A Rose Before Dying (6 page)

“Thank you for your concern. I trust you’re
as well as ever?” She ignored his rude question about the child.
Her back stiffened when Rose grabbed her hand and slipped behind
her. The child peered at Mr. Phillips from behind Ariadne’s drab
skirt, clearly frightened.

“Very well. Very well, indeed.” He rubbed
thick, stubby fingers over his plump lips. “And you look
extraordinarily beautiful in this wretched light. Thankfully it
hides the damage you’ve done to your lovely hands.” With a sharp
gesture, he waved at the array of seedlings and pots. “Why do you
persist?”

“I enjoy it.”

“You’re hard-headed, but no matter. One day I
hope to persuade you to listen to reason. A young woman should
enjoy life—not ruin her looks on unsuitable pursuits.”

“Oh, but I do enjoy life, thanks to this
unsuitable pursuit.”

Anger suffused Mr. Phillips’s face.

“Miss Wellfleet?” Mr. Gibson stepped between
Ariadne and her unwelcomed guest.

She shook her head. She did not want a scene
in the middle of her greenhouse and in front of Rose.

“We have no need of your services, Gibson.
Leave us. This is none of your concern.” Mr. Phillips turned his
back to him, dismissing the gardener. When Mr. Gibson remained
where he was, Mr. Phillips frowned and continued, “As co-owner of
Rosewell, I have every right to be here. There’s no need for you to
remain, Gibson. I have understandable concerns for my betrothed,
Miss Wellfleet—”

“Rosewell is not yours, yet, nor am I your
betrothed.”

He laughed. “You’re overwrought. All this
tedious work…. I wish you’d sit down—well, of course, there is no
place to rest here any longer. Don’t you miss that elegant little
table and the chairs that used to sit—well—precisely where you are
now standing? It must grieve you to lose all your little luxuries.
They bring such joy to a drab life such as yours. You must
understand, I have only your best interests at heart. I’d be
honored to take these burdens from your delicate shoulders and
manage Rosewell. As it should be run.” His placating tone set her
teeth on edge. “As it used to be run while your father lived.”

Why couldn’t he see he was not welcome here?
That she could never accept his suit, no matter what her father had
promised while alive?

Her temper flared as her feeling of
entrapment intensified. “I manage quite well, thank you.”

“Of course you do. You’ve done remarkably
well considering your natural frailty and limitations. But so much
more could be done with the proper guidance.” He glanced around.
“Don’t you remember how much your father accomplished, despite his
age? And what a disappointment it was when you refused to grant him
his dearest wish and accept me—his closest friend—in marriage. It
might have eased his death if you’d obeyed him in that one, small
thing.”

“No doubt,” Ariadne replied coldly. He never
failed to call forth her misery and feelings of inadequacy. Her
heart ached. He was right about her father. He’d begged her to
marry Mr. Phillips. It was for the best, he said as his thin
fingers plucked at the quilt covering his wasted frame. It would
preserve Rosewell.

All she had to do was agree, and he could die
at peace.

Unfortunately, she could not grant him that
peace. And now her refusal would haunt her until her dying day.

“It’s late,” Ariadne observed. “If you’ll
excuse us?”

“I’ll escort him out, Miss.” Mr. Gibson moved
forward to herd Mr. Phillips toward the door.

“No need. I consider this my home,” Mr.
Phillips said.

“You may believe your financial arrangement
with my father gives you certain privileges here, but I assure you,
it does not.”

“Of course!” He pressed his hand over his
heart, though his eyes gleamed with cold speculation. “I understand
how dreadful the situation is. A female, alone, without anyone to
provide the judgment and skills necessary. Particularly since this
business requires a man’s hand to be suitably managed. There’s no
doubt your dear father meant for me to manage the nursery to
provide you with much-needed business sense. Just as he intended
you—”

“No—”

“Did I misunderstand, then? He seemed so
adamant.”

“No. Nonetheless, we are
not
wed.” She
sounded churlish instead of calm as she intended. When she caught
Mr. Gibson’s uncomfortable and determinedly sympathetic look, she
flushed, but she felt compelled to add, “And you own no more than a
one-quarter share. No more. Hardly a controlling interest.”

“Enough to be worried about the management of
my property.” His gaze drifted over her and again rested on Rose.
He frowned thoughtfully. “What is this creature doing here?”

“She’s mine—that is—I’ve adopted her.” As
soon as she said the impulsive words, she regretted them. But once
said, she refused to take them back. She held the child close,
pressing her head against her hip.

Rose belonged here, just like Ariadne. They
were both females struggling to maintain their independence in a
world that frowned upon the mere notion of such a thing.

“Adopted her! Work has clearly deranged your
delicate mind. Did I not warn you of that very eventuality?”

“I can assure you, I emphatically have
not
lost my reason. Although you may be right that I’m not
myself, based upon the evidence.”
Especially
since I’ve
permitted you to remain
. “However, despite my
derangement,
she’s my child, now. I’m grateful to have
her.”

Without warning he slapped her. His face was
a blank mask as he grabbed her upper arm and gave her a sharp,
brutal shake. “This is precisely why your father begged me to take
care of you! You lack the intelligence to understand what you are
saying. Well, the guidance of a strong husband will set you right.
And I can assure you, once married, you may have as many children
as you wish. I have no objections to progeny. And there’s no need
to adopt strays from the gutter.”

His fingers bit into her arm. The moist heat
of his hand seeped through her linen sleeve, searing her bruised
arm. Heart thumping, she tried to shake him off and step away. His
grip tightened.

“None of that, sir!” Mr. Gibson pulled at the
stocky man, but Mr. Phillips shook him off.

He had two stone at least on Mr. Gibson, and
he used his bulk to shift the wiry gardener toward the garden
door.

Rose wailed and hid her face in the fold of
Ariadne’s skirt. When Ariadne took a step toward the safety of the
house, Rose clung even more tightly, impeding her. She shifted the
little girl and moved closer to the French doors before glancing
back. Mr. Phillips stared at her, his face flushed with anger.

Unable to stop the gesture, she placed cool
fingers against her burning face, feeling the tenderness of a
nascent bruise. At her movement, the corners of his mouth twitched
as if he suppressed a smile. Despite her outward defiance,
Ariadne’s fear solidified inside her, making the warm July night as
cold as the longest night of winter.

He had the law of men and Society to support
him. She had no one. How long could she oppose him before she was
swept up by men’s laws and forced to accede to his
management
of both Rosewell and herself.

Not long.

“Please, Mr. Phillips, please leave. I won’t
have a fight here. If I must, I’ll send for Mr. Abbott to escort
you to the door.”

“No need. I understand your situation, and
your fluttering and coy refusals are but poor attempts at maidenly
modesty. You’ve no practice in flirtation and it shows. But in
time, you’ll accept your situation and come to heel. You’ve no need
to worry. I’m patient. I can wait for you to realize that marriage
is the true vocation of all women. It’s expected. If you wish to
maintain your father’s business and this house, you should marry me
before it’s too late. It’s not a bad bargain, after all.” He smiled
at Rose. “If nothing else, you’ll have your own children—not some
pathetic, ill-formed urchin.”

Before she could reply, he nodded and strode
back through the lush greenery. The door to the rear garden opened
and closed. A sharp, cool breeze cut through the leaves around
her.

With a shiver, she repeated a promise she’d
made to herself after her father died. She’d never marry him. Even
if she lost Rosewell, she’d never agree to be his wife. To belong,
body and soul, to him.

Never
.

She couldn’t imagine life without Rosewell,
the house her father built for her mother, with its beautiful
gardens and her father’s roses. But some things were worse.

Her face burned where Mr. Phillips had
slapped her. She ignored it and stroked Rose’s soft hair. Having
the child clinging to her apron gave her strength. She straightened
her shoulders.

The future brought little certainty, except
in one thing: she’d need courage to retain her freedom.

If it were possible for a woman to be
free.

“Are you sure you don’t know anyone named
Collins?” Charles asked, his impatience hiding his fear that he was
either too late or had the wrong information. Had Miss Wellfleet
known, or just guessed the name of the rose?
Collina
. It had
to refer to someone named Collins.

Or did it mean that the murder would occur on
a hill? The rose was also known as the Flat-flowered Hill rose.

Which name was correct?

Sir Edward stared at him. After a moment, he
looked at the floor and pounded his brass-tipped cane at measured
intervals, his thin lips moving as if he counted the beats.

“I told you, no,” he said at last.

“Are you sure? Someone may die unless we
identify her, or him, first.”

“Well, there’s the butcher. I believe his
name is Collins, and I’d certainly mourn the loss of his roasts,”
his uncle replied sarcastically. “And of course the artist, William
Collins, though I am not acquainted with him. However, I understand
he has painted some extraordinary rustic scenes—”

“Sir Edward, please! This is important. Does
the name mean anything to you, anything at all?”

“No. As I’ve informed you several times. This
is pointless. There’s no one of importance named Collins—you
haven’t correctly identified that rose. If it’s a clue at all.
You’re wrong, my lord!”

Charles studied his uncle, wondering where he
had gone wrong. What could he ask to prevent what now seemed
inevitable?

Sir Edward’s face remained stubbornly blank
of any emotion except impatience, although his eyes revealed a
brief flicker of fear.

“Then let’s examine another angle. Can you
think of anyone who’d want to destroy your reputation? Or make you
suffer?” Charles asked.

“No, I tell you—I’ve no notion why any of
this is happening.”

“Lady Banks’ husband—”

“Had nothing to do with this. For God’s sake,
the man’s as civilized as I am. And he’s in Italy. Getting to know
a few artists—and their models—more intimately.”

“He could have hired—”

His uncle pounded the floor with his cane,
his features volcanic red. “Do you honestly believe this is the
work of a hireling? A man following orders for a few pence?”

Even Charles had to admit it didn’t have that
“rough” feel to it. No hireling would leave a warning rose. It was
too cruel, too personal.

He rubbed his face and shook his head. “No.
I’m sorry.”

“Indeed.” The cane thumped the floor for
emphasis. “Then we’d best leave it to Mr. Gaunt. Perhaps he can
apply some logic. ‘Though I must say, I’m disappointed. My
lord.”

“So am I,” Charles murmured. “But then, I
should have mentioned that I’ve an intense dislike of questioning
or intruding into the personal lives of others.” He paused,
thinking of Rose. He’d certainly been high-handed with her and
intruded quite callously into her life.

And the life of Miss Wellfleet, as well, by
burdening her with a child.

He sighed. Indeed, like many an earl before
him, he was becoming quite adept at meddling in the affairs of
others. One day, he may even grow accustomed to it.

“Ha!” His uncle snorted. “Since when? You’ve
been an infernally bothersome lad since you learned to talk. I told
your father he should’ve sewn your mouth shut until you were
thirty. It would’ve saved no end of trouble.”

“I was never—”

“You were
precisely
that bad. If not
worse. Now get out. Go to Gaunt. Maybe he can provide you with the
information we lack. We’re paying him enough, after all.”

There seemed little alternative except to
acquiesce. Despite his irascible uncle’s brusque words, the gray
tinge to his face and deep circles around his eyes told Charles
that he’d reached his limit for the day. His health, never
excellent, had grown worse since the death of Lady Banks. The
decline lent a terrible sense of urgency to his quest. How much
more suffering could his uncle stand?

And that feeling convinced him he couldn’t
leave matters entirely in Gaunt’s hands. He hesitated at the door
and adjusted his hat. He should talk to his uncle’s valet. While
his uncle seemed ill-inclined to discuss his affairs, his servant
might provide insight into Sir Edward’s thoughts and circumstances.
Men often confided things to their servants that they would never
reveal to anyone else. And servants tended to notice things missed
by others.

However, his uncle’s servants apparently had
already decided the household had been sufficiently disrupted.
“Your horse is ready, my lord,” the butler said as soon as he spied
Charles in the hallway.

“Is Mr. Hoopes available?”

The butler shook his head. “My apologies, my
lord. Mr. Hoopes is out at the moment. Something to do with Sir
Edward’s black silk evening jacket. I can send him to you at your
convenience.”

“Maybe later. I’ll send word. Thank you.”
With a sudden decision, Charles hurried outside. The valet could
wait. For now, he would take his uncle’s advice and visit Mr.
Gaunt.