A Rose Before Dying (8 page)

“I understand.” A wave of faint nausea curled
under her breastbone. She pressed a cold hand over her heart and
took a deep breath.
Remain calm
. Don’t give them reason to
push you more quickly into marriage.

After a moment of silence, Mr. Etchells
stood. “Well, I did not expect an answer today. However, I urge you
to speak to your betrothed. He’s very concerned about you, and
you’re obviously in need of his support after your tragic loss. You
must honor the contract—it was your father’s last wish. All anyone
wants is what is best for you.”

“It’s such a comfort to hear you say that.
Thank you.” She couldn’t think of anything except the fervent wish
that he would leave her in peace.

However, just when she thought he would
depart, he turned back. “Mr. Phillips mentioned a young person,
taking advantage of you in your grief. It’s unconscionable. I’ve
made arrangements with an orphanage—”

“No!” She forced a smile.
Be calm.
Rational.
“I prefer she stay. Here.”

“You are too kindhearted. Nonetheless, you
must see that you can’t let a grubby urchin trespass upon your
sympathy.”

“Not at all. Really, I prefer she stay. She’s
been a great help to me the last few days.”

“While your charitable sensibilities do you
credit, I see the source of Mr. Phillips’s concern. You miss your
father and are desperate for affection. Fulfill your obligation.
Marry Mr. Phillips. He’ll provide the guidance you so sorely need.
Trust in his judgment. Your life will be much easier if you
accept.”

“I’ll consider it.” She followed him to the
door, echoing reassurances that she simply needed more time.

However, she was well aware that time was not
going to help her if what Mr. Etchells said was true—that her
allowance would be insufficient to run the household for much
longer.

The information that Mr. Phillips was the one
who had seen to her needs and requested she obtain sufficient funds
made her uneasy. He had granted her six months already to grieve
the death of her father. His actions seemed to prove he cared about
her, perhaps even loved her. But she couldn’t return his affection
no matter how hard she tried.

He frightened her.

Occasional glimpses of his temper served to
increase her reluctance. She rubbed the fading bruise on her
cheekbone. If they married, wouldn’t he feel more free to express
his displeasure?

She might stretch her mourning out to a full
year, but then what? She couldn’t rely on the roses she
experimented with to provide for her, even if she managed to cross
the European varieties with the new China roses to produce the
coveted remontant rose.

A new hybrid wouldn’t produce anything
saleable for at least two years. Worse, there was no way of knowing
if any of her current seedlings would produce a worthwhile bush and
sufficient money from the sale to enable her to continue.

Why did father sign that marriage
contract
? Why?

The phrase “marriage contract” sounded like
the clicking of a lock on a cell door. She was trapped by
well-intentioned men who simply wanted to ensure her well-being.
Was she just stubborn? Overly emotional and foolish? In short, was
she just an hysterical woman whose behavior proved that they were
right, and she simply needed to accept it?

She rang the bell to have the tea things
cleared away. There seemed to be no solution and no escape.
Restless, she went to her refuge in the greenhouse, hoping to clear
her mind with work.

Ariadne glanced up from the potting bench
when Abbott escorted Lord Castlemoor into the glass room. She
blushed. Her heart pounded a double-beat as she straightened and
brushed the dirt off her hands.

He’s only come to visit Rose
. She took
a deep breath and forced a smile. This was certainly her day for
visitors.

“Lord Castlemoor, what a pleasant
surprise.”

He nodded abruptly, his face blank—almost
forbidding—as he watched Mr. Abbott lumber away. When they were
alone, he turned to her, his brown eyes bleak. “That rose, Miss
Wellfleet…”

“Rose? What rose?”

“Mr. Lee and you both confirmed it was
Rosa Collina fastigiata
.”

The mention of Mr. Lee’s name and the implied
comparison with that renowned plantsman aroused such a sharp flame
of anger in her breast that she was speechless. Mr. Lee was a man
and therefore his opinion was the only one that mattered. She was a
poor substitute, an afterthought.

Women were such poor vessels in comparison to
men.

Men
.

She found her voice. “Mr. Lee! Must I always
be compared to him? Have I no valid opinion or authority, then,
because I’m not Mr. Lee?”

“I beg your pardon,” Lord Castlemoor’s eyes
glinted. “This matter doesn’t involve him—”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No—”

“Well you, yourself, said Mr. Lee agreed with
my assessment. So how could I be wrong?”

“Mr. Nivelle died—”

“Nivelle?” she echoed. Her hand touched her
waist as a cold, sick feeling congealed in her stomach. “Did you
say ‘Nivelle’?”

“Yes. You misidentified that flower.”

“You indicated you needed the name for a
wager. What sort of wager was it if a man died?”

“It was not a wager.” He glanced away, the
tips of his ears burning red. “Mr. Lee refused to help when I told
him the truth—”

“You assumed I’d do the same? That I’d be no
better than him, and in fact, worse? I was your second choice,
wasn’t I? And unworthy of the truth. You lied—”

“I needed an answer!”

“And I gave it to you!” She twisted her hands
together, the knuckles standing out white against her dark skirts.
“If you had told me the truth, my lord, I might have been able to
provide you with the information you needed!”

“How? How could you do that? You insisted on
that name—”

She laughed. The bitter sound grated in her
throat. “Do you imagine each rose has a single name?”

“I—”

“If so, why was it necessary for Linnaeus to
develop a system of naming based upon Latin?”

“Taxonomy,” Lord Castlemoor replied stiffly.
His face returned to its previous masklike expression.

“In part. But also because each plant,
including roses, can have many common names including English and
French. Not to mention that each nursery hoping to sell a rose may
christen it with a variety of fanciful names to entice more
customers to purchase it. The Latin name is the
only
one
that can be used to definitely identify a plant. Or rose. So when I
told you it was
Rosa Collina fastigiata
, I was giving you
the most precise name possible.”

“Then why did Mr. Nivelle die? We received
that rose as a warning that its namesake would be murdered. What
you’re saying is that we misunderstood the clue entirely.”

“No, not entirely. If I’d understood the
situation—if you’d been honest with me—I could have given you all
the names for that rose. At least all those I know. And one of
those, specifically the French name, is
Rosier Nivellé.
”

“My God.” He groaned and ran a hand through
his thick hair. His face paled as he realized his actions had, at
least in part, been responsible.

A tearing sensation of sympathy made her step
closer. She placed a light hand on his sleeve. “I’m sorry, my lord.
It was needlessly cruel of me to berate you. I’m sure you did your
best. Neither of us had any way of knowing which name would be key.
It looks simple afterwards, but some roses have dozens of
names…”

“Did this one?” He fastened his gaze on her.
The pain in the depths of his eyes made her glance away.

“No,” she whispered. “A few only. Not
dozens.”

“Then we
could
have known. If I hadn’t
lied to you, we could have identified it correctly. I could have
saved his life.”

No!
She didn’t know what had happened,
but she knew that regardless of what she had told him, the murderer
would have succeeded.

The killer had not intended anyone to stop
him. She knew that intuitively. “Of course that’s possible. But
have you considered that the man responsible may not have allowed
you to do so? He obviously intended to commit murder whether you
came to the proper conclusion or not. Your Mr. Nivelle never truly
had a chance.”

He grabbed her arms, staring into her face
with eyes darkened by guilt. His fingers dug into her arms. “How
can you be sure?”

“I can’t.” She gently pushed him away. “But
it seems obvious when you consider it. I’m truly sorry. Was he a
dear friend?”

“No. I never knew him. My uncle… Well, it
puts my uncle in a difficult position.”

She glanced around, wanting to offer him
comfort to make up for her—their—previous, ghastly failure. He was
not alone in suffering a dismaying sense of responsibility. “Will
you join me in the sitting room, my lord? I’d like a cup of tea.
You may have something stronger, if you wish.”

“Thank you. Tea would be most welcome.” He
followed her through the hallway and waited while she requested a
tea tray from the butler.

When he walked away, they proceeded up the
curving grand staircase to the second floor. Lord Castlemoor
politely followed Ariadne. A glance over her shoulder revealed his
drawn face, lost in thought.

The sitting room was not her favorite
location. It was small and the dark, heavily carved furniture was
from the last century. However, there were two armchairs by the
fire that always drew her. She gestured to the chair on the
right.

“Pray be seated.” She moved to the closest
chintz-covered armchair. She noted he waited politely while she sat
and arranged her heavy bombazine skirts before he sat. At least the
deep brown fabric hid the smears of earth from her previous
occupation.

When his gaze lingered on her face, she
looked away, self-conscious. She intertwined her fingers in her lap
to prevent her left hand from rising and covering the bruise on her
cheek. She’d forgotten it until that moment. And Lord Castlemoor’s
sympathetic eyes reminded her of the humiliation of Henry
Phillips’s slap to curb her obstinate and wayward behavior.

She should never have taunted him. It had
been sheer idiocy. She knew him well enough to foresee his
reaction. For the hundredth time she wondered if sheer foolishness
made her refuse to do what everyone expected. It would be so easy
to give in and agree to marry Mr. Philips. And perhaps her abigail
was correct and once they were married, his frustrations would
diminish, and he would treat her well.

Except in her heart, she feared that if she
were his wife, his brief bouts of ill temper would only grow
worse.

She rubbed the patch of skin between her
eyebrows and caught Lord Castlemoor’s inquisitive look.

“Are you unwell?” His eyes rested on the
bruise. Clearly, he’d been too absorbed in his own difficulties
before to notice. But he certainly saw it now.

“No.” Her hand hovered over her cheek in
embarrassment before she dropped it to her lap.

An awkward silence fell, thankfully broken
when Mr. Abbott arrived with a tea tray. Miss Baxter trailed behind
him. The older lady was a distant cousin whom the Wellfleets
inherited when she lost her previous home. Now, she acted as
Ariadne’s companion. The tall, slender woman carried a heavily
embroidered bag stuffed with wool and knitting needles.

Without even looking in their direction, Miss
Baxter walked over to the window and flung back the curtains. Then
she took a seat in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair,
positioned so the light from the window would stream over her
narrow shoulders to illuminate the elaborate project dangling from
her needles.

Mr. Abbott placed the tray on a small round
table at Ariadne’s elbow and bowed before disappearing through the
door.

Lord Castlemoor waited until Ariadne handed
him a cup of tea before he spoke. “Forgive me for asking, but did
you have an accident?”

“I was careless.” She touched her bruised
cheek with her fingertips. “It’s not serious.”

“What happened?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss
it.”

The warmth in his brown eyes deepened. “Very
well. But if you find yourself in difficulty, I hope… Well, I
realize we’re barely acquainted. However, I hope you’d feel you
could come to me. For any reason.”

“I appreciate the offer.” She forced a smile
as her hands smoothed her skirts. “However, it’s hardly necessary.
I’m unlikely to find myself in such desperate straits that I
require the assistance of an earl.”

“Perhaps. Though anyone may need a friend,
even at the best of times.”

“No doubt.” The teapot shook in her hand as
she refilled her cup. A flush rose to her cheeks as if to emphasize
the bruise. She felt excited and yet ashamed of her reaction and
wished Lord Castlemoor would not look at her with such discerning
eyes. “In any event, you were speaking of your uncle?”

“Yes,” he said heavily. He studied the logs
piled on the grate in the fireplace. “Would you like a fire?”

“Thank you, but no. With all this sunshine,
the room seems comfortably warm to me. Are you chilled? Perhaps
there’s a draft?”

“No, forgive me.” A charming half-smile
twisted his mouth. “You caught me trying to change the subject. Not
very adroitly, I’m afraid.”

“No.” For the first time that day, she
laughed. “But very valiant. It was rude of me to press you for an
explanation.”

“Nonsense. I came storming your gates, intent
on blaming you for something that’s clearly not your fault. I’m the
one who must apologize. And I owe you an explanation.” He rubbed
the nape of his neck while Ariadne refilled his teacup and added a
spoonful of sugar. “This is rather sordid. Certainly not a fitting
tale for a lady—”