert your brother.”

Each of the women threw on a morning gown and some slippers, then dashed out of their suite without bothering to pin up their braids. They took the back stairs to the breakfast room, nearly bumping into an upstairs maid carrying a pitcher of water.

“Did you pass Lady Rose this morning?”

“No, ma’am,” the maid said. “But some early risers are already in the breakfast room.”

“Thank you.” Anabelle waited for the maid to scurry off and then whispered to Olivia, “You see? Rose probably borrowed one of your dresses and went downstairs.”

Olivia’s eyes lit with hope. When they reached the
breakfast room, however, its lone occupant was Mr. Averill, who sat reading the newspaper, a cup of steaming coffee before him. Olivia flushed bright red. “Good morning, James,” she said. “Was Rose just here, by any chance?”

He stood and although his eyes widened slightly at their state of dishabille, bowed politely. “I haven’t had the pleasure of her company. I hope you’ll join me, though.”

Olivia took a step toward him. “That would be—”

“I’m sorry, but we’re just passing through,” Anabelle said, nudging Olivia out into the hallway.

“We must have appeared rude,” Olivia fretted. “If Rose is playing some sort of trick, I shall not be amused.”

“I don’t think she’d do that.”

Olivia turned remorseful. “Neither do I. Let’s go find Owen.”

Anabelle’s stomach flip-flopped. “I suppose we must.”

As they hurried back upstairs, she looked in every open doorway and around every corner, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rose’s auburn hair or white nightgown. Each time, she was disappointed.

Upon reaching the door to Owen’s bedchamber, Olivia knocked and turned to Anabelle. “Allow me to do the talking.”

She nodded, more than happy to defer.

Owen opened the door a crack and peered out. His eyes were glazed with sleep and his hair was more disheveled than usual. “Olivia? Belle—er, Miss Honeycote?”

Too preoccupied with the news she had to deliver to notice his slip, Olivia blurted, “Rose is missing.”

“What? Damn it. Wait there.” He slammed the door. Thumps and muffled curses sounded on the other side before he opened it once more. With his shirt untucked
and cravat absent, he strode down the hallway firing questions. Olivia answered as best she could; he found none of the answers satisfactory.

When they reached the first-floor landing, he gazed directly at Anabelle, his fear for Rose flashing in his green eyes. “How could you let this happen? I trusted you to watch over her. And you’re telling me she’s gone?”

She closed her eyes and choked back a sob. She’d asked herself the same questions ever since she woke this morning.

Owen pressed his palms to his temples. He had to think.

Rose had seemed perfectly fine last evening. Happy even. It was completely out of character for her to run off and not tell anyone where she was going. Olivia was the impulsive one, with the outspoken nature and radical ideas about servants. Wasn’t she?

He put a hand on Olivia’s shoulder. “Where did you last see her?”

“She was reading beside me in bed last evening. She was dressed for bed.”

“What were you talking about?”

Olivia worried the end of her long brown braid. “I don’t remember.”

“Egypt.” Anabelle stepped forward. “We were saying it might be nice to learn more about ancient Egypt.”

Olivia’s mouth formed an “O.” “That’s right—we were.”

He started walking again. “Let’s check the library.” It seemed a benign place, but what if Rose reached for a book and a shelf collapsed, or something fell on her? He
walked faster, and Olivia and Anabelle scurried to keep pace with him.

He rounded a corner and pushed open the heavy, paneled door of the library, half-afraid Rose would be there, half-afraid she wouldn’t. At first glance, everything appeared to be in order. The long rows of books were undisturbed; no furniture was toppled. Instead of feeling relief, however, he fought a wave of panic. Where the hell could she be?

“Look at this.” Anabelle stooped beside a shelf to the left of the room’s large window. He went and crouched next to her. “This is where Lord Harsby houses his volumes on ancient civilizations.” She pointed to a couple of gaps in the otherwise neat row of books.