Debra Mullins (6 page)

The painting that had so attracted her hung in a place of honor above the mantel. At first glimpse, she’d thought it was Rome, but now that she studied it more closely, she could see the differences between the man in the portrait and Roman Devereaux. She walked all the way into the room, her attention completely captured by the likeness. The striking, dark-haired man in the portrait had
the same sharply attractive features as the man she knew, but he also had dark brown eyes—very different from Rome’s piercing green—and a beauty mark near his ear.

Definitely a close relative.

“Good morning, Miss Rosewood.”

Anna spun about with a squeak of surprise to find Rome himself standing behind her. “What are you doing here?”

He chuckled. “I came to call on my sister, but Mrs. Wentworth’s presence inspired me to examine the library. What about you?” Amusement lurked in those mesmerizing eyes of his, as if he knew perfectly well she’d been indulging her curiosity.

She cleared her throat. “I’ve gotten a bit turned around,” she fibbed.

“If you’ve come to call on Vin, I will be happy to escort you to the parlor.”

“No!” She took a breath, willing her heart to stop its thundering. “That is, I was just leaving.”

“The doorway to the street is not located in the library.”

She blushed, caught. “I wanted to look more closely at this portrait. Who is he?”

Rome cast a hard glance at the painting. “My father.”

“You look very like him.”

“Unfortunately, there is nothing to be done about that.” He took her arm and guided her away from the picture. “Vin hardly knew our fa
ther. Perhaps that is why she keeps his portrait when my mother demanded it be removed from her household.”

The edge in his voice warned her not to trespass further.

“I shouldn’t have intruded,” Anna apologized. “I was simply drawn by the resemblance.”

“Don’t give it another thought. I find the situation much in my favor, as we did not have the opportunity to converse at Haverford’s dinner party.” He met her gaze for one, long, meaningful moment. “I thought we could renew our acquaintance beyond the masks of society.”

Masks? Heaven help her, did he
know
?

Impossible. Shaken, she pulled her arm from his grasp. “I’m afraid I am late for an appointment. Some other time, perhaps.”

“Surely you can spare me a moment. After all, we are practically family.”

“I don’t know—” She glanced toward the open door.

“Come now, Miss Rosewood,” he coaxed. “I assure you we will leave the door ajar.”

“Very well.” Afraid that protesting further might arouse his suspicions, she ignored the instinct that urged her to flee and instead edged just out of touching range. “But only a moment, Mr. Devereaux. My mother expects me directly.”

He gave a nod. “Message received, Miss Rosewood. I will do nothing to inconvenience your mama.”

His persuasive smile shook her to her bones and spurred her to move immediately to the opposite side of the room, where two great leather chairs sat beneath the window overlooking the tiny garden. She smoothed one hand over the dark leather chair back and gazed out the window.

It was all she could do to maintain a calm expression. Inside, her intuition demanded that she run. But she didn’t dare. If she left too quickly, it would only feed his suspicions. Yet if she lingered, she took the chance of betraying herself.

Watching her, Rome struggled to sort out his tangled emotions. When he’d seen her alone in the library, he hadn’t been able to resist joining her. He told himself he just wanted to find out if she was toying with his family. That he needed to make certain she was not trying to play Marc for a fool. But her resemblance to the woman he had met at Vauxhall—and the possibility that they could be one and the same—stirred other, more disturbing feelings.

Her lush mouth haunted him, and the husky timbre of her voice played along his nerve endings just like the one in his memories. His body stirred just at the remembrance of holding that sweet female body in his arms, and he couldn’t stop himself from taking a brief, frank appraisal of her physical charms.

She turned an inquiring glance his way, and he stifled his passionate thoughts with the choke-hold of strong will.

Marc’s intended. Forbidden.

He lingered near Henry’s desk. Better to keep space between them, especially since his wits all but failed him in her presence. None of the usual social niceties came as easily to his normally glib tongue. He knew he wanted to find out the truth about her, but the delicate situation called for all his diplomatic skills.

If he was right, he might very well save Marc from marrying the wrong woman. And if he was mistaken, he would have deeply offended a lady who would soon be a member of his family. That was an insult even Marc would not overlook.

“What lovely roses,” she said, sending him a nervous smile.

Roses? Was she mocking him? Or was she testing him?

“Roses are my favorite,” he replied, watching her carefully. “No scent is sweeter.”

Her eyes widened and her lips parted as if startled, but then she looked quickly away. Guilt? Or modesty?

The late-morning sunlight brought out the gold highlights in her brown hair and silhouetted her fair profile in orange, like a halo for the angel she appeared to be. Her dress was a pale green, quite appropriate for a young lady of her age and station, and yet he couldn’t forget another green dress he had recently admired, a soft verdant satin that had adorned the slim body of the mysterious Rose.

Were
the women one and the same? His intellect argued that such a thing was impossible, and yet he couldn’t deny the evidence before his eyes. Anna Rosewood bore a certain remarkable resemblance to his Rose. If only he could kiss her, he might know for sure.

But one generally did not go about accusing gently born young ladies of masquerading as prostitutes.

She glanced at him again as the silence stretched on, her dark eyes wary. “Mr. Devereaux, you said you wanted to speak to me, and yet you say nothing. I should go.”

She turned to do just that, and he stepped forward, cutting off her escape before she could move more than a pace. “Please wait.”

“What do you want of me?” She took a step backward and gripped the top of the chair, her fingers creasing the leather.

“To get to know you better.” He attempted a charming smile, but his head spun with the scent of her, the nearness of her. “Marc is my favorite cousin, and I am curious about his future bride.”

“Not quite his bride,” she corrected. “Nothing has been formalized.”

“Does that mean you do not consider yourself betrothed to my cousin?” Drawn closer despite his resolution to remain aloof, he rested his hand on the back of the chair beside hers.

“There is an understanding between our two families.” She inched her hand away from his.
“However, no formal settlements have been signed. Until that happens, I would not presume to call Lord Haverford my betrothed.”

Did that mean she considered herself fair game for any available man? Was she the flirt he suspected? Or worse, was she the sort of woman who would pretend to be a doxy?

He moved a bit closer to her. Attar of roses teased his senses, bringing back the Vauxhall incident with vivid clarity. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine himself back there. She resembled Rose; she even appeared to be the same height. And heaven help him, she smelled the same. But that was still not enough to prove his outlandish theory. Many young ladies of quality wore the same scent.

“No doubt your parents are pleased that you are to make such a smart match,” he murmured. “But how do
you
feel about the situation?”

She flicked him a cautious glance. “I am content.”

“Are you? Marc is a good man, but his passion lies with his estate and his account books. Will you be happy married to such a fellow, I wonder?”

“Sir, you overstep.” Pink swept into her cheeks, and she turned away from him.

She was right. “My apologies.”

Her spine looked so stiff, he thought she would flounce away on the spot. Instead, she turned back. “I have no desire to insult a member of Lord Haverford’s family, but I must tell you I find your questions most disturbing, Mr. Devereaux.”

“And I find
you
most disturbing, Miss Rosewood. You seem very familiar to me. I cannot help but wonder if we have met before.”

She paled. “I’m certain I would have remembered if we had met before the earl’s dinner party.”

“A gentleman fancies that a lady will find him more than merely memorable.” Following an impulse, he took her hand and raised it to his lips, his eyes intent on her face.

He was testing her. Trying to trap her.

Anna’s blood froze like ice in her veins. She willed her knees to stop shaking. “And are you a gentleman, sir?”

He gave her that charming grin again. “That’s for the lady to decide.”

Unsettled by the low, intimate tone, she yanked her hand from his grasp. “I think not. No gentleman would flirt so with a lady who was being courted by another.”

Some fierce emotion flickered across his face, making her regret her rash rebuke. Her heart bumped awkwardly in her chest. Had he indeed guessed that she was Rose? How had she betrayed herself? Or had she?

“So loyal to Marc already? How admirable.”

She tilted her chin at the goad in his voice. “We are not yet betrothed, but I can assure you that if I marry, I would be a loyal wife.”

“Would you?” he murmured. “I wonder.”

“You insult me,” she snapped.

“My apologies,” he said swiftly, so swiftly, she suspected he didn’t mean a word of it. “I should have said, that where Marc is concerned, it is important to avoid even the appearance of disloyalty.”

“Appearances can be deceiving.”

He held her gaze a long moment. “Precisely.”

She narrowed her eyes, tiring of his game. “And you, sir…what sort of loyalty to your cousin are you demonstrating by secluding me in this room and toying with me in such an outrageous manner? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

His expression shuttered. “You’re right. I apologize again.”

She took in his penitent posture, the way he clenched his hands at his sides, and felt no pity. “If you will excuse me, I must take my leave.”

“Allow me to escort you.”

“I can find my way out,” she insisted, heading for the open doorway.

“I will see you to the door.” Brooking no argument, he caught up with her in two easy strides and slowed his pace to hers.

“You are a most stubborn individual, Mr. Devereaux.” Anna swept out into the hallway, Roman behind her, just as the parlor door opened down the hall.

“Blast it!” Rome grabbed her arm and jerked her back into the library.

She let out a yelp of surprise as he shoved her
behind him and closed the door all but a crack. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

“Shhh. Mrs. Wentworth is out there. You don’t want her seeing us alone together.” He peered out into the hallway through the crack in the door.

“There would have been no chance of that had you not followed me in here.” Knowing how precarious their position was, she kept her voice to the softest of whispers but gave him her most chilling look of disapproval, which she had practiced by watching her mother.

Clearly undaunted by The Look, he leaned closer to her. “Do you remember our discussion about loyalty, Miss Rosewood? Should my cousin hear from that busybody that we were alone together, even for a few minutes, your ‘informal’ betrothal to him would become nothing more than a fanciful dream.”

“And you, of course, would suffer little if at all from society’s interpretation of the incident,” she scoffed.

His expression hardened, his lips thinning to a grim line. “Perhaps you simply do not value honor as much as I do, but I assure you that my good name means everything to me.”

Belatedly, she remembered about his father. The shadow of his sire’s scandal would surely have marked him. “Of course,” she whispered. “Please forgive me.”

“Stay quiet,” he muttered, “and we shall both get out of this with our reputations intact.”

She nodded, and he looked out at the events in the hallway, presenting her with a close view of his broad shoulders in a well-tailored, bottle green coat. She remembered how those shoulders had blotted out the light when he’d bent to kiss her.

She took a deep breath to control her thoughts, but she only succeeded in bringing his scent to her, the musky cologne that had lingered on her hands even after they’d parted company. A mere whiff sent her blood humming and her body tingling.

Dear Lord.

He was the most confusing, irritating man she had ever met. Yet as she stared at his back and shoulders, at the way his dark brown hair curled around his ears and nape, she wanted to touch him again, to tangle her fingers in that hair and hold him close as they kissed.

She nearly did it, had actually raised her hand to touch him, when Lavinia’s muffled voice reminded her where she was. She snatched her hand away and curled her traitorous fingers into a fist. This was madness!

“Mrs. Wentworth is gone.” Rome turned to her. “You can go now.”

“I’m no longer your prisoner then?”

He arched a brow at her. “Do you want to be?”

She made a sound of frustration. “You are most vexing, Mr. Devereaux.”

“I do what is necessary.”

Pinned beneath that knowing green-eyed stare, she said, “Your concern for your cousin’s welfare is most laudable. I assure you I will make him a good and loyal wife.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, Miss Rosewood.” Had she imagined it, or had he emphasized on the first syllable of her name?

She wasn’t Rose, had never been Rose. That had just been a fantasy that had gone too far—and had felt too real.

She had to leave, to go meet her mother at the dressmaker’s and be Anna Rosewood, soon-to-be-fiancée of Lord Haverford.

The sooner she escaped this house and this man, the better off they would all be.

R
ome closed the door behind Rose—Miss Rosewood—and resisted the urge to watch her from the window. The girl was gone, the danger past. Their names would not be bandied by gossiping tongues this night.

He rested his forehead against the door. What had possessed him to take such a chance with scandal? With the tantalizing memories of Vauxhall haunting him, he’d been unable to resist following her into the library. Had he really thought a few moments of privacy would coax Rose to emerge from the persona of the proper Miss Rosewood?

He’d flirted with her, nearly insulted her. He’d walked the edge of dishonor by his actions, and the lady had been right to call him no gentleman.

She was forbidden to him. He should stay away.

“Have you taken over Bagsley’s duties, dear brother?”

Lavinia’s voice jerked him from his thoughts. He glanced over to see her standing in the doorway of the parlor.

How long had she been there?

“I trust Miss Rosewood remembered to take her maid with her.”

Blast. Too long.

“She did not,” he realized, turning fully to face his sister.

“Really? How peculiar.” Her voice was all innocence, but the sarcasm still sliced through.

“Drop the pretense, Vin,” he said. “I know when you’re displeased with me.”

“Displeased!” Abandoning any semblance of calm, Lavinia advanced on him. “Try amazed! Are you
mad
? What possessed you to closet yourself alone with Miss Rosewood when that Wentworth woman was in the parlor?”

Guilt pinched like poorly made shoes. “’Tis none of your affair.”

“It certainly is my affair! This is my house, Roman. If that woman had seen you sneaking about with Miss Rosewood, any shred of reputation you have managed to build for yourself would have been ruined, and probably mine with it.”

“I’m aware of that.” Casting a grim glance down the empty hall—where a servant might ap
pear at any second—he jerked his head toward the parlor.

Vin heaved a long-suffering sigh and preceded him into the room. “Nothing you can say can explain this, brother.”

“Hear me out.” Once inside, he closed the door soundly behind them.

“You can be certain I am eager to listen.” She folded her arms across her chest. “What happened just now between you and Anna?”

“I wanted to talk to her for a few moments.”

“You could have done that just as well right here, in the acceptable company of your sister.”

“With that gossiping Wentworth woman just salivating for a good
on dit
?” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “I think not.”

“True.” She sighed. “She does seem to relish a juicy story, doesn’t she?”

“She does. And since I but wanted to ascertain what sort of female Miss Rosewood was…”

“What sort of female? You nodcock, she’s a perfectly acceptable lady. What more is there to discover?”

He shrugged. “I disagree. When we met last night, she seemed rather insipid. I wanted to make certain she was good enough for Marc.”

“Good heavens, what a Banbury tale,” she scoffed.

“Vin—”

She held up a hand, stopping his warning be
fore he could finish. “Never mind. I know you will not share your motives with me.”

“There was—”

“After all,” she continued in a long-suffering tone, “I am just your sister.”

He frowned. “Lavinia…”

“And the fact that your actions today could not only ruin your reputation but mine and by association,
my husband’s
, should not disturb me at all.”

He let out a long sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose to soothe the headache that had suddenly bloomed behind his eyes. “Lavinia, you know I would do nothing to blacken your name or your husband’s. Your marriage to Emberly is the only thing that keeps you from sharing the exile with the rest of the family.”

“Then why would you do such a thing?” She spread her hands in entreaty. “Don’t you remember how it was? You had barely reached your majority, and everyone treated you like you had committed the sin, not Father. Mother dared not show her face in polite circles. And I was a child, just turned ten, and I could not understand why my friends would no longer play with me.”

“Of course I remember.”

“Roman, you are so very close to leaving behind Father’s dishonor and achieving your own success. Once you enter the diplomatic circles—”

“
If
I enter the diplomatic circles.”

“
When
you enter your chosen position, your accomplishments will overshadow the scandal, and
everything will change.” She laid a hand on his cheek, forcing him to look at her. “Time has passed. Father died in that carriage accident with the woman he stole. You and I grew up and have made something of ourselves. We can end this curse.”

Rome smiled, touched by her optimism, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You always make everything so simple.”

“It is simple. I love you.” She gave his cheek two sharp pats. “Now stay away from Anna Rosewood.”

Her abrupt change of subject startled a laugh from him. “Vin, you were ever as tenacious as one of Haverford’s hunting dogs.”

“Only because I’m right.” Her teasing smile faded. “I don’t want any unkind gossip circulating about you.”

He chuckled. “For heaven’s sake, Vin, I was just talking to her. If it means that much to you, I promise to exercise better judgment from now on.”

“I should hope so.” She shook her head. “Such strange goings-on today.”

“Now, Vin, it’s not as bad as all that.”

She blinked in surprise. “Heavens, I’d forgotten you didn’t know. Mrs. Wentworth brought the latest news with her.”

“Gossip is hardly news.”

“This is more than gossip. Reginald Dalton was found dead this morning outside the Cock and Crown tavern.”

“Reginald Dalton?” His attention sharpened as
he visualized the fellow. “Lord Huxley’s cousin?”

“Yes.” She pulled out her lacy handkerchief and delicately dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I have become a regular watering pot these days.”

“It’s understandable, Vin.” As he pulled his still-sniffling sister into a comforting embrace, he visualized young Dalton, a blond, blue-eyed fellow who had a penchant for curricle racing and hunting. He’d barely reached his majority. “How did he die, Vin?”

“That’s the oddest thing,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his coat. “It looks as though he was killed with a sword.”

She was late.

As the carriage came to a halt outside Madame Dauphine’s, Anna almost didn’t wait for the tiger to hop down and open the door for her. She had left Lavinia’s without her maid, which was bad enough, but now she was nearly a quarter hour late for her appointment. Mama would be furious.

She hurried toward the entrance of the modiste’s shop. She had tried to use the drive as an opportunity to calm her frazzled nerves, but it hadn’t worked. Her conversation with Rome had left her tense and troubled.

She had a strong suspicion that he had guessed her secret, and he had seemed more than a little interested in her impending betrothal. If he did recognize her, perhaps he objected to her becoming Lord Haverford’s wife? Her face heated. No
man would want a wanton for a bride, and after her behavior at Vauxhall, she could guess what he thought of her.

Or, given the circumstances under which they had met, he might consider Rose some sort of threat to the mysterious society.

Since Rome was currently her only link to the group of men she believed responsible for her brother’s death, she had no choice but to continue to see him. But she would have to be very careful. Roman Devereaux seemed very dangerous, and not just to her reputation.

She pushed open the door to Madame Dauphine’s. Mama looked up from a conversation with Mrs. Bentley. “Good, you’ve arrived. Do go right into the back room, Anna. Madame Dauphine is waiting for you.” She bent her head near Mrs. Bentley’s and whispered in a low tone that her daughter couldn’t make out.

Anna hesitated. She had expected a scolding and a lecture on responsibility, perhaps even an inquiry as to the whereabouts of her maid. But Mama was clearly completely oblivious to everything but her intense conversation with Mrs. Bentley. Puzzled, she made her way to the fitting room, where Madame Dauphine waited.

“At last, you have arrived!” The modiste snapped her fingers, and her two assistants, who had been sitting diligently sewing, leaped to their feet and took up the two dresses that Mama had ordered.

“I apologize for being late, madame,” Anna said. She set down her reticule and untied the ribbons of her bonnet.

“
C
ne fait rien
,” Madame said, with a cluck of her tongue. She set about unfastening Anna’s dress as Anna stripped off her gloves. “Your Maman, she is most insistent these be done today. We must hurry.
Vite, vite!
” she barked at her assistants. The two girls both came forward at the same time, each holding a half-sewn garment. As Anna skimmed off her own dress, Madame took a soft blue silk from one of the girls. The assistant took Anna’s discarded dress, and Madame slipped the new one over Anna’s head. “Ah,
bien
,” the Frenchwoman sighed as the azure folds fell into place over Anna’s body.

Anna regarded herself in the mirror as the dressmaker quickly nipped and tucked and pinned, but she barely noticed how well the pale blue silk complemented her complexion. There was a hum in the air, a tension that told her something had happened. Her mother made a habit of personally overseeing her daughter’s wardrobe, especially when the new garb had been especially ordered for the purpose of charming Lord Haverford. Why, then, was she standing outside gossiping with Mrs. Bentley?

“Has my mother seen this lovely creation?” she asked Madame Dauphine.

“Yes, yes.” The modiste shot an order in French to one of the girls, who scampered over with a
small cushion bursting with pins. “She is here looking at this, telling me to fix this sleeve and straighten that hem.” The dressmaker met Anna’s gaze in the mirror, her dark eyes alive with indignation. “I am Madame Dauphine. I know a crooked hem when I see one.”

“You are the best dressmaker in London,” Anna said. “Please forgive my mother. She only wants what’s best for me.”

“
C’est vrai
.” Clearly mollified, the modiste dismissed her assistant with an impatient wave of her hand. “And then Madame Bentley, she comes into the shop, and the two of them, they are whispering together about the tragedy.” She gave a quick laugh. “They think I do not know of this already? All the best gossip, it begins at Madame Dauphine’s.”

“What tragedy?”

The Frenchwoman paused in adjusting a sleeve. “You are young, Mademoiselle Rosewood. I do not know if I should tell you so distressing a tale.”

“I will hear it anyway. Would you rather I say I did not hear it here first?” Once more their gazes met in the mirror, Anna’s determined and the modiste’s, hesitant. “Please, madame. I need to know.”

She could see the struggle in the Frenchwoman’s expressive face and knew the moment she had won.

“
D’accord
.” Madame Dauphine sighed. “It is a
sad tale, this one, but you are right that you will hear the story anyway, no?”

“Eventually,” Anna agreed. “But if all the gossip begins at Madame Dauphine’s, then of course, I must hear this
on dit
from you.”

The dressmaker gave a quick laugh. “You are most clever, mademoiselle. Very well.” Her expression sobered. “It is as I said, a tragedy. Monsieur Reginald Dalton, do you know him?”

“Slightly. He knew my brother.”

“He is the
beau-frère
of Madame Dalton, whose dresses I make. This morning I am told to make many dresses for Madame Dalton, all in black. Monsieur Dalton, he is dead.”

“Dead?” Anna exclaimed. Shock turned her insides to ice. “How? He’s so young!”

The modiste nodded. “
Oui
. He is found last night, dead, outside the Cock and Crown. His brother swears revenge.”

“Charles Dalton was an army man before he married his wealthy wife,” Anna mused. “My father knows the Daltons; he and Charles’s father were friends. Charles has always seemed to be the most calm and rational of men.”

“But he believes his brother is murdered,” Madame Dauphine said, lowering her voice. “He is killed with a sword through the heart.”

“A sword!” Apprehension curled in her stomach. “How unusual.”

“
Oui
. Swords are so old-fashioned. If it was a
duel, surely they would have used pistols. So Monsieur Dalton swears it is murder.”

Cold had overtaken her heart, leaving her frozen inside. Just like Anthony, she thought, her mind numb with the shock of it. Two men dead by the sword. How many more might there be that they did not know about?

“Mademoiselle, are you all right? You have turned white like the snow.”

“I am fine, madame. The news is disturbing, that is all.”

“
C’est vrai
.” With a sigh, the dressmaker returned her attention to the sleeve that needed adjusting just as Anna’s mother walked into the room.

“Ah, lovely!” Mrs. Rosewood exclaimed. “I see you have adjusted that hem, madame.”