Scandal And The Duchess (12 page)

Albert glared at her, the dim light sparkling on his blue eyes. He glared at the dog as well, who shrank into Rose’s side.

“I hadn’t intended to return after this,” Rose said, keeping her voice even. “I will take what Charles wished me to have, and go.”

Albert didn’t move. “It’s criminal you should have anything at all.”

Rose frowned at him. “It’s what your father wanted. You can dance around with your solicitors trying to tie up my settlements, but this was written out very plainly.”

“I intend to prove my father wasn’t in a sound mind when he wrote it. Won’t be hard to prove. He had to be mad to marry a woman less than half his age.”

“There was absolutely nothing wrong with Charles’s mind,” Rose said indignantly. “He was one of the kindest men I’ve ever known.”

“Kind was he?” Albert balled his fists as he stepped inside. He hadn’t donned a hat, or else it been torn off in the wind, and his thin, graying hair was a mess. “He wasn’t kind to
me
, was he? His own son—his
only
son!”

“You shunned him,” Rose said, lifting her chin. “When I met Charles, he was very lonely. In all the time I was betrothed to him, and then married to him, you never once called on him, or tried to meet with him, or wrote him any letters except having to do with business.”

“How do you know? Did you read his correspondence?”

“Of course not. He told me—very sad that you couldn’t bother to even have a conversation with him.”

“You know nothing!” Albert shouted, the words ringing to the high ceiling. “You stupid tart! My father never had time for me—
ever
. Not when I was a boy, not when I left school, not when I became a man. He never cared that I made my own living without taking a penny from him, and a
good
living. No, he only cared about this sodding house and the bloody title and the family name. He didn’t care about
me
at all!”

Rose bit back her next retort, sensing she was wading into murky waters. Charles had always spoken of Albert sadly, as someone estranged from him.
A gap between us, my dear Rose,
he’d said.
More like a chasm. I thought perhaps we didn’t see eye to eye because of our ages, but you are younger than he, and you and I rub along very well, don’t we?

“I’m sorry,” Rose said to Albert. “It’s clear you two had much friction, and I’m very sorry about that. You needn’t worry about seeing me anymore. I’ll take what he left me and go.”

Albert wasn’t listening. He took another step toward her. “My father was wrapped up in my mother. The sun and moon rose and set on her. I thought, I hoped, after she was gone, that he’d turn to me. Embrace me. At least
talk
to me.
But no. You came along and put paid to that, didn’t you? He saw you, and again he forgot I existed. You played him, you little whore. You wrapped him around your finger, and he couldn’t see anything but you. Stupid bugger—at his age, what could he really poke? But you stroked his vanity and turned him from me, and I was cut out
again
.” Another step, the rage boiling from him. “Then you killed him. He tried to be young again for you, and it killed him. And so, I’m making sure you don’t get one penny of Southdown money. Not cash, not a trust, not a house, not a room in a house. You’ll get your two pieces of bloody furniture, but only if it’s scrap wood.”

He took two more strides inside, then started beating the pile of furniture with his walking stick.
Pound, pound, pound!

Rose skipped well back, the dog hiding behind her, whining. Chairs broke, tables fell, the wood rotted, the cloth and rush seats exploding in dust.

Albert beat it all, his face red, arms straining. Rose saw with alarm that he’d started to smile—a gruesome smile—as though breaking up the furniture his father had put out here released something feral inside him.

Rose started to edge around him. Wind and rain notwithstanding, she wanted to be hurrying up the path after Steven, not shivering while Albert rained destruction inside the summerhouse.

Albert saw her. He snarled at her and rushed her, shaking his walking stick.

Rose yelped and scrambled back. The dog, cringing no more, braced himself in front of Rose and started to bark at Albert.

Albert seemed to come to himself a little. He lowered the stick but swung around and scuttled for the door.

“You can wait in here for you lover,” he snapped. “I never want to see you again.”

The idea sat well with Rose. Albert could be left alone with his bitterness and rage, and that would be fine with her.

Albert turned around and glared at her again, his face blotchy, eyes protruding. Then he stepped onto the summerhouse’s porch, wrestled a moment with the big door, and managed to shove it closed.

The summerhouse shook with the impact, raising dust. Rose started sneezing again, the dog echoing her.

She put her hand over her nose and mouth and headed for the door, stopping in dismay when she heard the key screech in the lock.

No matter, Rose thought in irritation. The hinges were flimsy enough. She’d wait until Albert was gone, then pry the door loose from the wall.

The next moment, she heard a scraping, heavy sound of the ebony settee being dragged along the porch and thumped in front of the door.

“Albert!” Rose yelled. She pounded on the door’s flaking panels. “Let me out at once!”

More pounding, as Albert presumably took his stick to the settee as he’d done to the other furniture. Then came more dragging—this time it sounded as though Albert piled large tree limbs, easy to find in this neglected woods, on top of the settee to block her in. Rose pushed at the door. The hinges gave a little, enough to let in light, but she couldn’t shove the door far enough to slip out.

“Albert!” she shouted.

She heard another drag, thump, and rattle of a heavy branch. The light between the slit in the door was muted.

“Damn and blast you, Albert!”

She heard his tread as he stomped away, then silence but for the wind and rain. Rose balled her fists and beat on the door again. The dog pawed at it, then looked up at her, worried.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter.” Rose pressed her hands flat on the door, then reached down and gave the dog a reassuring pat. “Steven will be back in a few minutes. Won’t he?”

The dog wagged his tail, but looked perplexed, as though wondering why on earth Rose wasn’t letting them out of there.

Rose gazed around at the wreck of the summerhouse and the ruined furniture in sadness. Charles must have sent the extra furniture out here to disguise the settee, but still, these things had been part of the house, part of its history. Albert apparently hated that history.

It was also sad that Charles and Albert had never had a chance to settle their differences. Albert blamed Rose, but Rose could feel no remorse or guilt for that. Either man could have tried to talk to the other, regardless of Rose’s presence. She’d certainly done nothing to keep Charles from Albert—she’d barely known Albert. Charles could have made overtures to his son, but it was also clear that Albert was a spoiled brat, even at his age.

These thoughts went through Rose’s head distractedly as she let out an irritated breath. She was cold, rain pounded down on the roof, and who knew how long it would be before Steven and Albert’s staff could trundle a wagon down here?

The dog left Rose’s side to circle the room, his head down. He might smell rats or birds—the dog would have been trained to fetch grouse or other game from fields after a shoot.

She watched him abstractedly until he started pawing at the wall opposite the door. More than pawing. He let out a bark and scrabbled at the paneling with his paws.

Rose went to him, curiosity spilling through her anger. “What have you found, lad?”

The dog looked up at her, tail moving, pleased with himself. He pawed again at the paneling, and it started to come away.

Instead of a stone wall behind it, Rose saw emptiness, and felt a wash of air. “A secret passage?” she asked, bending down to peer inside. “I adore secret passages.” Sittford House had several, which Charles had delighted in showing Rose. They’d led between bedrooms—which had set them to laughing at Charles’s naughty ancestors.

“Shall we be sensible and wait for Steven?” Rose asked the dog. “Or see what’s in there?”

The dog sniffed the opening, looked up at Rose again, then shook himself and plunged inside.

That settled that. Rose moved the panel aside, propping it against the wall, then she ducked into the opening, and hurried after the dog.

***

“Rose!”

Steven shouted for her as he jogged up the path to the summerhouse, moving far faster than the wagon creaking along behind him. The wind was biting, icy. The rain would turn to snow before the evening was out, he’d wager. The sooner Steven got Rose back to London, the better.

“Rosie?”

The summerhouse was now in deep shadow from the waning afternoon. The builders had raised it on a fairly high foundation in order to accommodate a set of stone stairs that ran all the way around it.

Woods seemed to have grown up onto the porch since Steven had gone—thick, dead branches blocked the door, reaching halfway up the wall above it.

“Rose!” Steven bellowed.

His shouts turned to swear words as he ran up onto the porch. Someone had dragged huge branches across the door, blocking the way in—or out. Through the limbs he could see the ebony and gold settee, the gilding he’d rubbed clean shining in the dim light.

“Dear God.” Steven pulled away the branches, tearing his gloves and bloodying his hands. “Rose!”

No answer. No cries of help from Rose trapped inside, no barks of the dog he’d left with her. Bloody useless animal.

The wagon stopped behind him at the edge of the trees. The driver, one of the farmers, climbed slowly from his perch, the boy he’d recruited to help, holding the horses.

Steven yelled to them. “Help me shift this lot!”

The farmer came panting up, stared in amazement at the dead branches covering a piece of broken furniture, then joined Steven in pulling the things away.

Steven’s heart hammered, and his stomach roiled. Who the hell had shut Rose in here? He thought he knew the answer, and his rage flared.

“I’ll kill him,” he snarled. “I don’t care if he is a bloody duke. Rosie!”

No answer. Steven shoved the remains of the settee out of the way and reached for the door handle. Locked again, damn it.

Instead of fumbling for the key, Steven simply yanked the door from its hinges. It fell, but he shoved it aside and ran in, calling Rose’s name.

The place was empty. Rose wasn’t here. Steven’s relief was closely followed by another terrifying question—
then where the hell was she?

He ran out. “Rose!” The woods were growing darker, the rain falling hard. “Rosie! Damn it. Answer me!”

“Guv,” the wagon driver who’d follow him inside, called out to him. “Come and see this.”

Steven charged back into the summerhouse. The driver stood looking at something on the wall, hidden by the broken pile of furniture, which seemed to have become even more broken. A black square about four feet high and three feet wide opened on the back wall, a panel of peeling yellow paint leaning next to it.

The question was not whether Rose had gone into that opening. It was how far had she gone, and what had happened to her once inside?

“I need lanterns,” Steven snapped. “Fetch them. Now!”

The driver didn’t bother explaining that he didn’t work for Steven. He obeyed without question.

Steven was kneeling in front of the opening, peering into the darkness when both driver and his son ran up, each carrying a lantern. Steven snatched one from the boy’s hands. “Stay here in case she turns up,” he told the boy then looked at the driver. “You, come with me.”

“I should go, sir,” the boy said, taking his father’s lantern. “I’m smaller.”

Steven had no wish to drag a young lad into danger, whatever that might be. The father, though, nodded. “He can wriggle into tight places like a worm,” he said proudly. “He’s your man.”

Steven still didn’t like taking a child into that hole, but he had to conceded that the driver did not look much capable of crawling about in the dark.

“You stay behind me,” Steven said to the boy. “And don’t lose sight of me.”

“Yes, sir,” the lad said.

Without further word, Steven ducked into the darkness.

Steven had to stoop in the low tunnel, but he kept on. He called Rose’s name every few feet, echoed by the boy’s “Your Grace?” but silence was their only answer.

At every step, Steven dreaded to come across Rose, lying incoherent, ill, or worse. His entire being filled with panic. He knew the only way he’d relieve it was to find Rose, take her in his arms, and hear her whisper, “Hush, Steven, I’m all right.”

He’d plunged into the game of being Rose’s betrothed, at first to let Laura Ellis release herself from him, as well as for the fun of it. At least, that’s what he’d told himself. Steven knew now that he’d followed his instincts to latch on to Rose and not let her go.

She’d steadied him with gentle hands the night he’d fallen drunkenly into her, and Steven wanted her to steady him the rest of his life. He needed her. No—it went beyond need.

He loved her.

Steven had been telling her the past few days, in a light tone, that he considered them engaged in truth, and that they’d marry soon. Rose had laughed with him as though she thought him joking.

It was no joke. Steven spoke that way because he didn’t know how to be serious. Feared it.

When he found Rose, he would put her over his shoulder and run out of here with her. Then he’d shake a special license out of someone and marry her. Tonight.

She was the only woman he’d consider continuing his existence with.

“Rosie!” he yelled, his words echoing hollowly. “Answer me, damn it.”

“What’s that?” the boy behind him asked.

Steven halted. The boy darted around him, disobeying, as boys did, and pointed ahead of them. Steven flashed his lantern and saw nothing, but then the boy shielded the light and pointed again.

Steven saw it then, a dim outline of something square. A door?

“
Behind
me,” Steven said sternly as the boy started forward. The lad sighed and let Steven take the lead again.

The outline grew sharper as they neared it, and the air coming to them turned colder and less dank.

Steven could move swiftly even bent double, having had to run and stay within cover on many occasions in his career. He made it to the dim light to find it was indeed a door, or at least a set of boards nailed together to simulate one.

Steven shoved it open to nearly trip on stone steps on the other side. He hurried up these, finding at the top, in the mud, the precise pointed-toe print of one of Rose’s high-heeled boots.

But where had she gone after that? “Rose!” he shouted.

Barking answered him, faint and far away. Logically Steven knew it could be any dog, not necessarily the one from the Southdown estate, but he turned his steps toward the sound without pausing to think.

He shouted again, continuing his path toward the answering bark. Steven pushed through bramble and undergrowth beneath tall trees, the branches tearing at his coat. The boy surged on ahead, unafraid now, but it struck Steven that the lad wasn’t worried because he knew exactly where they were.

“What’s over there?” Steven asked him. His heart was in his throat as he waited for the answer. An old well? A pit? A cliff?

“Come on, sir,” the boy said, running nimbly through the trees. Steven hurried to catch up with him.

The woods opened out into a large clearing so suddenly that Steven staggered to a halt. He dropped his lantern which had already extinguished in the wind, his hand now too numb to hold it.

What
was in the clearing had caused him to drop it. First he saw Rose. Second, he saw what Rose stood before—a house.

Not a house. A fairy castle. That was the only explanation. They’d run through the tunnel and emerged in cloud-cuckoo land, where miniature sugar-spun palaces dotted the landscape.

The house was small but done in such exacting detail it was as though someone had built a mansion and then shrunk it. It was two stories, the ground floor filled with many-paned windows, columns, and pediments over the windows and the double front door. The second floor was covered with a mansard roof, with scalloped gray-slate tiles. Dormer windows with curved peaks broke out from the roofline. Half of the cottage was covered with vines with dark green leaves, which would bloom a riot of colors in the late spring and summer. Roses.

The columns on either side of the door had been carved with the same kind of vines, except these were covered with carved and painted roses—red, pink, yellow, and white. The roses met in the plaster molding above the door, twining together into a heart.

A garden had been planted around it, barren now for winter, but the bushes were full and would be fuller in the growing season. It was neat and sculpted, again as though someone had taken the gardens of Versailles and given them a good rinsing until they were small enough to fit here.

Rose stood in the middle of this garden, wind buffeting her coat and hatless hair, staring at the door and its rose motif. She might have been caught in a spell, frozen here to stare at this house for eternity, or until her lover kissed her and woke her.

“Rose!” Steven called.

Rose turned around and saw him. So did the dog. Steven realized that with the wind rushing and roaring in the trees as it was, she’d not been able to hear his cries. She waved to him as the black dog loped to him, then Rose went back to studying the house.

“Isn’t this—” she began. Then “Oop!” as Steven barreled into her and dragged her off her feet. He spun around with her once, then set her back down and began kissing her.

Rose was all that was warmth and spice. Her mouth was a point of heat in the cold, her face sweetly smooth, flushed from the wind. Her body fit nicely into Steven’s arms. After her first start, she flowed against him, holding him as he held her.

She was alive, and whole, and well. Steven hugged her harder, pressing her to him, kissing her again and again. Rose laughed, and he kissed her smile, taking the whole of her into himself.

He was vaguely aware of the boy, who’d reached the house, patiently waiting with the dog until they finished the uninteresting bit.

Rose tried to push away from Steven, but he held her fast. “Rosie,” he breathed. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“I was waiting for you,” she said. Magical words in this magical place.

But what place was it? “Where are we?” Steven asked the lad.

“We call it the cottage,” the boy said, studying it. “Been here forever, my dad says. A lover’s nest from two hundred years ago. My dad says.”

The architecture put it in the very early Georgian period. Palladian, Steven thought it was called, when classic architecture was revived and Capability Brown had been sought to plan gardens.

The place wasn’t a ruin. The garden was neatly trimmed, the house painted, the roof tight.

“No one seems to be home,” Rose said. “I knocked, but had no answer. I didn’t like to simply go in.”

The boy shrugged. “No one lives here. There’s always a door open in the back.”

He led them around the side, Rose and Steven hand in hand, the dog trotting beside them.

The back was no less a palace than the front, but a short wing stuck out from it like an afterthought. A double Dutch door, with the bottom half opening independently of the upper, as might be found in any of the older cottages around here, opened as the boy raised the latch.

Rose and Steven stepped into a neat kitchen with a flagstone floor, and Rose let out a breath of relief. It was warm here, with a fire in the hearth, and tea things set out on the table. Stranger and stranger.

“I thought you said no one lived here,” Rose said to the boy.

The lad shook his head. “They don’t. But there’s caretakers.” He opened the door that led to the main house.

Whoever the caretakers were, they had kept the place very nicely. The architecture might be old, but the furniture was new, chair and sofas strewn with cushions and looking comfortable. The fireplace was stoked, andirons polished, and soft carpets covered the floor. The rose motif continued in the moldings at the top of the walls, in the medallions on the ceiling and above the fireplace, in the patterns on the carpets, and on the embroidered cushions.

The room beyond the sitting room one was a dining room, likewise tidy, and a stair at the far end of that presumably went up to bedrooms above.

“Lucky woman,” Rose said, returning to the sitting room and looking around in wonder.

“What woman?” Steven, now out of the wind, his panic dissipated, started to grow angry. “Why the devil did you run off like that, lass? And who shut you in the summerhouse? It was Albert, wasn’t it? I’m going to kill him—slowly.”

“I didn’t fancy staying in there,” Rose said. “The dog found the secret passage, and when I got to the other end and saw the roof of this house through the trees, I admit to curiosity.”

“Bloody hell, Rose.”

Steven caught her hand between his, he still needing to reassure himself that she was all right.

“I meant that the woman this house was built for was lucky.” Rose glanced around the sitting room again. “Whoever commissioned it for her must have loved her very much.”

Steven slid his arm around her. “I wonder if she was called Rose,” he said. “This place suits you.”

Rose met his gaze, showing no remorse that she’d led him on a merry chase. Perhaps she didn’t realize how much the bottom had dropped from Steven’s world when he’d found her gone.

“I like it very much,” Rose said, giving him the little smile that turned over his heart. “Who does it belong to, I wonder?”

“It belongs to you, Your Grace.”

Rose tried to spring apart from Steven at the woman’s voice, but Steven wasn’t letting her go. Not again.

The woman who’d entered looked like any other in these parts, plump and a bit worn by time, dressed in a plain gown with an apron, her graying hair in a neat bun. She looked like any housekeeper or cook in a country home.

“I beg your pardon?” Rose asked her, flushing.

“We’ve been waiting for you a long time, dear,” she said. “I mean, Your Grace. We’ve been keeping the place, just like he asked. Thought you’d never arrive.”

Maybe Steven
had
stepped into a fairy tale, like the ones he read to Sinclair’s children on occasion. Eight-year-old Andrew liked the gory and gruesome ones the best.

Rose stared at the woman, as nonplussed as Steven. “Arrive? From where? Who asked you to keep it?”

“The duke, of course. The one who’s passed on, I mean. Young Lord Charles, as my mum knew him when he was a boy, and she his nanny.”

“Oh, I see. Then you are Mrs. . . .”

“Winters, dear. I married Mr. Winters, who was steward before our son took over. Our son tried to tell us matters were bad for you, but we thought that after the will was sorted you’d come. You didn’t, not until now, but we kept on being paid to keep the place, and we saw no reason not to. Lord Charles was always a kind man.”

“Yes, he was . . . but. . . .”

Steven broke in. “What Rose—Her Grace—means is that there was no mention of this house in the will.”

Rose laughed a little. “If there had been, I’m certain the new duke would have heard of it.”

“And come to turn the Winterses out and raze the place,” Steven finished darkly.

Mrs. Winters opened her hands. “I only know the instructions we received in a letter after Lord Charles had passed. We was to keep the house for you, but when you take possession, you can do with it as you please. Now, I’ve got tea almost ready. Would you like me to bring it in here for you? Or will you take it in the kitchen, where it’s a mite warmer?”