The Clarendon Rose (33 page)

Tina could feel her rage building steadily as he spoke.
 
So he’d be going back to his other woman, would he?
 
She could feel her hands curling into fists and her body starting to shake with the intensity of her mounting fury.

He continued, “I shall ask that you join me there tomorrow—if that’s not too much of an imposition, of course.
 
I will not keep you there long—I have someone I should like you to meet, after which you may return here.
 
I, on the other hand, shall be staying in the city indefinitely.”

She wanted to attack him—to pummel his chest, scratch out his eyes and tear at his hair.
 
Anything to wipe that smug expression from his face.
 
Instead, she narrowed her eyes and smiled.
 
“I
do
hope that I will be permitted a similar license in this union, Clarendon.
 
Rest assured, should I decide to take a lover, I’ll be discreet.
 
You’ll never have any cause to question the paternity of your heirs—unless of course you can count.”

His head reared back, eyes wide.
 
Then, his face transformed into an unrecognizable mask of rage.
 
With a roar, he raised his arm, and suddenly, Tina was a small child, watching her mother goad her stepfather into a wild fury.
 
But, even as she cowered, waiting for her stepfather’s blow, he was turning and directing the full energy of his anger at an exceptionally ugly vase on a side table.

She watched in horrified fascination as his open hand shattered the unfortunate vessel against the wall.
 
For a moment, he stood, glaring at the shards of the vase as Tina watched his face in wide-eyed silence.

A movement caught her eye and she looked down to see blood dripping from his fingers onto the carpet.
 
She gasped, and only barely noticed that he had turned to stare at her.

But, when she reached for his hand, he pulled it away, as though her touch might contaminate him.
 
She looked up at his face, frowning.

“Clarendon, you’re bleeding,” she said.
 
He was watching her with narrowed eyes.

“You thought I was going to hit you.”

She glanced back at his dripping hand.
 
“Let me look at it—“ She started forward, but again he pulled back.

“Leave it,” he snapped.
 
Then, his lips twisted into an approximation of a smile.
 
“You actually thought I was going to hit you,” he repeated, the bitterness and incredulity blending in his tone.

Tina spared another glance at his face, but her gaze was again drawn back to the ripped hand as she worried about the damage he had sustained.
 
Had he broken any bones?
 
Sliced any important veins or arteries?
 

Pulling her thoughts back to what he had said, she released a shaky breath as she tried to think of a response.
 
But he was losing blood even as they spoke, though it didn’t seem to be gushing out with any great force, so the shards couldn’t have cut into anything too life-threatening.
 

“Of course I didn’t think you were going to hit me,” Tina managed, in no way capable of explaining that it hadn’t been him she had flinched away from, but the memory of another man.
 
“I—“

“Don’t lie to me, Tina,” he interrupted.
 
“I saw your face.”
 
He turned away, shaking his head.
 
“You really do think the worst of me, don’t you?
 
That I’m the sort of immoral bastard who doesn’t think twice about setting up an establishment for his mistress within days of his wedding.
 
The sort of man who would beat his wife,” he concluded, and Tina was distracted from her concern by the weariness of his tone.

“It wasn’t you, Clarendon.
 
My stepfather, he… it wasn’t
you
I was seeing…” Tina shook her head, still too full of surprise, conflict and concern to pull her thoughts together and formulate a coherent explanation.
 

She drew in a slow breath.
 
“Look Clarendon, we can talk about this later.
 
That hand needs looking at.
 
If it’s not to be me, then I’ll call someone to do it.”
 
She closed her eyes, trying to collect her thoughts as she massaged her temples with her fingers.

After a few moments, she opened her eyes and looked at him.
 
He was watching her, his expression unreadable.
 
“Look, I’ll leave for now—I’ll go out.
 
We can both calm down—and you can get that hand patched up.
 
We can talk about all this later, all right?”

He didn’t respond—just continued to watch her in brooding silence.

She nodded.
 
“All right.
 
I’ll go, then.
 
I’ll send someone in to patch up your hand.”
 
She turned to leave.
 
He made no move to stop her.

By the time Tina returned from her walk—with Archer following at a discreet distance—Clarendon had already gone.
 
Soames handed her the terse note the duke had left behind:
 
“I shall expect you in London tomorrow afternoon.”

Fitzwilliam nodded at Grimes, who had collected his mail for him.
 
“Were you followed?”

“Yeh.
 
Lost’im in the alleys off Grave Lane.”

Fitzwilliam chuckled.
 
“So they’re hoping to track me down that way, are they?
 
Delightful!
 
Ah well, we must applaud the attempt, regardless of how puny it might be,” he murmured as he leafed through his mail.
 
The usual notes—one from Ebenezer Anthony of the
Rosarian Gazette
, congratulating him on the creation of the Clarendon Rose.
 
Another from Clarendon, issuing a challenge and suggesting they meet in person to conclude matters.
 
A time and place was listed.

Fitzwilliam laughed aloud as he read the note.
 
“Quite delightful, really!
 
We’ll meet when everything is arranged to my satisfaction, Your Grace.
 
And not a moment sooner.”

Then, there was another missive—this in spidery handwriting he didn’t immediately recognize.
 
Opening it, he discovered it was from the delightful Miss Prunella Smythe-Perkins, the fellow rosarian he had met when he called on Clarendon’s intended.

“My dear Mr. Fitzwilliam,” it began.
 
“Though this may seem forward or improper, I simply could not resist writing to you.
 
I must first say how wonderful it was to meet with you—and what an honor it was to be one of the first to see the Clarendon Rose.
 
It is an exquisite creation, sir!”

Fitzwilliam smiled as the note continued with an informed discourse on the virtues of his latest masterpiece.
 
It was so rare to find a true rosarian, but Miss Smythe-Perkins was obviously a kindred spirit in this regard.
 
The epistle concluded with a humble but fervent request that, if he possibly had the time, she would deem it no small honor should he wish to call and see the latest rose she had bred, which had just begun to bloom.
 
“Your opinion—and any further hints you may have for refining my process—would be most welcome indeed.”

Fitzwilliam frowned, genuinely tempted.
 
He glanced at his hired thug, who had been shifting uncomfortably while Fitzwilliam read his mail.
 
The brute and his associate had their instructions on how to go about things.
 
Surely, he himself could be spared for the day or two it would take to make the excursion and examine Miss Smythe-Perkins’ rose.

After thinking a few moments, he came to a decision.
 
“You!
 
I shall be absenting myself for a few days.
 
I have sent missives to both possible addresses, so events have been set in motion and should proceed without complication.
 
So, tell me again what you’re to do.”

“Me an’ Stan’ll go to the ‘ouse, where we’ll meet up with the other three men you’ve ‘ired…”
 

Fitzwilliam nodded as the man went through the detailed instructions without pause or error.
 
“Excellent.
 
And remember, I don’t want any further contact with the other men afterwards—that’s why I hired you separately.
 
They’re the decoys and will mislead any pursuit by leaving an obvious trail.
 
I want you and your associate, by contrast, to be as difficult to trace as possible.”
 

After examining the man closely a few moments, Fitzwilliam continued, “All right, then.
 
Follow my instructions to the letter, and we will all be rewarded handsomely.
 
You may go.”

Then, he dipped his quill and turned his attention to composing a response to Miss Smythe-Perkins’ request.

The next morning, Edmund sighed as he rode the familiar route to Sir Roland’s house.
 
Though Tina had pressed him to propose, he had concluded that it would be best if he remained silent.
 
That way at least, he wouldn’t be haunted by the look of pitying contempt Miss Fielding would give him when he expressed his love and offered her a life far from her home and loved ones, with a younger son of—at best—modest means.
 
He wouldn’t have to watch as she tried to formulate a polite refusal to his suit.
 

Instead, he had decided to stop seeing her.
 
His call today was by way of taking his leave.

Already, he ached at the prospect of making his farewell.
 
But, it was probably for the best, he knew.
 
He hoped that this way at least, by the time he set sail, his mind and heart would have gotten somewhat accustomed to her absence.
 
That he would have developed some immunity, at least, from the sense of raw loss that pulsed in his chest.

He was a little early, he knew, but he wanted to get this interview finished with as soon as he could manage.
 
Otherwise, he feared his resolution might fail him—and he could not allow that to happen.
 

Upon presenting himself at the door, their housekeeper directed him to the garden, “Miss Georgiana’s in th’ back, as she warn’t expecting ye for a bit a’ time yet, milord,” the woman commented, giving him a hard glare instead of her usual smile.

He nodded.
 
“Thank you, Kate.
 
I know the way.”

“Aye and so ye do,” he heard her mutter in that same hostile tone.
 
He wondered at it briefly, but was soon too occupied with steeling himself for this final meeting with Miss Fielding to give it further thought.
 
He had promised himself he would commit every detail of her face, her voice and her gestures to memory—that he would allow himself this one indulgence at least.
 

As he entered the elegant garden, his footsteps slowed.
 
She was sitting with her back to him under one of the trees.
 
Her golden head was bowed, and she wore an elegant sprigged muslin morning dress.
 

Edmund paused a moment, drinking in the sight of her—the classic English rose in her lush, English garden.
 
Soon, England would be a distant memory, and so would she.
 
Still, he hoped the thought of her beauty, youth and freshness would carry him through many a lonely night, in the humid darkness of the land that would be his home for years to come.

Seeing her there, glorious head bent in contemplation, caused his resolution to waver.
 
Perhaps,
he thought painfully,
she would not regard it as too much of an imposition to correspond with me over the years.
 

He let out a quiet breath.
 
If not, then perhaps Tina would be good enough to indulge her old friend’s folly and pass on the news of Miss Fielding’s latest happenings.

Either way, now was not the time for such considerations.
 

“Miss Fielding?” he called as he drew close to her.
 

She started, but did not turn.
 
“You are early, milord,” she said, and her voice sounded strangely clogged.

He frowned, moving forward to perch beside her on the bench.
 
She turned her face away from him.
 
“Yes.
 
I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it would…”

She shook her head, but kept her face averted.
 
“That’s all right.
 
I understand that you likely have many important affairs to attend to,” she replied, her voice still oddly thick.

“It’s not that, of course, Miss Fielding—”

“You are too kind.
 
But of course, I understand, and you may feel free to bid your farewells and be on your way.”

“Georgiana, what’s wrong?” he asked, not even realizing he had used her given name for the first time in their acquaintance.
 
When she had first spoken, he suspected she had been crying.
 
Now he was certain of it.

She shook her head and he heard her sniffle.
 
After extracting a handkerchief from his pocket, he held it out to her.
 
She glanced at it, and he had a glimpse of her profile, delicate nose red, cheeks wet, before she accepted the square of fabric and turned away, dabbing at her face.

“Tell me, my sweet.
 
Perhaps I can help,” he urged through a tightened throat, feeling her pain as his own.
 
If it were in his power to rectify whatever had upset her, he resolved to do it before he left the country.