A Difficult Disguise (21 page)

“Now, Aunt,” Fletcher tried to interrupt, but the woman was having none of it.

Her handkerchief was frantically waving beneath her chin as she fanned her flushed features. “I don’t want to hear it, Fletcher. Lethbridge said you were all about in your head, but it is more than that, worse than that. You are unconscionable. Where are your senses? Where are your priorities? Where is my hartshorn? I believe I feel faint.”

“I’ve written to Mrs. Beale, Aunt,” Fletcher succeeded in slipping in at last, “and she should be joining us here at Lakeview within a matter of days. Until then, there remains less than nothing I can do. How can I locate this Rosalie when I don’t know her age or what she looks like? If, in the meantime, I am making myself useful by helping Billy here, it is only to keep myself busy, and my mind occupied.”

Aunt Belleville appeared to be slightly mollified. “You don’t know her age? I don’t believe I understand any of this. Exactly who was William Darley, and why should the gentleman have left the care of his sister to you? He was a gentleman, wasn’t he?”

While Rosalie tried to make herself disappear into the cushions of the settee, at the same time cudgeling her brain for a way to disappear from Lakeview before Mrs. Beale’s arrival, Fletcher gave his aunt a pithy explanation, beginning with Beck’s discovery of the letter from William and ending with the words, “...only to have found that the abominable brat I have been saddled with has run off somewhere.”

Rosalie lifted her gaze to see the furnishings of the yellow saloon through an angry red haze, all thoughts of running away in the middle of the night forgotten. Abominable brat, was she? Saddled, was he? Her spine stiffened. She had been right to come here unannounced and disguised, to see for herself what sort of man Fletcher Belden was.

And now, at last, she knew. He didn’t want her. At least horrid Mrs. Beale wanted her, although being the guest of honor at a Black Mass was not exactly Rosalie’s idea of the way in which she most desired to be “wanted.”

While Aunt Belleville fretted aloud over menus and sleeping arrangements for Mrs. Beale once that woman had arrived at Lakeview, interrupting herself several times to point out to Fletcher that she, his loving, ever-willing aunt, would do all her possible to be a good chaperone to young Rosalie once that lamentably misplaced child was found, Fletcher watched Rosalie’s face intently, disliking the set look of her jaw and the deep, cold green of her eyes.

She was hating him very much at the moment, a thought that displeased him intensely. It wasn’t as if he had developed a deathless passion for the girl—he’d hardly had time for that—but he didn’t relish being the object of her disgust.

Perhaps the “abominable brat” part of his story had been a little overdone. He should have sounded more upset, more concerned for her welfare, and less put upon by William’s request.

Just as he was about to interrupt Aunt Belleville in the midst of her mental redecoration of Arabella’s bedchamber for Rosalie, Fletcher’s pride silenced him. Why was he feeling guilty? Had he run away from home to come checking up on her so that, if he found her to be unappealing, he could cry off from what had come to be William’s dying request?

No, he certainly had not. The fact that he hadn’t known of Rosalie’s existence proved nothing to the point, for he knew that, as a man of honor, the thought of turning his back on her would never have entered his head.

Besides, he was going to marry her, wasn’t he? If Beck’s gloomy predictions hadn’t been enough to make him see he had compromised the girl, his memory of the effect her soft body and intelligent belligerence had on him was enough to tell him that marriage to Rosalie was the only answer that made any sense.

Yet there she sat, hating him, judging him. Didn’t she know what she had put him through with her innocent deception? Had she no idea of the consequences her refusal to identify herself to him would bring down on both their heads?

No. No, she didn’t. She really didn’t know. So sure she had fooled him, it doubtless had not yet occurred to her that she had crossed a fine line past which there could be no return. Fletcher chewed on this revelation for a moment, savoring it, and then spoke, completely changing the subject from Aunt Belleville’s discussion of the proper care of young females in a male household—which had a lot to do with having an older, sensible woman in constant residence—to one that, at the moment, lay much closer to his heart.

“Beck,” he said, turning to his friend, who was looking as if he might burst at any moment, “do you remember Bourne?”

“Bourne?” Beck repeated, still half-lost in a brown study that had a lot to do with leaving Lakeview in order to lead a more peaceful life, perhaps in deepest Africa, where the greatest danger lay in being mistaken for lunch by some hungry lion, and not having to worry about pathetically appealing green eyes and a tiny, sad face. “You mean the earl? What about him?”

Fletcher rose, walking to the drinks table to pour himself a brandy. “Oh, nothing really. I was thinking about Rosalie, my ward, and it occurred to me that, as I don’t know her age, she might be old enough to have compromised herself somewhere along the way as she roams about the countryside. That’s how Bourne got his wife, if you remember. Kissed her in the Home Wood, not knowing her true identity, and—presto!—poor Kit found himself leg-shackled.”

Rosalie’s head snapped back, her green eyes wide as saucers, causing Fletcher no end of satisfaction. “He—he had to marry her simply because he kissed her? One kiss?” she squeaked, then quickly lowered her head once more.

“That’s all it takes, halfling,” Fletcher said, winking to Beck, who began to feel better about his friend. “Remember that, both of you, if you should ever think about kissing a girl, although it pleases me to report that Kit and his wife are very happy. Oh, but no, I remember now. You, er, ‘ain’t in the petticoat line,’ are you, Billy?”

“Richard Casterbridge kissed me in the arbor behind the rectory,” Aunt Belleville put in dreamily, then sobered. “Only once, mind you, and I allowed it only because I had reached three-and-twenty and no one else had ever asked. But I never told anyone, as I had decided we wouldn’t suit.”

“Aunt,” Fletcher exclaimed, a hand to his chest. “There is a young boy in the room.”

The woman colored, tipping her head to one side. “It was only a kiss, Fletcher,” she pointed out. “It wasn’t as if I had... as if we had... you know what I mean, nephew.”

“Shared a bed? Slept together? Seen each other in a state of undress? Been alone together, in a wood, or an inn, with no chaperone, no notions of propriety? Can that be the sort of thing you meant, Aunt?” Fletcher persevered, knowing that any ideas he’d had of stringing out Rosalie’s little deception for so much as another minute had all gone by the board, and the time for truth had come.

Rosalie hopped to her feet, her face as white as freshly washed wool. “You,” she accused in dreadful tones, pointing one trembling finger at Fletcher. “You know! You know, and you did this on purpose. Didn’t you?”

“Know?” Aunt Belleville looked at Fletcher and then at Beck. “What does he know? What is the boy talking about?”

“How long have you known?” Rosalie demanded, taking a menacing step toward Fletcher. “Did you know when we were at the inn? No, you couldn’t have. You wouldn’t have made such a complete ass of yourself talking about all the wonderfully masculine things you have done if you had known. And to think I felt sorry for you. How could I have been so blind? Something happened after that. When, Fletcher? When did you know?”

“Yes, when Fletcher?” Beck slid in, also rising. “And I think I want to hear more about this business of your being a complete ass. I’ve long suspected it, but I really would like to have it confirmed.”

Fletcher silenced Beck with a look, turning away only as Rosalie went on the attack once more.

“Your revelation came after we returned to Lakeview, didn’t it?” she concluded correctly, knowing she had hit on the truth by the way his gray eyes slid away from hers for a moment. “You unspeakable cad! It did. This—this,” she sputtered, waving her arms to include the yellow saloon, her bedchamber, and most probably, the entirety of Lakeview, “was all a great big hum. A farce you perpetrated for your own amusement. But how? How did you know?”

It was as if the two of them were alone in the room. Neither paid any attention to Beck, who continued to enjoy himself immensely; Aunt Belleville, who sat on the settee, resembling nothing more than a spectator at a fiercely contested tennis match; or Lethbridge, who had crept into the room and who now hung on Rosalie’s every word.

Fletcher took another step forward, staring deeply into her eyes. “The other night, in the stables, you told me not to worry that my ward had not yet arrived, as it is a long way here from Patterdale.”

Rosalie didn’t understand. “So? What is that to the point?”

Fletcher smiled, realizing he liked feeling superior to Rosalie for this one moment, relishing the knowledge that, for once in their tempestuous association, he held the upper hand. “I hadn’t told you Rosalie lived in Patterdale, halfling,” he informed her, addressing her by what, to him, had become a form of endearment.

He watched as Rosalie recounted the last few days in her mind, separating events as to their day and time. It wouldn’t be long now, he thought patiently as he saw her become, if possible, even more pale than she had been before.

When she spoke, her voice was quiet, hardly more than a whisper. “You let me see you naked after you knew who I am.”

Rosalie’s voice had been low, but it had carried to Aunt Belleville’s ears, and she had picked up on one, most telling word. “Naked? Who was naked?”

Fletcher turned to his aunt. “I’m sorry, dearest lady, have we confused you? I’ll explain. You see, Billy here is not really Billy. He’s Rosalie. Actually, she’s Rosalie. You’ll have to forgive me, but it’s deuced difficult keeping my tongue straight with all these hes and shes.

“All that to one side, it would appear that, as I did not show up at Hilltop Farm to claim my ward—not knowing that I had one, as you’ll recall—my ward decided, for reasons of her own, which I shall be gratified to learn, to come to Lakeview. She did this disguised as Billy Smith, later to be known as Billy Belchem, but don’t bother your head about all that, madam, for all you need to know is that this delightful though slightly dusty creature in front of you is none other than Rosalie Darley, William’s sister, my ward and, as soon as may be, my wife.”

“Your wife!”

This exclamation was extremely loud, coming simultaneously as it did out of the mouths of Rosalie and Lethbridge, who had so forgotten himself as to walk into the room until he ended standing no more than three feet behind Fletcher.

Unfortunately, the butler had not positioned himself close enough to do more than watch as Aunt Belleville, who, instead of joining the chorus of “Your wife,” had screeched tragically, “My gilt ceiling!” before drooping against the settee cushions in a dead faint.

Chapter 9

I
n the end, not evening prayers—nor much else of any import, for that matter—took place at Lakeview that night, the evening ending most abruptly once Aunt Belleville had regained her senses, espied Rosalie, and all but dragged that still-simmering young woman out of the yellow saloon by the tip of her right ear, leaving Beck to read a pithy lecture to his childhood friend on the folly of ever believing there existed in this entire world a single woman with so much as a piddling appreciation of humor.

By midmorning of the following day none save the Belden household servants had made an appearance downstairs, the inhabitants of Lakeview whose station allowed them to breakfast in their rooms taking full advantage of that luxury, most probably in the hope that this simple strategy would keep them from an unlooked-for encounter with anyone who might be inclined to either ring a peal over their heads or pop them one in the nose.

Lakeview had taken on all the less-charming qualities of an armed camp, with the women firmly pitted against the men, and only the politic Lethbridge feeling any charity toward Fletcher, who, when it came to being the proclaimed villain of the piece, definitely bore off the palm.

“Well, I think it to be just famous, sir. Allow me to be the only—I mean, the first to felicitate you on your upcoming nuptials,” Lethbridge had said the night before, after all the other occupants of the yellow saloon save Fletcher had departed in high dudgeon to go their own way.

“And once she has time to ponder this unsettling development for a time,” the man had continued bravely, “I do believe the old girl—that is to say, your aunt—will most assuredly come to appreciate the many benefits to be derived from such an unexpected situation.”

He retired to his bed with only this faint praise to speed him to his rest—as it had never occurred to Fletcher that his betrothal, once it had come, would be viewed as an “unsettling development,” and it can be no wonder that when he finally did deign to appear in the yellow saloon just before noon, Fletcher entered warily, looking about to assure himself that no one lay in wait, prepared to ambush him.