A Rose Before Dying (3 page)

He looked forward to a calm ride, a bottle of
rich Burgundy, and a swift answer before the sun set.

A short walk took him to the stables housing
his roan mare, Electra. When the stableman brought the horse,
Charles smiled, pleased to see her prancing and restive. She tossed
her head in greeting, eager to stretch her long, beautiful legs. He
patted her warm, silky neck before climbing into the saddle and
turning her toward the Great Western road. Less than an hour later,
he was ushered into one of Mr. Lee’s many greenhouses, full of
tropical and rare plants flourishing in the humid, warm atmosphere
trapped within the sweating glass walls.

“Lord Castlemoor?” Mr. Lee shook Charles’s
hand briskly before turning back to pry open a crate perched on one
of the long wooden tables. His eyes burned with excitement. “I beg
your pardon, but we just received this from one of our collectors.
A rare plant from the Cape of Good Hope and destined for the King’s
garden if it prospers.”

Charles smiled and held out the rose,
securely wrapped along with the vase. “I have another specimen, and
this one is a little more urgent, I’m afraid. Can you identify this
rose?”

“
Rosa collina
, perhaps?” The flower
clearly interested Lee less than his package. He shrugged and
turned back to the task of removing the screws holding the crate
together.

“Perhaps?” Charles leaned forward, irritated
by the man’s distraction. “I must be sure—someone’s life may depend
upon the identification of this species. Is this
Rosa
collina
?”

Lee stared at him. “A life, my lord? What
life would depend upon the name of a rose?”

“One we’ve yet to determine. It was sent as a
threat. If we can tease out the name of this rose, we may be able
to save the life of a woman—”

“A woman?” Lee paled.

“Perhaps. Or man. Now, are you sure the name
is
Rosa collina
?”

“Let me see it again.” Lee accepted the vase
and gently examined the spray of flowers. After a few moments, he
raised his head. His eyes were somber. “It looks like…well…” He
stretched the words out like a miser gripping pennies. “Without
seeing the complete plant—the habit of growth, the blooming
frequency—‘tis impossible. I wouldn’t hazard a guess under these
circumstances. Not if a life depends upon it. I wouldn’t risk it
and lead you astray. I wish I could help, my lord, but ‘tis
impossible without the entire plant.”

“You must!” Charles gripped the rough edge of
the wooden table. “A woman—”

“And that is precisely why I must not guess,
my lord. What if I’m wrong? I’d help if I could, my lord, but what
if I’m wrong? Your lady may die after all, and I’d be to blame,
then.”

“Any guess is better than none.” He took the
vase and fragile spray and rewrapped it in a bit of waxed linen.
His hands shook with suppressed anger. He was furious with himself
for divulging the true reason for his quest. Instead of gaining
Lee’s sympathy and cooperation, his explanation had had the
opposite effect. Lee was too afraid of making a mistake and bearing
the responsibility for a stranger’s death.

Lee’s position was aggravating, but
understandable. The nurseryman couldn’t afford to guess wrong and
make an enemy of an earl. Better to stay silent.

Charles studied the flowers briefly. The pale
roses drooped in his hand. If he could not get the name of the rose
soon, there would be nothing left to identify.

“If you can’t offer any further help, I’ll
consider it
Rosa collina
.” Did his uncle know anyone named
Collina? Collins, perhaps?

“What if you get it wrong, then? Kennedy was
the rosarian—not I. Will you risk it, my lord, when a life depends
upon it?” Lee eyed him with concern, as if he’d spotted a beetle
bent on consuming his recently acquired plant.

“We have to risk it. What other choice is
there?”

Lee’s hands played over the lid of the crate.
He hunched, his shoulders bunching to hide his vulnerable neck, as
if his very thoughts were dangerous.

“Well, man?” Charles prompted.
Make a
decision—give me a name
!
Anything I can use
. “What is
it?”

“I can’t be sure.” Again the words were slow
and drawn out. “But there’s another. One who might take a chance on
naming a rose.” His mouth pursed in thought.

Charles leaned forward. “Who?”

“The Wellfleets.”

“Nurserymen?”

“No.” Lee shook his head and avoided
Charles’s glance. He was clearly ashamed of his refusal and even
more unhappy to provide the name of someone willing to take a
chance and earn the favor of an earl. “Fancier. Rose fancier.” He
shrugged, his rough hands gripping his crowbar.

“A collector?”

“Collector. Hybridizer,” he replied
grudgingly. Then he picked up a scrap of paper and scribbled an
address with a pencil stub lying nearby. “The Wellfleet nursery
created a few new specimens. They might be willing. Sorry, my lord,
but ‘tis more than my life is worth to guess. I’m sorry.” Although
he clearly respected Mr. Wellfleet, he apparently believed the man
was prone to taking foolish risks.

Perhaps Mr. Wellfleet was indeed the man
Charles needed to find. He took the scrap of paper and read the
address. To his surprise, it was located a few blocks from the
stables he patronized. His sense of urgency eased a fraction.
Visiting the Wellfleet establishment would not take him too far out
of his way, and he would not make the same mistake of explaining
too much, twice.

He would simply demand the rose be
identified. By that expedient, he might still obtain the
information he sought before nightfall. “Thank you.”

“Good luck to you, my lord.” Lee’s worried
frown showed his disbelief in such luck. “Give Wellfleet my
regards.”

By the time Charles returned Electra to her
stall and ensured she had a full bin of oats, the summer sky was
blooming with rich blues and rose. An hour of daylight remained.
With luck, Mr. Wellfleet would cooperate and identify the rose
tonight.

He hoped that would be soon enough.

Charles would arrange for the protection of
the next victim and set a trap for the murderer. The authorities
would discover that Sir Edward was not responsible for the death of
Lady Banks, and his uncle’s nightmare would end.

A chill cramped his muscles. He rubbed his
right thigh. How could he protect someone from a sharpshooter?

He refused to consider it.

He’d get a name.

Then he’d find the murderer.

Churning thoughts diverted Charles’s
attention as he strode down the busy streets of London after
leaving Electra in her stall. At the corner, he stepped out into
the road without pausing. A sudden clatter on his right made him
glance in that direction. A pair of grays dashed toward him. A
graceful phaeton barreled along behind, driven by an elegant but
obviously impatient gentleman.

Charles stepped back onto the walkway.

A small child stood in the street, staring
gape-mouthed at the horses galloping toward her.

Without thinking, he sprinted forward. He
grabbed the child around the waist and dashed to the safety of the
footpath on the opposite side. The hot wind of the wheels gusted
against his back, propelling him faster. The stones beneath his
boots shook with the passage of the vehicle. Breathless, he managed
to escape although he stumbled over the stone curb. By the time he
turned around, the carriage was already rattling toward the next
intersection.

The child squirmed in his grip. He released
it. “Are you hurt?”

“Nuh-uh,” the child stuttered. Despite the
dirt caking the creature’s thin cheeks and lank hair, Charles
realized it was a girl. She appeared to be approximately four or
five years of age, although it was difficult to be sure. Her face
was pale beneath the grime, and her fragile bones jutted sharply
beneath her thin skin. Her clothes were naught but rough gray
tatters that could originally have been any color of the
rainbow.

“Where is your mother?” he asked, more
harshly than he intended.

She stared up at him, her eyes gleaming rich
blue.

He looked around, searching for any adult who
might claim her. Nearby, an elderly man leaned against a wall,
watching him.

“You there! Do you know this child?” Charles
moved her to face the old man. She leaned her back against his
knees as if his presence behind her was somehow reassuring. It made
him feel simultaneously gratified at her trust and guilty about his
desire to be rid of her as expeditiously as possible.

The ragged man spit into the alley. Then he
smiled, showing a complete lack of teeth. “Aye. She be little Rose.
Rose Barlowe, if I remember a’right.”

“Where is her mother?”

He laughed again. He was certainly merry for
someone blessed with a lean and hungry look and no teeth. “St.
Saviour’s, my fine gentleman.”

The Single Women’s Graveyard.

Rose’s mother must have walked the streets.
Evidently she’d been none too successful at it, either, for it
claimed her life. He glanced at the child. She gazed up at him as
if he were an angel descending from Heaven with a pot of stewed
chicken and a fragrant loaf of bread. Beneath his palm, her
shoulder felt as delicate as a sparrow’s wing. When she shifted to
scratch a scabby elbow, her bony shoulder blades dug into his
legs.

What would she do alone in London with no
mother or father?

Unless she was lucky enough to die, she’d
undoubtedly follow in her mother’s footsteps within the next year
or so. It was a tragic fate for a child with such innocent blue
eyes.

“She must have family—a sister? Aunt?”

“We must all have such. For all the good it
does.” He glanced over his shoulder into the dark alley and jerked
his shabby jacket more closely around his bent shoulders. “She’s
yours. If you wants her.”

Thick distaste rose, bitter in his throat.
Charles turned away. The tiny girl wrapped her slender fingers
around the index finger of his right hand, clearly determined to
hang on. Even with her frantic grip, he was aware of how incredibly
light—and weak—she was. It would take no effort to shake his hand
and walk away.

It was the sensible thing to do. How many
times had he walked past her before, unaware of her presence?

“Can you walk a few blocks?” he asked,
wondering as he did so, exactly what he was going to do with her.
He lived in temporary bachelor apartments with a valet and maid who
came days to clean until he made a decision about a townhouse.
There was no woman to care for a child.

She nodded again and waited patiently,
adjusting her fingers more tightly. His thumb curved gently over
her tiny hand to support her clasp.

“Come along, then.” Perhaps he could convince
Mr. Wellfleet to hire the girl. There must be something she could
do. Run errands…something. And the Wellfleets would surely have
female servants to care for her.

Uncomfortably aware that the unknown Mr.
Wellfleet might not be as cooperative as Charles hoped, he strode
forward. After only a few yards, he noticed the girl struggling to
keep up with his long stride. He moderated his pace, but again, she
lagged and stumbled. Her head hit his thigh.

Finally, he swung her up to rest on his hip.
The rank odor of her tattered garments and unwashed hair emanated
from her like a noisome mist. He breathed through his mouth.

When she sighed and rested her head against
his shoulder, he didn’t know whether to be gratified or horrified
at the appalling view of her unspeakable scalp. Something wriggled
amongst the roots of her hair.

He stared at the street ahead and forced his
mind away from the variety of passengers he now carried.

It didn’t take long to locate the Wellfleet
house. Its impressive façade and attached glass house gave him a
momentary hesitation. The Wellfleets were more than simply
well-heeled given their address and the expanse of property on the
western edge of the land-poor city of London. He shifted Rose on
his hip.

Having a young female clinging to him made
him uncomfortably aware of a certain lack of preparation. He’d
spent his youth in the sole company of men. He’d had only his
father, the late earl, and his father’s brother, Sir Edward, as
companions until he was sent to school.

Some friends had jokingly pointed out that
Charles tended to be somewhat less aware—the exact word they used
was “disrespectful”—of the social niceties than he might have been
had he had the advantage of a woman to impress the rules of Society
upon him. Before today, he’d shrugged it off. If he visited a grand
house, it was because a friend invited him. He felt perfectly
comfortable handing his hat to the butler and strolling down the
most elegant hallway to the masculine regions of the library or
study. Earls were always welcomed, even the boorish ones.

Somehow, he had the notion that he was going
to feel dramatically less comfortable over the next hour or so if
there was a Mrs. Wellfleet to contend with.

He climbed the steps and knocked, glancing
around with the last-minute idea of hiding Rose behind one of the
planters ensconced on either side of the entrance. Both boxes
sported clipped boxwood in the rigid shapes of a pyramid topped by
a ball. Before he could deposit her behind one of them, the door
opened.

“Yes?” the butler intoned gravely, lisping
ever so slightly. His round, cherubic face, dimpled cheeks, and
lack of height warred with the stern manner he attempted to assume.
He studied Charles, letting his protuberant eyes rest for a moment
on Rose. “Tradesmen ‘round back.”

Charles stepped forward in case the butler
had the urge to shut the door in his face. “Mr. Lee sent me—”

“With that?” He pointed to Rose.