Chapter 18 #3
“Because he’s a man, and men never do the sensible thing.
” Diana paced, slashing at tufts of tall grass with her riding crop.
“You’ll have to take to your bed. It’s the only thing.
Nothing too serious, but enough of an ailment to keep you in bed.
Lord Brand will only come over for a few hours, and Digby can show him the stud. ”
Despair lifted a little. “I suppose that might work. I’ll have to get rid of Millie for a while.
He’d recognize her in a heartbeat.” Underneath coherence, an incoherent part was gabbling, Here.
So close. I could see him. Can I stand it?
“What about Digby, though?” she asked, forcing weak thoughts away.
“It will worry him to death if I seem to be ill, especially now. And he mustn’t suspect who it might be. Ever.”
“I thought you said he didn’t mind.”
“He doesn’t. But he believes it happened at the masquerade. Anonymously. I don’t know how he’d feel if he knew the man involved.”
Diana put an arm around her shoulders. “He won’t find out. We’ll manage.”
After a moment, Rosamunde couldn’t stop the question. “How is he? Brand, I mean.”
“Suffering no ill effects.”
“Thank God.” Then a new fear stirred. “Butterflies! What of the dower house, Diana?”
Diana rolled her eyes. “It’s sitting there like a barrel of gunpowder just waiting for a match.
There’s no reason for him to go there, but if he does, he’s bound to recognize it.
I tried to get him settled down at the river today, angling, but no, he wanted to walk.
At least I directed him in completely the wrong direction. ”
Brand stood at the edge of an artfully contrived wilderness, staring at the square, stone house.
He’d been seeking the familiar for so long that now he doubted his eyes.
Of course, he had no idea what his mysterious lady’s house looked like from the outside, but the layout of the grounds seemed to match the view from that window.
There was one way to find out.
He followed the path that ran close to the passing road, pausing at a tangle of blackberries.
Picking a lingering fruit, he tasted it, then shook his head at his own folly.
Ridiculous to think he could recognize a blackberry from the remembered taste of juice on a lady’s fingers, or a spicy alcoholic cordial.
Ridiculous to think blackberries important at all. They lined every country lane.
Determined to settle this, he cut briskly across the lawn toward the house, seeking the back door. Before rounding the corner, however, he turned back to survey the setting. It did look devilishly the same.
But how? Why? The only young lady in the area was the countess, and he knew she wasn’t his mysterious lady. He’d have to feel something in her presence, he was sure.
He knocked sharply at the door. It was opened by a thin young maid who curtsied, but showed no hint of recognition. “Yes, sir?”
“Whose house is this, girl?”
“Why, ‘tis the dower house of Arradale, sir. But no one lives here at the moment.”
The aroma of cooking and baking seeped out around her. Disregarding courtesy, he pushed past into the large kitchen. “You cook for the faeries?”
She was gaping at him. “I mean none of the gentry live here, sir! Mr. and Mrs. Yockenthwait are caretakers here.”
At that moment, a tall, raw-boned woman stepped into the kitchen, eyes taking in the situation.
Did they show momentary alarm? He wasn’t sure he was capable of judging such things.
Every sense hunted for sounds, smells, objects, anything to confirm that this was the house where he’d stayed for those brief, shattering days.
“Sir?” the woman asked, stepping between him and the maid. “Is there some way we can help you?”
“You must be Mrs. Yockenthwait.”
“I am, sir.”
And the sort of woman one tangled with at one’s peril.
He could think of no approach but the truth. “A few weeks ago, did you take care of a sick man here?”
The woman’s face could have been made of stone. “Here, sir?”
“Yes, here.” He thought then to look at the maid, but she was wide-eyed and useless.
“No, sir,” said Mrs. Yockenthwait.
“My lord,” he snapped, willing to use his meaningless title to intimidate. “Lord Brand Malloren.”
The woman did twitch at that. Flinch, even. But her only clear response was to curtsy. “My lord.”
“So, you have had no guest here in the past weeks.”
“No, my lord. If you could tell me what bothers you, perhaps I could help.”
He looked around as if the whitewashed walls, the stone sink, or the hanging hams could speak. Despite the woman’s convincing denial, instinct told him this was the place. Who was she protecting? The obvious answer was Lady Arradale, but it didn’t make sense. She wasn’t his lady.
There was one way to be sure. Find the room. He put the woman aside and headed for the door into the rest of the house.
She grabbed his sleeve in an astonishingly strong hold and towed him back.
The next he knew, she was between him and the door, a cast-iron frying pan in her hands.
“What do you think you’re doing, my lord?
If you are a lord, which I’m beginning to doubt!
” Before he could answer, she added, “Jessie! Run and get Mr. Yockenthwait, and any other men you can find.”
The door slammed after the fleeing maid, and Brand winced. Hands raised, he spoke as soothingly as he could, “I apologize for alarming you, Mrs. Yockenthwait. I merely wish to inspect the bedrooms.”
“And as caretaker, I should let any stranger who pushes his way into the house free to wander the place as he wills?”
“You may accompany me if you wish.”
“And you may go up to the big house and ask my lady’s permission!”
“Since I’m a guest there, that won’t be too difficult a task!”
And that hit her, he saw. A moment later, however, he realized it could merely be because she feared her mistress’s displeasure at upsetting a guest.
It was all moot, for two men stormed through the door. “What’s this, then?” one asked, a wiry man a bit shorter than Brand, but probably able to do real damage. The other was a strapping young farmhand with forearms like prize hams.
Brand raised his hands placatingly, having no desire to get into a fistfight over this.
“My apologies, mistress, gentlemen. I see that it’s unreasonable to expect you to let me to wander freely here to satisfy my curiosity.
” He bowed to the . “I will ask for Lady Arradale’s permission, mistress.
In fact, I will obtain it in writing. Will that suffice? ”
To her credit, she did not thaw. “You bring my lady’s instruction to me, my lord, and you will have everything she wishes you to have.”
It sounded as if she hoped it was poison.
Which was close to what he’d been fed in this house already, if his suspicions were correct.
He looked around one last time, thinking he might recognize a cup or coffeepot.
Such things were not kept on open shelves, however, so, keeping an eye on the wary, pugnacious men, he made his escape.
When he stepped outside the door, he found the young maid hovering hand to her mouth.
At the sight of him, she squeaked and moved back a step.
“Jessie, isn’t it?” he said with his most charming smile. “I’m sorry for alarming you.”
She just stared at him.
“Are you sure you don’t know me from before?”
Wide-eyed, she shook her head with violent conviction.
“And no man stayed here?”
“No, sir!” she squeaked, finding a voice of sorts. “Not since I came to work here last winter, sir!”
“Jessie!” Mrs. Yockenthwait appeared in the doorway, weapon still in hand. “Get in here and get on with your work.” With a final glare, she slammed the door in Brand’s face.
He looked at it, then walked back to the side of the house he thought his room had been on. Plague and tarnation, it had to be. There was the path he’d seen his lady on with her companion….
Now there was a lady who could be the countess. The one in the pale gown and big hat. Though in truth, he was beginning to wonder if Lady Arradale could have been his mysterious lady. How far could he trust his memory and instincts on this? She was the right height, build, age….
But he felt nothing for her, not affection, lust, or recognition. He couldn’t believe she was his lady. But then, he couldn’t believe his lady had coaxed him into drinking that potion, even sipping from the same cup to pledge her love!
Then again, there was that letter, the one he carried everywhere in his pocket. The one written at the Three Tuns when Lady Richardson had been there.
He froze as a fugitive memory stirred itself.
Hadn’t Bey asked about rings, talking of Lady Richardson, who wore a lot of rings?
And the woman had apparently been ill. Add that to this dower house, and surely the Countess of Arradale was in it up to her pretty neck.
Either she used the place for the purposes of fornication, or she lent it to others.
Perhaps it was a regular occurrence. That would explain the servants’ convincing denials.
Secrecy was doubtless part of their job.
So, what did that say about his lady? If she wasn’t the countess, and instinct told him that, then what? Had all her confusion, her shyness, been acting? Did she play this game a dozen times a year, laughing at the poor dupes who fell in love with her?
He jerked into motion, striding back down the path.
Plague take them all. Doubtless the ladies involved in this little game shared their stories, and the countess was laughing at him behind her pretty fans. She’d be in fits over the story of him bursting into her den of sin and being driven off by her servants.
He pulled out the letter, tearing it into pieces and scattering them as he went. If not for the ball tonight, he’d leave immediately.
First thing in the morning, however, he’d be away, shaking the dust of Arradale from his shoes.