A Rose Before Dying (22 page)

“Of course I’m sure! Cook says she missed her
yesterday at tea. They’ve turned the house upside down, searching
for her.” She shoved a worn pair of blue leather slippers onto
Ariadne’s feet and draped a wrapper around her shoulders.

Ariadne stood and reseated the garment so she
could push her arms through the armholes. Tying the sash around her
waist, she stumbled to the door. “Have they notified Lord
Castlemoor? He brought her here; he may know where to look. Maybe
she went back to him.”
Rose must think I failed her—that I don’t
care…

“No—there was no need. Thankfully, Mr.
Phillips is here.”

She clutched the doorknob and stared at the
maid. Words failed her.
Mr. Phillips?
Had he carried out his
threat to send Rose to the home for children?

“He moved in last night to bring order to
Rosewell. And just in time, too, for we’ve been in sore need of a
man’s influence here.” Agnes nodded in emphasis. “He sent Mr.
Gibson out to search for her, but it’s been for naught. She’s
disappeared like a ghost in the night.”

“We must find Lord Castlemoor,” Ariadne
repeated, clinging to the notion. If she could see him—talk to
him—everything would be all right.

“You need to dress, young lady. And then you
shall speak with Mr. Phillips. He has been taking care of your
interests here while you’ve been galloping all over the
countryside. It’s about time you settled down as your dear father
wished.”

Cowed, Ariadne submitted to her
ministrations, all the while growing colder and colder despite the
warm breeze ruffling the curtains at her window. She wanted to do
the right thing, but her heart failed her. Rosewell trapped her
with bonds of honor and duty.

Mr. Phillips was already waiting in the
sitting room when she walked through the door. When he smiled, an
icy lump crystallized in her chest. She tried to take a deep
breath, but there was no air. She was slowly suffocating…

“Miss Wellfleet!” He grasped her hands and
drew her toward the sofa opposite the fireplace. Her feet dragged,
stumbling over the edge of the carpet. His smile widened. “My love,
I’ve been quite ill with worry.” He pulled her closer and kissed
her cold lips.

Revulsion crushed her numbness. She pressed a
hand against his chest. A moment of sheer terror shook her when he
pulled her closer before releasing her.

“Please,” she said, looking away. How could
she bear a lifetime of this? His touch filled her with loathing.
And fear. When she caught his questioning gaze, she smoothed her
skirt and bent to sit. He moved closer.

The sofa was too…intimate. With a sense of
narrow escape, she edged over to one of the chairs and sat down.
Her hands gripped the armrests as the insane fear that he would pry
her loose and force her to sit next to him arose.

“You’re too pale, my dear.” He leaned over
and raised her chin. She sat rigidly, determined to be the dutiful
woman. The good girl. Then he slowly traced a finger over her
cheek, finally pressing it against her lips.

She wanted to scream.

“All these tragedies have exhausted you, my
dear. You look dreadful. Thank goodness my lease expired when it
did. It couldn’t have happened at a more propitious time. You
obviously have need of me, and no one can complain if we anticipate
our wedding by a few days, can they? Under the circumstances. I
felt it would be best if I take up residence here at Rosewell, now,
to lift some of the burden from your weary shoulders until we
celebrate our wedding.”

“Wedding?” She couldn’t concentrate.
He
lives here? Now?

“I regret the haste. Your year of mourning is
barely half over, but I’ve done all anyone could to avoid
discommoding you. And I’ve arranged for a simple ceremony to take
place the day after tomorrow. It would have been sooner,” his hand
drifted down to adjust a fragment of lace covering her breast, “but
your servants were unsure about your return.” His breathing
deepened, sending a rush of damp, heated air through her hair as he
slipped his fingers under the material of her wrapper. “You should
have sent word. There’s no need to wrestle with issues beyond your
capabilities to resolve. Leave your problems in my hands, my
dear.”

She closed her eyes, numb with a sense of
helpless rage.

Before she could move, he drew closer still,
his hot, moist hands pushing her wrapper off her shoulders.

“Lovely,” he murmured.

Another shiver of revulsion shook her as he
lowered his head. Her hands tightened on the chair arms, fingers
digging into the padding. His hair smelled of rank oil laced with
the sickening sweet scent of patchouli. When his fingers caressed
the curve of her bare shoulder, she tensed. She couldn’t tolerate
his touch, his nearness.

If she had to marry him and endure his touch,
she would. But not today.

Not yet.

She thrust him away and stood, catching her
wrapper and pulling it over her bosom.

“Ariadne!” He caught her wrist. His brows
contracted with anger.

She edged around the chair, placing it
between the two of them. “Please. We’re not married—”

“Surely you’re not so shy, my love. Not after
traveling to Rye and back in the company of strangers—another
man—or so I’ve been informed. I have a right to know if your virtue
remains intact—before it’s too late.”

“Too late? How dare you suggest such a
thing?”

His grip tightened. “I won’t marry another
man’s leavings.”

“I will not lay with you, or anyone, without
benefit of clergy!” She edged toward the door.

“Ariadne!”

Without stopping, she yanked open the door
and ran into the startled embrace of Charles Vance. His arms went
around her, and he glanced from her to the furious face of the man
standing behind her. Ashamed and confused, she took one look at him
and burst into tears.

“My betrothed is hysterical,” Mr. Phillips
said, trying to draw her out of Charles’s arms.

Her grip on his waistcoat tightened.
“Please,” she whispered, wanting to thrust him at Mr. Phillips like
a shield.

“What’s happened?” Charles stepped aside,
although his shoulder remained between Ariadne and Mr.
Phillips.

“These endless tragedies you’ve exposed her
to have unhinged her mind,” Mr. Phillips said. “She’s exhausted and
overly emotional. She should have spoken to me, let me help her.
Nonetheless, if you’ll allow me, I’ll escort her to her room. I’ll
be with you shortly, my lord.”

“No—please!” She stared into Charles’s deep
brown eyes, willing him to understand.

He pushed her away gently. “Perhaps that
would be best. I’ll await you here.”

Mr. Phillips gripped her arm and drew her
away. “Come. Get control over yourself.” He gave her wrist a
warning twist.

She sucked in a mouthful of air, but managed
a polite smile. She should have expected that. Men always presented
a united front against a foolish woman.

With a last glance at Charles, she followed
Mr. Phillips toward the stairs. “We shouldn’t be rude to Lord
Castlemoor,” she said. “I’m well enough to go to my room on my own.
Return to our guest.”

To her profound relief, he released her.

She hurried up the stairs, clutching her
dress and trying not to panic. Could she waylay Charles before he
left? But to what purpose? There was nothing he could do, nothing
he’d be willing to do. She was betrothed, the contract signed.

Mr. Phillips owned both her and Rosewell.

Charles watched Ariadne ascend the stairs,
her shoulders rigid. Her disordered dress and flushed face told a
story, but he was unsure if it was a tale of mutual passion or
something else. He wanted to believe she disliked Mr. Phillips’s
attentions and was relieved to see him. Unfortunately, he suspected
he’d let his own desire for her affect his judgment.

That feeling and his previous encounter with
the rude man in front of Second Sons Inquiry Agency had prejudiced
him, because after a moment of confusion, he recognized Phillips as
the fellow Gaunt had fired. On closer inspection, Charles could
understand Gaunt’s decision. Phillips had all the charm of a
spoiled child denied his afternoon tea. Why Ariadne would agree to
marry him was as inexplicable as it was aggravating.

“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Phillips said as he
returned to the sitting room. “You caught us in a rather intimate
moment. As you may have noticed, my betrothed has not been herself.
Her mind was disordered by the recent death of her father. Then
this distressing affair with Miss Baxter…well… It’s been too much
for her. However, I’ve taken up residence, so I’ll ensure she has
the quiet, calm environment she requires for good health.”

Out of the man’s entire litany, only one
thing caught Charles’s attention. “You’re living here?”

Phillips chuckled in a sanctimonious way that
irritated Charles. How could Ariadne agree to marry such a buffoon?
“Only a trifle prematurely, my lord. We’ll be wed two days hence,
and she has need of a firm hand. It’s a miracle her father’s
business has not suffered more, although it’s bad enough.” He shook
his head. “Women simply have no head for business.”

“I hadn’t realized—” Charles bit off his
words. Matters were bad enough without engaging in even more gauche
behavior by revealing he was in love with Phillips’s betrothed.

“No harm done. Now, how may I help you?
Surely Second Sons is making wondrous progress on your behalf with
Sir Edward’s sad case. And of course, on behalf of the families of
Lady Banks and Lord Nivelle.” He sighed. “And of course, poor Miss
Baxter. I am surprised, and flattered, to find you here, my lord.
Perhaps you wish for advice? Mr. Gaunt doesn’t always have the tact
necessary to resolve such matters, as I’ve mentioned many times in
the past.”

Charles shook his head. “I came to check on
the progress of the child. Rose Barlowe.”

“Child?”

“Yes. There’s a little girl living here. A
child named Rose.”

“That servant’s child?”

Although it was a fair assumption, it raised
Charles’s irritation another notch. “No. Not a servant’s child.
Where is she?”

“I hardly know.” Philips waved a hand vaguely
in the direction of the servants’ wing. “The cook had a child in
her care. Perhaps you should question her, my lord. Or I could
assist you and do so…”

“I’ll speak to her.” He nodded. “Thank you
for your time. And congratulations.”

Phillips smiled and rang for the butler, who
somberly agreed to escort Charles to the cook. In the hallway,
Charles glimpsed a flowing shadow at the top of the staircase, but
when he looked up, it disappeared. Frowning, he followed Mr. Abbott
through the baize door into a narrow corridor that led to the
kitchen.

Matters in that room were, if anything, more
confusing. The cook took one look at him and broke into tears. Then
she pointed one reddened and calloused finger at the huge, scarred
table in the center of the kitchen.

A cardboard box sat amidst the piles of
half-peeled potatoes, carrots, and unshelled peas.

“What is it?” he asked. An uneasy feeling
pricked his neck. “Has something happened? To Rose?”

The cook nodded, daubing her eyes with her
apron. “I’m so sorry, my lord!”

Before she could explain, he heard running
footsteps on the servants’ stair.

“I beg your pardon.” Ariadne stepped into the
room and caught his glance before dropping her gaze shyly. Her
hands restlessly smoothed her hastily donned dress. “I should
apologize for—well—I was upset earlier. But I must speak to
you.”

“No apology is necessary.” His heart hammered
with sudden desire. He longed to demand she drop the pretense of an
engagement to the dandy in the drawing room. Unfortunately, he knew
he was merely fooling himself. Mr. Phillips had moved into
Rosewell. Preparations for their wedding had begun.

He was too late.

“May we take a walk?” she asked, her voice
breathless. “In the garden?
Please
?”

The servants stared at her with disapproval.
In unison, they turned their glares on him, awaiting his response.
The cook settled a cast iron kettle on the stove with a clattering
thump.

“Perhaps it would be better to remain here.”
It was certainly the honorable thing to do.

“Very well.” She drooped. Then, she drew in a
deep breath and straightened. “Rose is missing.”

“Missing? Are you sure?”

“Yes. She was gone when I returned.”

“Nearly a day now,” the cook affirmed,
crossing her meaty arms over her chest.

“Why didn’t someone send word?”

“How was we to know you’d be interested, my
lord?” the cook asked, eyeing him with disfavor. “Besides, Mr.
Phillips arrived last night. We was all sixes and sevens. But now
he’s here, he’ll take charge. He’ll find her, if she means to be
found.”

“Indeed,” he replied coldly. Mr. Phillips was
not the least concerned about the child, lost or otherwise. “Leave
it in my hands. I’ll find her.”

“Thank you.” Ariadne touched his sleeve
lightly, her eyes glowing.

He smiled. “How are the patients at Marsh
Rose Cottage?”

“Oh, I nearly forgot the reason I
returned!”

“Did something happen? Is it Sir Edward?”

“No, they’re both holding their own.” She
hesitated. “Though Dr. Humphrey says my cousin may have developed
pneumonia. I can only hope he caught it in time.”

“I’m sorry.” Somehow, he found himself
holding her hands. He chaffed them when her fingers tightened on
his.

“Sir Edward insisted I return. We forgot
about Mr. Tunnes!”

“Tunnes? Who is Mr. Tunnes?”

“An actor—oh, are you sure we can’t go for a
walk, my lord? It’s stifling in here, I can hardly breathe.”

“Of course.” He turned and selected a
goggle-eyed maid at random. “You—you’ll accompany us.”