Chapter 19
She walked to the front hall as if in a blur. It had been easy to imagine, at Edmund Crewe’s first appearance in Rosalind’s life, that her fears were entirely concocted in her own head; that her school would never come to light, that his petition for control of the estate would be overturned.
Now, standing at her front door with the magistrate nervously shifting in front of her and Edmund leering over his right shoulder, she was not so certain.
“Your Honor,” she said. She could hear footsteps behind her, and knew without looking that Adrian and Mrs. Hollis would be close on her heels. “Do come in—I would not have you standing out here on my front step.”
“Nonsense, Miss Thorne.” The Justice of the Peace looked positively miserable. He had been a friend of her father’s. “This will only take a moment. It is not a social visit.”
He cleared his throat, then pulled out a rolled up scroll that he opened before them.
“It is my duty,” he said, clearly mortified, “to read aloud the following petition on Mr. Edmund Crewe’s behalf.
It is a legal petition regarding the…” he paused, swallowing hard and raising his eyes for a fleeting gaze with Rosalind, “…unfitness of a certain Miss Thorne in the household management of a minor ward.”
He paused, and Edmund cleared his throat and said something indecipherable under his breath. The magistrate’s jaw worked in frustration, and he turned to his companion.
“I am perfectly aware of my duties, Mr. Crewe. Please contain your interjections from this point forward.”
He turned back to the paper in his hands.
“The petition includes sworn affidavits from a maid in Miss Thorne’s household, from a venerable member of society by the name of Mrs. Seraphina Vane, and from a village woman who prefers to remain anonymous.
I set an inspection for Friday—three days hence. ”
“Three days?” Edmund’s face purpled. “That is too much time, Your Honor? I thought the meaning of this visit was an immediate inspection.”
“You tend to your duties, Mr. Crewe,” the magistrate said icily, “and I will tend to mine.” He extended the paper to Rosalind’s cold fingers, and gave a sympathetic nod before taking his leave. “Good day, Miss Thorne.”
“Good day.” The words were barely a whisper leaving her mouth, her heart pounding in her throat.
Edmund stayed behind a moment longer, his gloved hands perched atop the gilt handle of a cane. Rosalind felt like an insect on a pin, squirming under his inquiring gaze.
“Perhaps now, Miss Thorne, you can find your way to being reasonable,” he said, smiling in a manner that sent a chill down her spine.
Adrian was at her side in an instant. “We will of course respect the magistrate’s wishes, Mr. Crewe, but the inspection he speaks of is set to occur in three days’ time. Until then, I warn you not to step foot on this property.”
“We?” Edmund looked from Rosalind to Adrian with a pretended astonishment. “Is there something I did not know about your personal connection with Thornefield, my lord?”
“Lord Marwood speaks for me in this matter,” Rosalind said coldly. “Good day.”
She turned and nodded to the butler, who had the distinct pleasure of shutting the door in Edmund Crewe’s leering face.
***
Adrian left shortly after, murmuring that he was in search of reinforcements for her plight, and when he had left Rosalind felt the full weight of events crash upon her like a tidal wave.
It was the very thing she had been avoiding since Edmund first appeared in her life—for she had no doubt, with the list of witnesses in the affidavit—why her management was being called into question.
The school had come to light at last, and it would be wielded against her as a sign of her unfitness and poor decision making.
Mrs. Hollis set about walking the premises in search of anything that would give their little endeavor away, gathering books and slates and burning compositions in the fireplace.
Rosalind followed, but she had a sinking worry that they would miss something. The school had become such a part of her world over the years that it had doubtless slipped into little habits she had entirely forgotten or no longer noticed.
At three o’clock exactly, she heard the bell at the front door. Expecting Adrian, she hurried out of her study and into the parlor, but it was not the viscount at all standing in the center of the room. It was Sir Percival Drake.
The very sight of him made her skin crawl, and she stopped short just shy of the room.
There was something about the man that made her want to turn around and put on a shawl, or a cloak—or anything other than the light blue muslin dress she was wearing.
His eyes were untoward, even if his manner was entirely polite.
He was dressed as foppishly as ever, this time in navy and silver braid, and he bowed his head elegantly at her arrival.
“Miss Thorne,” he murmured, stepping towards her. “I had hoped that you would find time to see me today, and I am not disappointed.”
She resisted the urge to turn and flee. If this was another of Edmund’s cruel plots, she was not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how uncomfortable it made her.
“I am sorry to say, Sir Percival, that disappointment is indeed in your future,” she murmured. “For I did not realize you were here when I first entered the parlor, and I would not have received formal guests this afternoon. I am rather indisposed at present. I hope you will understand.”
His face was a mask of concern. “You know that I am acquainted, however lightly, with your dear brother,” he began.
She held up a hand. “Mr. Crewe is my stepbrother,” she corrected him, “and however well you are acquainted with him surpasses my knowledge of the man entirely. I have no doubt he would scoff at the idea that he was ‘dear’ to me, or I to him.”
“Indeed,” the other man deferred. He moved slowly, like a tiger circling its prey. “I did not intend to imply otherwise. It is only that, my personal relationship with Mr. Crewe allows me a knowledge of his recent dealings with Thornefield. He mentioned the magistrate, for instance.”
Rosalind stood her ground. “I am sure he was very proud of that moment, and wished to share it wherever possible.”
Sir Percival shrugged, not agreeing or disagreeing with this statement. “I am not here to discuss Mr. Crewe, actually. I am here for you, Miss Thorne. Since the moment I heard of this… difficulty, my thoughts have only been of you.”
This was hard for Rosalind to believe. She doubted, seriously, that Sir Percival was the sort of man who had space in his mind for much other than his own wants, needs, and desires.
“How kind,” she said tightly.
He was nearly upon her now, and reached out to take her hand in his. He was all tenderness, every movement perfectly rehearsed.
It made her want to scream. “I shall not waste any more time in idle conversation, when your own situation is so dire. Miss Thorne, I am here because, from the moment I first laid eyes on you, I was absolutely taken with your beauty and wit. I wish to propose marriage—” she tried to pull her hand away, but he held on even tighter.
“—no, do not protest, my dear! I know you will say that it is a hopeless thing for me to stoop to rescue you in such a time of need, but it is simply in my nature. I cannot allow a woman I hold in such high esteem to face the wolves alone.”
The wolf is here, clinging to me like lichen. Rosalind barely maintained her composure. “Unhand me, Sir.”
The gentleman froze, a wrinkle crossing his perfect complexion. “I beg your pardon?”
“Release me at once.” She drew a shallow breath, hating how her fury and fear mingled to make her shaky and weak in the face of this threat to her dignity and propriety.
He stepped back, dropping her hand with an air of offended courtesy that would have been humorous if he were not still so close and so leering.
“Perhaps you did not hear me correctly, Miss Thorne. I am proposing marriage on the grounds that, as my wife, you will not be inspected by the magistrate. Once you are Lady Drake you shall have protection—”
“I know what you are implying,” she said, cutting him off and drawing herself up as tall as she could. “And I shall call your argument what it is—a farce. You could no sooner make me Lady Drake than you could turn my brother’s favorite cob into a Pegasus.”
Sir Percival’s face turned bright red with rage. “From whence comes this attack?”
“From more than one reputable source who have revealed to me what exactly you are,” she said, gaining courage as she faced him.
“I know that you style yourself as a baronet when, in reality, you prey on the needs of women in situations like mine, steal from them, and leave their reputation in ruins. I have no need of such shallow ‘assistance,’ sir.”
His mask was no longer slipping. It had fallen completely away. The previously calm and quiet man with the lover’s lilt to his speech was now a furious, speechless mess—sputtering with fury as she spoke.
“And even if,” she pressed on, knowing that soon he would regain his footing and wrestle the conversation from her, “you were a real baronet, I would not marry a man like you even to save myself. I am not so foolish as to imagine your flattery is sincere, nor am I so in need of affection that I would accept a counterfeit in its place.”
Sir Percival stepped forward then, lightening fast, and seized Rosalind’s elbow in a vice grip. His words were sharp and cutting, thrown down into her face like weapons.
“When I am finished with you,” he snapped, “no one will even offer you the counterfeit, Miss Thorne. You have made a grave mistake insulting me, and you are a greater fool than I thought.”
She tried to pull away, but could not. Raising her chin proudly, she met his snide gaze head on. “How quickly you change from the language of a lover to the threats of a villain. Perhaps your true self was not so far under the surface as you had hoped?”
He released her, the force pushing her roughly back a few steps, and growled something under his breath before taking his hat and stomping from the room.
She walked into the hall to be certain he left—wondering dimly if this was some ploy to plant another spy within the estate—but as he walked away she saw three figures approaching from the opposite direction.
It was Adrian, and behind him Oliver Ferrand and Honoria.
He said nothing as he passed Sir Percival—did not even exchange a glance with the other man—his eyes were on Rosalind in the doorway to the mansion, and his gaze did not stray.
When he reached the top of the steps, he stopped just short of her.
“You are shaking,” he said quietly. Behind him, the other two came more slowly.
“I sent him away,” she said.
“I see that.” He looked at her with such deep tenderness that she feared she would burst into tears at the sight of it. “I am chagrined that you had to face him alone.”
“It was better this way,” she said, not sure she fully believed her own words. “For I do not believe he will return again. His pride has been sorely wounded.”
“Come inside, Miss Thorne,” he said, gesturing towards the house. “I have brought help, and we shall see what can be done about this business before the day is out.”