A Rose Before Dying (21 page)

“But, I—I just sold him a Rose de Meaux!”
As if a man who bought a rose could ever commit a crime
.

“Exactly.”

The room spun more rapidly. “But—”

“Think about it, woman!”

“You came to fisticuffs with him in our
greenhouse not more than six months ago!” Her confusion
increased.

“Precisely. For some inexplicable reason, he
does not like me.”

“And he’s a rose fancier!”
Surely… Mr.
Tunnes? He couldn’t…could he?

“Or at least fancies himself as one.”

“Wasn’t he…well, Lady Banks—” Her cheeks
burned. She glanced down before turning slightly to melt into the
shadows cast over her shoulder by the curtain.

“Her lover?” A barking laugh shook him as
another shower of crumbs tumbled over the sheet. “Her
taste…fluctuated. Sadly, I might add. What she ever saw in that
carrot-headed parody of a man is incomprehensible.”

“At least she redeemed herself by befriending
you.”

“For a time.” His hands plucked at the sheet.
“Too short a time, I might add. And now it’s at an end. All of
it.”

Thus reminded of the situation, she stood and
gripped the back of her chair to steady herself. The room seemed
devoid of air. The floor tilted oddly as she experienced a sudden
image of Mr. Tunnes, dressed as a woman, tying Miss Baxter to a
post at the water’s edge.

“I should—”

“You should tell my nephew that there is a
buffoon calling himself Gregory Tunnes who might prove an
interesting subject of investigation.”

“I can’t—”

“Leave?”

“Will you stop completing my sentences for
me?”

“You appear to require it. I’ve never met a
woman less capable of speaking her mind.”

“I am
not
incapable of speaking my
mind!”

“Thank God! You relieve me. Now get out.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Leave! Get out! Your poison is working, and
I find myself disposed to sleep. And you need to return to London.
Find my rascally nephew. Now that you’ve discovered your capacity
for speech, tell him about Mr. Tunnes. And let me get some
rest.”

“But—”

“Martha will be more than happy to step into
the breach and pummel me into submission. I daresay she believes it
will do me a world of good to be abused under her calloused
fist.”

“I’m sure she believes nothing of the
sort!”

“Then you haven’t met her. Ring the bell. I’d
be delighted to introduce you.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Please,
stop. You’re impossible.” Then, on impulse, she went over to the
bed and kissed him on the forehead. His skin felt paper-thin and a
trifle warm. A pang of worry tightened her throat. “Please take
care of yourself. Lord Castlemoor would be lost without you. And
I’m beginning to think I would, too.”

He blinked and used the pretext of a bead of
sweat rolling down his brow to mop his eyes and face with his
sleeve. His haggard, hollow-eyed face tore at her heart. She didn’t
want to leave him, or Lord Castlemoor. What would she do when this
all ended?

“Go on. Get out, you maudlin creature. You’ll
have me praying for the release of death if you don’t stop this
ridiculous behavior. I’ve never met such a flock of weepy
women.”

“Will you truly be all right if I leave?”
Heart in her mouth, she studied his face, searching for signs of
doubt. There was nothing there but exhaustion and bone-grinding
pain.

“You can’t help me by staying. Go back to
London. Be swift about it. Who knows what those imbeciles at the
inquest are saying. They need some sort of guidance, and at the
moment, you’re the best suited to the task.”

She nodded. “I’ll leave as soon as I can. And
don’t worry. Your nephew will soon get to the bottom of it.”

“He’d better. Or this bloody amputation will
be for naught. I don’t fancy ending my days hung and dismembered on
the dissecting table.”

She patted his heavy shoulder. “You won’t.
There isn’t a rope in England stout enough for that task.”

When Ariadne returned to her cousin’s room,
she discovered the doctor repacking his bag, preparing to
leave.

“Dr. Humphrey, may I have a word with
you?”

“Of course.” He took her by the elbow and
steered her out of the room into the hallway as if he were the one
demanding an interview. “Miss Baxter is resting more comfortably,
now. She’s been bled and given a glass of lemon juice and
barley-water.”

“I appreciate your efforts on our behalf.
Sincerely. Unfortunately, I have some information that must be
relayed to Sir Edward’s nephew—”

“Sir Edward isn’t worse, is he?” The doctor
frowned and took a step toward the stairs.

“No. Well, that is, I don’t believe so. He’s
resting. But after speaking with him, we realized that we missed
something vital. I must return to London to speak to Lord
Castlemoor.”

“Didn’t he take your coach?”

“Yes. However, that’s not my most pressing
concern—”

“Then what is? Come, Miss Wellfleet, I’ve
other patients waiting.” He glanced at his pocket watch.

“Do you think Miss Baxter and Sir Edward can
be left alone? While I’m in London?”

He snorted inelegantly. “They are hardly
alone. Mrs. Bewforest and her daughter are quite capable of caring
for them. I should think the more important matter is how you
intend to convey yourself to London.”

“I—I,” she stammered, realizing she hadn’t
considered her lack of transportation. A rush of irritation
deepened her blush. She was not normally such a ninnyhammer, but
her wits had certainly gone a-begging today.

“Precisely as I thought.” He resumed his hold
on her elbow and guided her toward the stairs. “Gather your maid
and belongings. Be ready to leave within the hour.”

“Are you going to London?”

He shook his head. “I have too many depending
upon me. However, there is a lad taking a cartload of produce to
his brother’s inn. It won’t be a comfortable trip. It’s a late
start, but I’m sure I can arrange matters satisfactorily. If that
is acceptable?”

“Certainly.” It sounded horrible. But she had
to be grateful for the offer. “That is very kind of you.”

“I shall return this evening to check on the
progress of Sir Edward and Miss Baxter. If there’s any change or
serious complication, I’ll send word.”

“Thank you. I’m more grateful than you
know.”

“Find the villain who put Miss Baxter at risk
and I’ll be satisfied. That will be the best palliative for both my
patients.” He studied her face. “And for you, if I don’t miss my
guess. Now find your maid and be ready. One hour.”

The doctor departed, leaving Ariadne
struggling to organize both her belongings and her thoughts. There
were so many things to get done, and she had only one hour to do
them. After ordering Agnes to pack their bags, Ariadne visited Sir
Edward one more time. Unfortunately, he was fast asleep. His mouth
hung open, and his head lolled back against a mound of pillows as
he snored in muffled bursts. Loathe to disturb him, she hastily
found a pencil and scrap of paper and wrote out a brief note. She
folded it in half and wrote his name on it before propping it up
against the lamp on his bedside table.

Upstairs, her cousin also slept, although she
refrained from snoring. Ariadne approached the bed and laid her
hand on Miss Baxter’s forehead, alarmed at her pale, drawn
appearance. A suggestion of unnatural warmth seeped into her palm
and a raspy note belabored her cousin’s breathing.

Was she well enough to abandon to the
Bewforest women? Despite the doctor’s confidence in their nursing
ability, Ariadne didn’t feel comfortable leaving her. But what
choice did she have? The inquest was underway, and Charles needed
to know about Mr. Tunnes.

And there was Rose and her nursery, as well,
awaiting her. Ariadne had already broken her promise to return
immediately. She feared the little girl would believe she’d been
abandoned once again and run away. And while Mr. Gibson was surely
caring for the seedlings in the nursery, she needed to check on
them.

She had to get back.

Less than an hour later, a knock sounded at
the door. Ariadne peered around Agnes’s shoulder as the latter
yanked open the door.

A large, lanky youth stood there, twisting
his cap in his broad hands. “The doctor says as how I’m to take a
lady with me to London.”

“We will be out immediately,” Agnes
responded.

As she started to close the door, he thrust a
heavy working shoe into the gap. “I’m late startin’ already.”

“And you’ll be later still, my fine lad, if
you don’t stop your impertinence and wait for us outside.”

His brown, cow-like eyes fixed on Agnes’s
thin face. “Women—”

A wiry brow rose at this utterance as Agnes
stared back.

Abashed, he flushed and lumbered back to the
laden cart waiting in the lane.

“I’ve your bandbox, Miss Wellfleet. Have you
your bonnet and shawl?”

“Yes.” Ariadne stopped to pick up both
articles before casting a final glance at the stairs. The muted
voices of the Bewforest women came from the kitchen, but the rest
of the house was silent except for the occasional creak of wood as
the sun warmed the timbers.

Her shoulders stiffened.
I should
stay
. She couldn’t leave Sir Edward and Miss Baxter alone.
Anything could happen, and she’d be too far away to help them.

Agnes opened the door again and tapped her
foot. With a sigh, she joined her. When the ladies got to the cart,
Agnes scrambled up on the high seat, taking the middle position. A
glance at her resolute face made Ariadne bite her lip to keep from
smiling. Obviously, the maid had no intention of allowing her
mistress to sit next to the hulking, ill-kempt youth all the way to
London.

Ill-kempt or not, he courteously helped her
to climb into the seat before skirting the pair of dun-colored
draft horses and pulling himself up onto the bench seat.

Her gaze lingered on the cottage as he
flicked the reins, and the horses jerked forward. Her reluctance to
leave tightened like a metal band around her chest. She felt
responsible, and her abandonment of them was inexcusable.

To add to her misery, she was confused about
Charles—Lord Castlemoor. He’d kissed her, but had said nothing of
his feelings. Did he hope to make her his mistress? She should have
refused such intimacies, but instead, she’d welcomed him, all the
while knowing she was legally bound to marry another. What would he
do when he discovered she was engaged?

She longed to escape the restrictive legal
ties that her father had bound around her, but she had a moral
obligation to Mr. Phillips. He’d signed the wedding contract in
good faith. And he’d provided her father with a large sum of money
to keep Rosewell and their business afloat. If she broke their
engagement, she could never pay him back. It might ruin him,
financially.

But her heart shrank at the thought of being
his wife. He repelled her, and his uneven temper frightened her on
a deep, fundamental level.

A harsh voice whispered over her shoulder,
Charles might be the same.

All men might be the same. Certainly, the
red-haired Mr. Tunnes had an impatient disposition. Perhaps the
illusion of affection and kindness radiating from Charles was just
that, an illusion. She thought he was different because he’d been
kind to Rose and obviously cared a great deal about his uncle.
However, she’d also seen him under the worst of circumstances, when
he was exhausted and desperate. He’d been nothing but gentle and
kind.

But he’d taken great pains to say nothing of
his own feelings toward her, which could only mean he had no
feelings, other than general concern, and he’d merely kissed her as
a gesture of reassurance. In her own desperation to escape her
circumstances, she’d misread him and assumed too much about the
attraction growing between them.

While she grew increasingly depressed, Agnes
put the time to good use and questioned their driver about his
family, his farm, and his expectations. Despite his mostly
monosyllabic answers, she persisted. Finally, he clamped his mouth
shut, hunched his shoulders, and ignored her. After a few more
unanswered questions, Agnes turned to lecture Ariadne about her
duty to Rosewell and those employed there who depended upon her to
do The Right Thing and marry that nice Mr. Phillips.

By the time they arrived in London, Ariadne’s
demoralization was complete. Happiness was for the rich who could
afford it. She had only duty to keep her occupied during the long,
remaining years of her life.

If she were lucky, perhaps she’d die of a
lovely case of cholera before she got much older.

Finally, they rumbled into the dark streets
of London as the bells chimed four in the morning. Her bones ached
from the constant battering against the wooden seat. She could
scarcely keep from crying when she caught sight of the familiar
façade of her beloved Rosewell.

Due to the early hour, she didn’t bother to
knock. There was no point in rousing Mr. Abbott from his
comfortable bed. Without even stopping to light a candle, the two
women crept upstairs and collapsed into their beds, hardly
bothering to disrobe. As she stretched her stiff limbs, Ariadne
could have sworn the bed shook just like the hard, wooden seat of
the rattling cart.

“Miss Wellfleet, wake up!” Agnes’s voice
intruded into her sleepy warmth.

Ariadne shifted, thinking she’d fallen asleep
on the way to London. She sat up, groggy and sore. “What is
it?”

“It’s Rose, Miss. The child has run
away!”

“Run away?” she echoed. Sleep dulled her
mind.
Run away
?
Where could she go
? Her bare feet hit
the wooden floor next to her bed. A shiver went through her. “Are
you sure?”