The Clarendon Rose (22 page)

“I’m delighted to hear it.”
 
And indeed, Mr. Fitzwilliam seemed to be bursting with pleasure at Tina’s reply.
 
“Don’t tell him so, but I have a very special surprise for him down the line.
 
When I had word of your engagement and your forthcoming wedding, I decided to hold off on it until the special day itself, if time permits.”

Tina shook her head.
 
“I hadn’t realized that news traveled so fast.
 
We haven’t made any formal announcement.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam waggled a finger.
 
“Never underestimate the power of the grapevine, Miss Merriweather—particularly when a duke is involved.”

“True enough.”

“I should love to learn of any hints you might have about rose breeding, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”
 
Miss Smye broke the silence that followed, her face alight with interest.
 
“You see, I’ve recently turned my own hand to it as well.”
 

Mr. Fitzwilliam launched into a voluble explanation of the nuances of the process—punctuated by frequent questions from Miss Smye.
 
Tina sat back and sipped her tea, enjoying the animated conversation, though the technicalities of it were beyond her.

Eventually, Mr. Fitzwilliam stood and bowed over each of their hands.
 
“As I say, I am sorry to have missed the duke—though I cannot regret having had the opportunity to visit with two such delightful ladies instead.
 
Do convey my greetings to His Grace—and let him know I will be in touch.
 
I have little doubt we will be meeting again someday, Miss Merriweather,” he said, with a parting wink.

The next morning, Clarendon frowned at the dusky pink rose that had been laid across the other correspondence on the desk in his London townhouse.
 
It was unblemished and had obviously not been forwarded to him from the manor.
 
Which meant that its sender must be at least somewhat aware of his movements.

The accompanying note proclaimed it “The Anderton Rose.”
 
His eyes widened as he mentally reviewed the names of the other blossoms.
 

“Bloody everlasting hell,” he muttered, shoving aside the other correspondence on his desk as he sank into his chair.
 
After retrieving several fresh pieces of paper from a drawer, he dipped his pen and began writing.

“I was actually just about to contact you, when your note arrived, old man.”
 
Lord Sebastian Tremain settled into the chair by the fireplace.
 
Clarendon had spent the better part of the morning pacing as he waited for his friend to arrive.

Now, he paused to frown at Bastian.
 
“What about?”

“I just finished talking to Anderton’s wife.
 
It would seem that both he and Farnsworth started receiving roses before they disappeared.
 
Anderton and his wife had been having problems, and so she had concluded that Anderton was sending them to make her jealous.
 
Farnsworth’s wife assumed it was a little gesture from her husband, keeping the romance alive in the relationship while he was away on business—with me, as it happened.”

Clarendon resumed pacing.
 
“I see.”

“So the roses have continued to arrive, then?”

“They have.”
 
Clarendon sat down in the chair opposite Sebastian’s.
 
“And I couldn’t figure out why the names were so damned familiar.
 
Until now.”

“And?”

“Berkley, Deatker, Enshaw, Shevnam and Anderton.”
 
Clarendon leaned forward, glaring at his friend.
 
“They’re all named after men who testified against that blackguard Pepridge.
 
The first one, Berkley, threw me off because at the time I knew him, he was James Shaw.
 
But then I vaguely remembered that he became Viscount Berkley at some point.”

Bastian nodded.
 
“Shaw’s uncle died without an heir.”

“Right.
 
So, it was only when I saw Anderton’s name that I finally made the connection between them.
 
Berkley, I believe, talked about Pepridge’s meticulous cruelty.
 
Shevnam, like me, had evidence that Pepridge had become a double agent, spying on us for the French.”

“Dammit.
 
Pepridge, eh?”
 
Sebastian rubbed his chin.
 
“I should have suspected that story they were telling about his death.
 
He wouldn’t have been killed as easily as all that.
 
Beaten beyond recognition, with papers to identify him.”

Clarendon nodded.
 
“Too convenient, really.
 
Whoever headed up that investigation must have preferred leaving it at that over facing the risk of pursuing someone like Pepridge.”
 
He sat back.
 
“And fools like us, who heard the story, must have assumed it was true because we figured it was over.
 
After all, we hadn’t heard anything from the man.
 
But we should have questioned his death.
 
Pepridge was brilliant in his own twisted way.”

“
Is
brilliant,” Sebastian corrected grimly.

“And now, I’m willing to wager that Berkley, Deatker, Enshaw and Shevnam are also missing.”

Sebastian nodded.
 
“I’ll look into it.
 
I’ll also have watchers posted here and at the manor, in case he happens to be lurking about.
 
At the least, we’ll be able to thwart him should he decide to make a move.
 
I’ll have them be discreet.”

“Pepridge was damned good, Bastian.
 
He was one of the best we had.
 
Tricky as hell.”

Bastian sighed.
 
“I remember.”
 

“What should we do?”

“For now, we must behave as if we suspect nothing.
 
I don’t want to tip him off to the fact that we’re onto him.
 
Proceed with your plans as if nothing is amiss.”

“I was bloody well planning on getting married.”

“Good God, Clare!
 
Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Miss Merriweather.”

Bastian looked startled.
 
“Miss Tina?
 
But I thought Edmund—“

Clarendon held up his hand.
 
“It’s a long story, which I will tell you on some other occasion.
 
But for the moment, perhaps I should put off—“

Bastian shook his head.
 
“If Pepridge is as good as we think, he’ll be aware of your plans.
 
If you cry off now…”

“Understood.”
 
Clarendon sighed wearily.
 
“But if anything amiss befalls Miss Merriweather—“
 

“Then Pepridge will have much to answer for from all of us, Clare,” Bastian assured him.
 
“I’ll stand in at the wedding, if that’s all right, old man.
 
Keep an eye on things.”

“I was going to bloody well invite you anyway.
 
Now I’ll be gladder than ever to have you around.”

“Probably best not to mention this whole affair to the others.”

“Of course not.
 
This is enough of a damned mess as it is.”

Bastian didn’t contradict him.
 
“So when’s the wedding?”

“At the manor, two days’ hence.”

“Right.
 
In the mean time, I’ll investigate the rest of the equation—see if Berkley and the others have, in fact, disappeared and glean whatever I can about Pepridge’s modus operandi.”
 
After a pause, Bastian shifted in his seat.
 
“So tell me everything you know, Clarendon.
 
I need all the information I can get if we’re to run the villain to ground.”

Clarendon let out a hard breath.
 
“He must be watching my movements.
 
The rose is fresh—and, after that first one, which had been forwarded to the manor from the townhouse, all of them have been.”

“Dare I hope he’s been traveling with the actual bushes?”

Clarendon shook his head.
 
“I wouldn’t put much past him, Bastian.
 
If nothing else, the trial convinced me of the fact that Pepridge is mad.
 
Brilliant and calculating, yes.
 
But also someone who lives by completely different rules to the rest of us.
 
That’s part of what made him so good—and so dangerous.”

Unsteady footsteps on the stairs pulled her from sleep.
 
She woke, knowing he had already climbed three steps.
 
She burrowed more closely against her mother’s warm body, unable shut out the inexorable sound of violence approaching the squalid room where they huddled together in the darkness.
 

“Mama?”
 
Tina’s voice was high and quiet with fear.

“Shhhh,” her mother whispered.
 
“I’m here.
 
I won’t let him near you.”

Another four stairs.

“He’ll hurt you, Mama,” she whimpered, wishing she weren’t so little and so weak.
 
Wishing she could protect her mother.
 
But the tooth-and-nail fighting that worked so well against the bullies on the street would be no proof against a heavy, embittered and drunken adult.
 
And Mama had forbidden Tina to interfere.
 
“This is between grown-ups.
 
I’ll beat you myself if you jump in again,” Mamma had said.

So now, Tina had to lie in the bed and watch—or try not to watch.
 
Mama drew her in for a tight hug.
 
Then, she pulled away and stood.

The final step.

Mama loomed over Tina.
 
“Never marry a man you barely know, Tina, for you’ll surely live to regret it,” her mother murmured.
 
“It’s not too late, you know.
 
There’s still time to change your mind.”

The footsteps were approaching too quickly.
 
He was already in front of the door.
 
Tina cringed as she heard him fumbling with the knob.

“Don’t do it, Tina,” her mother whispered, and Tina couldn’t understand what her mother was talking about.

“Don’t do what, Mama?” she asked, but she didn’t recognize her own voice.
 
It was different, deeper.
 
She sat up and looked down at herself, frowning, for she was no longer a little girl, but a grown woman.

Mama backed away from her.
 
“When you marry, you put yourself in a man’s power.
 
Don’t make the same mistake I made, not once, but twice…”
 
As her mother’s voice faded into a dark corner of the room, the door slammed open on its hinges.

Tina shook her head as she saw the broad silhouette looming in the doorway.
 
She could not see his face, but this was not the familiar, flaccid form of her stepfather.
 
This man was wide and powerful—and she knew him all too well.
 
But some subtlety had transformed his seduction to menace.
 

She moaned as he advanced into the room.
 
Shaking her head, she got up from the bed and began to back away from him.
 
He laughed, still walking towards her.
 
And when he spoke, it was with Clarendon’s voice.

Tina pulled herself into consciousness, her heart racing and her eyes wide.
 
Shaking her head, she rolled out of bed.
 
It’s only a dream, you fool.
 
Clarendon’s nothing like that and you know it.
 

She pulled on her robe and knotted the sash with shaking hands as some other part of her protested,
How can you be sure?
 
You hardly know him at all.
 
Even Edmund, his own brother, admits he no longer knows him.

Tina buried her face in her hands.
 
“He’s not like that.
 
I know it.
 
That’s all,” she said aloud.
 
Then, she straightened her shoulders and raised her head, deliberately relaxing her expression.
 

She walked over to the window, where the first breath of dawn was starting to illuminate the sky.
 
Drawing in slow, deep draughts of air, she forced herself to concentrate of the beauty of the fiery streaks of sunrise.
 
“All will be well,” she murmured, smiling as she turned her thoughts to the day ahead—only to feel the smile drop from her lips as her heart resumed its frantic beat.

Three days had passed since her return to Loughton Manor.
 
Today was to be her wedding day.

Clarendon returned to his rooms from an early morning ride to find a single, orange-red blossom on his coverlet.
 
“The Farnsworth Rose.”
 
But this time, the note carried a post-script.
 
“Enjoy the honeymoon while you can, dear fellow.
 
I’ll be in touch.”

Crushing the paper in his hand, Clarendon summoned his valet, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

A quarter of an hour later, he had confirmed his suspicion: none of the staff had seen the rose before.
 
And no-one had any idea of how it had ended up in his sleeping chamber.

When Sebastian arrived later that morning, Clarendon met with him in the study.