Ivy and Intrigue (Twelfth Night Novellas #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“ H e’s distracted,” Lady Margaret whispered to her lady’s companion. “I’d wager we can get halfway down the street before he even notices we are gone.”

“Oh, please, my lady, not again,” Miss Yates said, barely containing her sigh of exasperation.

In the past four months they had been traveling together, Lady Margaret and Mr. Rockwell had fallen into something of a pattern, one she found rather diverting.

It always began with them going out to see the town, the local sites or whatnot, and Margaret would do her best to slip away from Mr. Rockwell’s watchful and ever-gloomy stare.

Such was the case now, as she stood near the shop door in the small Bavarian town of Lichterwald, pretending to admire the ribbons which hung all about her.

While Miss Yates did not often agree with Margaret’s antics, she usually kept her dislike to herself. But instead of yielding as she always had before, this time Miss Yates crossed her arms and speared Margaret with a stare.

It was so out of character for the lady that Margaret nearly took a step back in surprise.

“Lady Margaret,” Miss Yates said, “when your brother said you could take this tour around Europe, I do believe he did so with the understanding that you’d agree to certain stipulations.”

Lady Margaret’s lips pulled to the side in a smile. “Why, Miss Yates, that sounds almost bold of you.”

The woman’s cheeks pinked, and for a moment she looked slightly embarrassed. But regardless, she pressed on most admirably. “His lordship was very clear that he would only consent to your travel if you—”

“Travel with a lady’s companion,” Margaret said in a soothing tone, even as she motioned to Miss Yates. “And here you are.”

“ And you always allow Mr. Rockwell to accompany us whenever we leave either home or the ship, as the case may be.”

Tiny pricks of guilt prodded uncomfortably against Margaret’s stomach. Miss Yates did have the truth of it. She had promised Henry, seeing as how he was her only male relative and his health had not permitted him to take this trip with her. One would think that by the time a lady reached her four and thirtieth birthday society would have stopped scrutinizing her reputation. She knew several widows, even some younger than she, and they were permitted to travel without any male relatives or protectors at all.

But Margaret was not a widow.

She’d simply never married. Nor been engaged.

She’d never even been kissed.

Though that last bit she would certainly deny if ever questioned…depending on who was doing the questioning.

Such as Mr. Rockwell. Her gaze flitted to him. He stood near the back of the shop, in conversation with the shopkeeper’s wife. She could feel his boredom from here as it rolled insistently off his shoulders and tumbled across the shop floor.

He was tall and broad, and if that wasn’t enough, he carried himself with the air of a man used to commanding soldiers and used to having his orders obeyed without question. As long as she’d known him, Mr. Rockwell had never entered a room unnoticed.

And he’d never smiled.

Well, almost never.

She’d seen him smile exactly twice in the past four months. Which was saying something, as they’d been together nearly every waking hour for all those days.

The first time had been when they’d originally set sail from London. Margaret had caught sight of Mr. Rockwell, hands against the ship’s railing, inhaling deeply the smell of sea and salt…and smiling.

The second time had been only a few days later, when Margaret, still struggling to get her sea legs, had tripped most ungraciously. She’d fallen, arms and legs akimbo, across the deck. While the crew had chuckled around her and not one of them had had the decency to help her, Mr. Rockwell had knelt and offered her his hand—and a smile, which he had unsuccessfully tried to keep hidden.

That had been the moment when Margaret had decided that testing her hand at slipping away from a man who’d once led an army through the jungles of the East Indies would be more diverting than simply seeing the sights.

She had been right, too. It was far more diverting.

Margaret took Miss Yates by the hand. “Come, now—there’s nothing we want here anyways.”

Miss Yates must have spent all her saved-up bravado, for at Margaret’s insistence, her shoulders dropped, and she capitulated.

The two women slipped as quietly as possible out the door. The lively winter air nipped at Margaret’s cheeks and nose the minute they were outside. Ignoring the cold, she pulled Miss Yates to their left, away from the waiting carriage, and they hurried down the street. They walked quickly past three other shops before Margaret opened a door, and they both tumbled inside.

The bright smell of blossoms greeted them, as did a colorful selection of blooms. They’d stepped inside a florist’s shop.

Margaret inhaled deeply. “Isn’t that smell heavenly?” Rose, lavender, and a dozen other flowers—she could smell them all.

Miss Yates’s smile was as demure as usual. “It is quite nice. It is rather a shame you can’t package up a bouquet to send to your niece.”

“Indeed. Lizzy would love flowers from Bavaria.” They walked deeper into the shop. “I suppose we will have to keep our eyes open for a gift for her somewhere else.”

“Somewhere…such as the haberdashery we just now left?”

Margaret turned fully toward Miss Yates and placed a hand on her hip. “Two bold statements in one afternoon? Well done, Miss Yates. We shall have you properly un refined by our journey’s end.”

“It was bound to happen eventually, after spending so much time with you.”

Margaret laughed out loud. Miss Yates had come at the recommendation of Margaret’s friend, and they’d only met the day they set sail. For the past several months, Margaret had almost given up hope they would be more than lady and companion, but now…she could almost see them become friends.

Wouldn’t that be a lovely boon to an already glorious trip?

Margaret wrapped her arm through Miss Yates’s. “Very well. Next time we find ourselves in a haberdashery, I swear not to run before finding my dear Lizzy something perfect. Now, how about we find something to fill the vases beside our beds? I find mornings so much more pleasant when I awake to the sight of flowers.”

They slowly made their way around blossoms and greenery, stopping to take a whiff of anything that caught their interest.

“Guten Tag, meine Damen,” the shopkeeper said, his voice curt as he approached them. “Wie kann ich Ihnen behilflich sein?” His words were formal, but there was an unmistakable strain behind them, as if their leisurely pace had already tested his patience.

“Guten Tag,” Margaret responded, switching easily to German. As the daughter of a marquess, she’d been tutored in several languages. But for all her fine education, this trip was the first time she’d ever left England. It was thrilling to use what she’d learned so long ago someplace other than within the walls of her home. Still, with the shopkeeper watching them so closely, his arms crossed heavily against his expansive chest, she felt it best to begin with a compliment. “We were just commenting on your lovely flowers. Do you grow them yourself?”

The shopkeeper pursed his lips as though trying to decide if Margaret were in earnest. At length, he answered, his tone clipped. “That I do, my lady. I have a greenhouse not far from here. My family has owned it for generations. We grow only the finest blooms all the year long.”

“It’s a true treat to get something so vibrant and beautiful even in December.”

“Thank you,” he said with a stiff bow. “Is there something in particular you would care for?”

“Have you any red roses?” she asked.

The shopkeeper silently turned toward his left and stalked to the back of the shop.

“Not very friendly, is he?” Margaret whispered to Miss Yates.

“I rather get the impression he does not trust foreigners,” Miss Yates responded.

Regardless, not ten minutes later the shopkeeper presented Margaret with one of the largest and most lovely bouquets of red roses she had ever seen. Each bloom was fully open and fairly dripping with the promise of romance.

Too bad roses often lied.

Regardless, Margaret forgave them on the spot. Roses such as these were too gorgeous to stay upset with them over a small untruth. Scooping them into her arms, she pressed the velvety petals to her face and inhaled. Gracious, nothing was so exquisite as the smell of roses.

“These flowers will not tolerate being out in the cold for long,” the shopkeeper said curtly. “Best to not walk far with them on such a cold day.”

“Not to worry,” Margaret said. “We have a carriage just up the street with a foot warmer inside.”

The shopkeeper gave her a harrumph and nod of his head and then told her the price for the flowers.

The bouquet was large enough that Margaret found it difficult to reach for her reticule while holding them, so she handed the blooms over to Miss Yates.

Margaret tugged open her reticule and reached inside for a few coins.

Only, now that she thought about it, the reticule was unsettlingly light.

Her fingers dug around inside but met with nothing.

She dug down deeper, but still nothing. The only thing she could find at all was a slit along the bottom running the entire length of fabric. It wasn’t a popped seam either, but a deliberate slice.

Margaret scowled, her lips pursing. Who would dare steal from her in such a manner? Had they no shame? Didn’t they know she’d spent countless hours carefully stitching each bead onto this reticule? And now someone had gone and ruined it completely.

“What is this?” the shopkeeper asked, his tone decidedly less cheerful than before. “Have you no coin to pay?”

Margaret let out a small huff. “Certainly we have the means to pay…only, just now…” She showed him the slit in her reticule.

The shopkeeper folded his arms once more around his wide chest, and Margaret was suddenly very aware of just how large a man he was. “How do I know you didn’t make that cut yourself? How do I know you two didn’t come in here with the express purpose of making excuses and then running?”

Margaret drew herself up, though her stature felt woefully inadequate compared to his. “Sir, we are respectable ladies. We are hardly the type who would make excuses and run . Send the bill up to Mondstein Herrenhaus, and I promise it will be taken care of immediately. Besides, the very thought of stealing roses is ridiculous. Meat or bread I could understand, but flowers—”

The shopkeeper took a step forward, his shadow casting over her. “Ridiculous, is it?” he hissed, his voice low but edged with rising fury. “You tell that to the last three thieves I caught trying to slip away with what wasn’t theirs—just this month alone! You think you’re the first to stand there with fine words and promises?” His fists clenched, his expression darkened. “I’m not a fool, and I’ve had enough of people taking advantage of me.”

“Please, sir,” Margaret continued, “this is nothing more than a misunderstanding. If you send the bill—”

Reaching out, the shopkeeper wrapped a thick hand around her arm. Miss Yates protested, but he ignored her, dragging Margaret closer to him. “Oh, I think you’re the one who misunderstood if you believed for one minute that you could—”

A deep, commanding voice came just behind Margaret. “Remove your hand, sir, or I shall remove it for you.”

The shopkeeper was a large man by anyone’s measurements, but he didn’t have the bearing Mr. Rockwell did.

Letting Margaret go, the shopkeeper took a half step back. In the small bit of space between her and the shopkeeper, Mr. Rockwell slipped in, his back to Margaret, his eyes never leaving the man.

In the silence that followed, the shopkeeper took a second and then a third step back.

At length, Mr. Rockwell turned slightly toward Margaret and held out his closed hand.

“Pardon the delay, my lady, but I was busy retrieving this from a street thief.”

Margaret held out her hand, and Mr. Rockwell dropped every last one of her coins into her waiting palm.

Then, he turned back to the shopkeeper. “Seeing as how you have unjustly accused her ladyship, I am sure you wish to make amends. Reducing the price of the roses would be an excellent beginning.”

The shopkeeper sputtered for a moment, but no one ever lasted long beneath Mr. Rockwell’s gaze, and soon the man nodded and muttered something about having the bill sent to Mondstein Herrenhaus.

“Very well,” Mr. Rockwell said, turning to leave. “I trust you will show more respect toward any lady who crosses your threshold from now on.”

Along with Miss Yates, Margaret followed Mr. Rockwell out of the shop.

Once they were standing on the street with other shoppers hurrying by them, Mr. Rockwell simply said, “If you two ladies will wait here, I will retrieve the carriage.”

There was no asking if they were well, no concerned statement over either lady’s well-being. Only a command and a course of action he planned to pursue. Mr. Rockwell may have the most commanding of airs, and he was certainly willing to step to Margaret’s aid whenever it was needed, but once the perceived threat was over, so was any form of familiarity—or even basic conversation. Mr. Rockwell was a man of very few words—and even less patience for any sort of company.

Beside her, Miss Yates sighed. “That was magnificent,” she whispered.

Margaret chuckled. “Oh, come now, we would have been just fine if he hadn’t arrived.”

“Speak for yourself, my lady. I’ll be shaking the rest of the day, any time I think of that man…” She closed her eyes and shuddered. She handed the bouquet out to Margaret. “You’d best take these. I would hate to drop them by accident.”

Margaret took the roses, their scent filling the air beneath her nose once more. Perhaps it was the flowers talking, but she supposed Mr. Rockwell’s interference had been rather glorious. It was a shame he would insist on ignoring her the entire way back to the grand estate they were letting for Christmas.

Then again, Mr. Rockwell would find it terribly embarrassing if she spoke of his actions using words such as magnificent and heroic . Would it even be enough to make him blush? It would certainly be fun to find out.

She held the flowers closer to her nose. As it happened, romance didn’t only refer to a growing love between two people. In some of the novels she’d read recently, the term romance had also been used to describe something thrilling or fantastical, imaginative, or intriguing.

Seen in that light, today was turning out to be romantic, indeed.

It seemed the roses hadn’t lied to her after all.