Chapter 14 #2
“Not very comfortable, though, is it? Ah well,” she said, adjusting a chair to her liking, “I doubt I’ll have much to do with him. His own people will do for him, and we’ll do for his senior servants.”
Rosamunde, however, was following another line of thought.
Lord Rothgar had only just arrived? Had he somehow learned of trouble and come north?
But that couldn’t be. It was a three-day journey from London, even with the best horses.
He must have set out around about the time Brand was being drugged.
Despite logic, however, his sudden appearance seemed uncanny, as if it should be accompanied by flames and brimstone.
“And his brother?” Rosamunde asked, feeling as if just mentioning Brand might betray her.
“Lord Brand?” Despite her middle years, Gertie sighed. “Such a lovely man. So easygoing and pleasant to all. To meet him, you’d never know he was brother of such a mighty lord.”
Rosamunde was hard pressed not to voice her agreement. “But you said he had a retinue of servants?”
“Oh yes, but more in the way of business. Clerks, accountants, lawyers, and such. But they have their own servants as well. Apparently Lord Brand runs his brother’s estates—and there’s plenty of those, I’m sure.”
Clerks.
Accountants.
Lawyers.
Rosamunde poured herself more tea, fighting both laughter and tears.
Her secret love-slave. Even when she’d known he was a lord, she hadn’t understood.
How was she supposed to know? He hadn’t objected to a simple house with virtually no servants.
In fact, he’d acted like the ne’er-do-well she’d first thought him, as if he’d nothing better to do in life than amuse himself with her!
Except when he’d firmly set the end at dawn.
Lord Brand Malloren, with a brother close to the King and an entourage of his own. Now more than ever she knew there was no connection between him and Rosie Ellington, other than a chance moment on a dark road.
And yet, and yet—she nibbled a dry biscuit—he’d not been acting when he asked her to run away with him. She remembered how he’d insisted on it, grown angry over it, returned to it again and again in the night.
Now, in light of his rank, she understood that he’d meant it. Such a powerful family would be used to shaping the world to suit themselves. They wouldn’t care about the opinions of others. He doubtless thought she’d be honored to be his mistress. Certainly scandal would be a midge bite to him.
If Wenscote wasn’t threatened by the Cotterites, would she succumb?
No. Without that threat, she would never have lain with him, lovely man or not.
And she had to accept that if she’d not approached him, he would never have shown any interest in her.
None, in fact, because without the need to hide her identity, she would doubtless have shown him her true face, her scarred face.
Suddenly, achingly, she longed to be back with Digby, back home, safe in the security of Wenscote where she could be herself.
Then she realized that Gertie was still chattering.
“… gone for days.”
“Gone? Who?”
“Why Lord Brand, milady, as I said.”
“He’s missing?” She managed an idle tone.
Having run out of tasks, Gertie just stood, hands clasped on her white apron. “Nay, not missing. Apparently it’s his way to ride out alone visiting places. He hired one of Mr. Sowerby’s hacks, despite having two fine riding horses of his own. Incogno, or something, his people call it.”
“Incognito.” That explained his plain dress.
“Aye, that’s it. But the marquess sent word that he’d be here to meet with him today, and he received that message before his last jaunt. So it is a bit strange that he’s not back.”
Rosamunde had to say something. “What could have happened to him?”
“Well, the world’s full of wickedness, isn’t it, milady? Three coaches were held up by highwaymen last month not far north of here, and the press gang came in at Filey. I do hope nothing bad has happened to him.”
“So do I.” Afraid her tone had been a bit too fervent, Rosamunde added, “Such goings-on. It makes me quite nervous to travel!”
Gertie came over and inspected the empty biscuit plate with approval. “Now, now, don’t you fret. Travel by daylight, and you’ll not come to misadventure.”
In truth, if Rosamunde had followed that advice, she would never have had the adventure that started all this.
“But what of Lord Brand?” she prompted.
Gertie lifted the tray, worry settling on her face. “It’s to be hoped he turns up soon, milady. From what his servants say, the marquess’ll tear this part of Yorkshire apart if he don’t. We don’t need trouble like that.”
Rosamunde shivered, remembering Brand’s stories in the night about his oldest brother and his care of his family. Diana, too, had said he had the reputation of being protective and vengeful.
What would a man like that do to people who drugged his brother into sickness and pain, and abandoned him in an isolated barn?
Rosamunde rested her sore head on her hand. If only she’d followed Diana’s plan and done it at the masquerade. Then, Brand would not be in such danger. Please God, she’d have still found him and rescued him, but she’d have sent him safely on his way.
What would have happened during a day or two of his recovery at the dower house? Would they have talked? Would they have found the connection that still held, still tugged at her so painfully?
She might not even have stayed, though. She might have left him to the Yockenthwaits and carried on to Wenscote. Free of this turmoil, she would have been happy….
She sighed. Her heart could not think that way. Despite the agony of loss, she could not wish her days with Brand away. She could not wish to be carrying a faceless stranger’s child instead—she prayed—of his.
Selfish creature that she was, she could not wish it even to spare him suffering.
She could, at the very least, do something to ease his suffering. She stood, making sure not to wince or wobble. “I am feeling better, Gertie. I think perhaps I could continue my journey today.”
“Nay, milady, you must stay the night. Swaying about in a nasty carriage is bound to turn you sick again.”
Rosamunde hated the thought, but lingering here was far too dangerous. “I need to get home. Please help me dress.”
Gertie shrugged. “As you will, milady.” She soon had Rosamunde into her stays, petticoat, and plain gown.
Checking her appearance in the mirror, Rosamunde was startled by the stranger there, and somewhat reassured.
Even if she were to meet the marquess one day, he’d never connect her with Lady Richardson.
She wondered if Brand might, though. Or at least, recognize her as his masked lady. Lady Richardson’s madeup face, with dense white cream, rouge, dark brows, and carmine lips was eerily like her painted mask. As the mask was ruined, so this one was badly mangled by sleep.
Rosamunde dismissed the maid, found Diana’s pots, and did her best to repair the effect. The face in the mirror was horrible—a hag’s face suggesting wickedness—but she did find comfort in it. There’d never been a trace of pity on Gertie’s face.
With the face fixed to the best of her ability, Rosamunde searched the room for writing materials. None, not even Diana’s traveling note case. How to leave a note without pen and paper?
The guests’ parlor. Surely there were such things there.
She hesitated, quite simply afraid of venturing out with this strange appearance, and terrified of bumping into the marquess. She must, though. Brand could be rousing and suffering now. Rosamunde took a last fortifying look in the full-length mirror.
No one would recognize—
But then she smiled. Lady Gillsett! She looked exactly like her imaginings of wicked Lady Gillsett.
Embracing that boldness, she sallied out to save her love-slave in distress.
The inn seemed strangely quiet, and only one person passed her in the corridor—a young man with a ledger in his hand.
A clerk, it would seem. Perhaps one of Brand’s men.
She could stop him and tell him….
Don’t be a widgeon, Rosamunde!
As she descended the stairs into the hall, two redcoated officers approached, but waited courteously at the bottom until she passed them. Both gave her light bows, but showed hardly any interest.
No stares.
No pity.
An airy sense of freedom lightened Rosamunde’s step. She was truly out in the adult world for the first time.
A footman stationed in the hall willingly led her to the guest parlor.
It proved to be a charming room with long windows looking out onto the market square.
Two country ladies were taking tea at a table by the window, and a rotund middle-aged man sat in a wing chair by the screened hearth, reading one of the papers provided.
The man ignored Rosamunde entirely, but the ladies—weathered faces and wiry hair—looked over with a smile and a nod. A faint smile and a brief nod. Rosamunde supposed she didn’t look like the kind of woman to have much in common with them, and that gave her an idea.
Sitting at the walnut desk, she took a sheet of paper from the drawer, and mended the battered pen. Then she dipped the tip in the inkwell, and started to write. She had planned a curt note from a third party, but her hand and mind wrote the letter of her heart.
To Lord Brand Malloren,
You will not forgive me, and that is as it should be.
There can never be anything lasting between us, only the brief time we had.
Know this, however, and believe it I pray you, my lord.
You have brought a joy and light into my life that will live with me always.
In the name of that joy, which I hope you shared in some small part, I beg you not to seek me out for vengeance or for any other purpose.
I had no choice. I never had any choice,
“Lady Gillsett”