Lady Rosabella's Ruse (25 page)

Garth sauntered in a moment later, still dressed for riding. ‘Mother. That was indeed your broomstick I saw outside the door. What brings you to my den of iniquity?’

Rosa almost choked on her mouthful of tea. Never had she heard such rudeness.

‘Riding dress in the drawing room, Garth. I thought I taught you better.’ His mother sniffed into her handkerchief as if she could smell dung on his boots.

They were immaculate. He’d cleaned them before coming inside. Or changed into a different pair.

Garth flung himself down on the sofa beside Rosa and propped one heel on the table. ‘What does bring you here, Mother dear?’

‘I heard ridiculous gossip.’ She cast an eye at Rosa. ‘About a possible wedding.’

Garth’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘You heard correctly. It’s on Wednesday.’

‘Am I not invited?’

‘Tea, Stanford?’ Rosa said, hoping to calm what looked like a coming storm.

‘I prefer brandy.’ He dropped his heels with a loud thud, lounged to his feet and strolled to the cabinet beside the door.

‘Brandy at this hour of the day!’ his mother said. The handkerchief danced at the end of her languid fingers. ‘It isn’t good for you.’

‘At this hour or any other hour, should I choose,’ he drawled, pouring a drink. ‘Would you like some in your tea, darling?’ He looked at Rosa.

Was he trying to make his mother think she was some sort of doxy? ‘No, thank you.’

What on earth was going on? Hatred writhed through the room like a noxious gas. Rosa wanted to fling open the widow and take a deep breath of smoky London air. Or, better yet, run far away.

They were family. They acted like enemies.

Garth brought his drink back to the sofa with him and sprawled beside her, his legs stretched out, at perfect ease, one arm along the sofa back behind her. He looked rakish and dangerous. Like a wild animal poked with a stick daring someone to put a finger in its mouth.

‘Get to the point, Mother dear.’ The chill in his voice sent a shiver down Rosa’s spine.

Lady Stanford shifted in her seat. Her eyes misted. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Nevertheless, I am happy to offer my assistance to your bride. There are things she needs to know about our proud family history. About what it means to be an Evernden.’

‘Ah,’ Garth murmured. ‘The proud family name.’ He turned towards Rosa. ‘My younger brother married the Duke of Hastings’s daughter. I, on the other hand, am the black sheep of the family.’ He laughed bitterly.

‘Your brother made a brilliant match. I always hoped the same for you.’

‘Did you?’ Garth said with a feral smile.

The dowager probably didn’t put Rosa in her category of a brilliant match. Rosa couldn’t blame her. As she handed the cup to the widow, it rattled in the saucer.

He turned his dark gaze on her. ‘Don’t be alarmed, darling. This is an old conversation, isn’t it, Mother?’

The handkerchief waved like a flag in a stiff breeze. ‘Please, Garth, don’t be…so cruel. I simply came to find out if the rumours were true. That you were marrying an—’

‘Opera singer,’ he said in a purr.

Rosa had had enough. ‘Really, Garth. I must protest. I have no idea why you are taunting your mother this way. Yes, I have performed in an opera, but I am Lord Pelham’s legitimate granddaughter.’

‘Bravo,’ Garth murmured in her ear. His fingers stroked her nape and played with the tendrils of hair that had escaped her pins. Another shiver ripped across her skin. Not cold this time. Desire. Lust flooded her body with heat. As angry as she felt, her body responded instantly to his wicked breath and seductive touch. She fought the urge to snuggle closer.

The handkerchief collapsed on the widow’s lap. ‘Pelham?’ Her reproachful gaze turned on her son. ‘The daughter of a man cast out by society? Did you give no thought to Christopher’s position?’ His mother’s voice rose to a wail.

‘I think about his position every damned day,’ Garth said.

Rosa flinched at the venom in his voice. She wasn’t sure which of them was the worst. They seemed to take delight in flinging poisoned darts at each other. No. Garth was worse. He should be trying to reassure his mother, not tear her to shreds.

‘What would your father have said?’ Lady Stanford quavered.

Garth curled his lip. ‘We will never know, will we?’ He rose and held out his hand. ‘Come, let me escort you to your carriage.’ He took the half-full cup from her hand, set it down and bodily pulled her from the chair.

‘Garth!’ Rosa gasped as he physically pushed his mother from the room and towards the stairs.

Disbelieving, Rosa ran after them. ‘Garth, stop it.’

‘Stay out of this, Rosa,’ Garth flung over his shoulder.

‘Why are you being so rude?’ his mother asked as he hustled her down the stairs.

‘You know why.’

She stopped and turned around. ‘You know I only want what is best for you.’

He smiled grimly. ‘You only want what is best for you.’ He gestured for her to continue down the stairs. Rosa had the feeling if his mother didn’t go, he would pick her up and carry her out, he looked so angry.

‘Is she expecting a child?’ the widow said in a loud whisper while waiting for the front door to be opened.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, Garth. You said you wouldn’t have children. You told me after Christopher left—’

‘Enough!’ he roared, then lowered his voice. ‘I will deal with the problem of a child, if it arises. Now go.’

He hadn’t wanted children? A dart made of ice pierced Rosa’s heart. It seemed to stop beating. Her hands went to her stomach.

Rosa turned tail and ran up the stairs. She ran into the bedroom and closed the door, fumbling at the lock. No key. She darted into the dressing room. This door had a bolt. She drew it across and collapsed to her knees on the rug.

What did that mean, he’d deal with it? The way he’d dealt with his mother was positively cruel. Would he deal with a child the same way? How had she allowed herself to be so misled? His handsome face and charming ways hid a heart of stone.

How long would it be before he treated her equally coldly? And their child? And how would she bear it?

Tears ran down her face as she slowly opened the lid. She pulled out the flimsiest of costumes and held it to her face, inhaling the faint scent of jasmine her mother always wore.

‘What have I done?’

Chapter Fifteen

D
amn her. Garth watched his mother’s carriage draw away. So sweet. So utterly false.

He swung around and went back into the house. Now he’d have to explain his bout of temper to Rosa.

Damnation. And damn whoever had run to his mother with the tale. Surely not Mark? But Penelope might. Women were so predictably malicious.

He took the stairs two at a time. The drawing room was empty. Sighing, he continued up the stairs to their chamber. He’d upset her, he’d seen that from the look on her face. He should have held his tongue between his teeth, but he’d grown so used to fencing verbally with his mother, he hadn’t even realised what he was doing until it was too late. Until he saw the shock on Rosabella’s face.

At that point he could have bitten out his tongue.

No sign of her in the bedroom. Then where…? Ah, the dressing-room door was closed.

On silent feet, he crossed the room, heard the sound of sobbing. Blast Mother to hell. He turned the knob. The door didn’t give.

‘Rosabella,’ he said softly. ‘Open the door.’

A sniff. ‘Go away.’

‘Open the door. We need to talk.’

‘I don’t want to talk to you.’

A rustling sound had him frowning. Was she packing? ‘Open the door or I’ll break it down.’

More sniffles. Damn it to hell, he was never letting his mother across his threshold again. The bolt on the other side of the door slid back.

He opened the door. She was kneeling on the floor, facing him before the chest they’d found in Pelham’s house. He hunkered down in front of her.

She looked small and vulnerable crouched before a trunk full of old costumes. A strangely soft feeling invaded his chest. It had fierce edges. As if he could hold her tenderly in his arms, yet fight a dragon if need be.

The only other time he had felt anything like it was when Christopher had been in danger, trying to rescue the woman he later made his wife. And it had been nowhere as strong as this. But then, he’d been drinking hard in those days, so most of it had passed in a blur.

The sensation was unexpected. It made him nervous. Made him clumsy. His usually silver tongue became awkward. He took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. My mother is such a bitch.’

She raised her gaze. They were swimming in tears. Her nose was red. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t want children?’

Damn it all. ‘You heard.’

‘Your conversation was hardly private.’

‘I never planned to get married, so naturally I didn’t expect to have children.’ He scrubbed at his chin. ‘There are reasons why I would prefer—’

‘Shouldn’t you have told me before we made our agreement?’ A tear rolled down her face.

‘Rosabella. Don’t.’ He reached over the chest to capture the wayward drop.

She whipped her face to the side, out of his reach. ‘Don’t touch me.’

The old anger flared at her rejection. Rage mixed with humiliation. ‘If you wanted children, you should have put it in writing in that damned settlement of yours.’

She flinched.

He wanted to howl his frustration. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

Her expression hardened. ‘And if I am with child—how will you deal with it? What did you mean?’

He froze. Dear God, had he said that? ‘I meant will live with it. Deal with the consequences of losing control. What else would I mean?’

‘Control.’ She sat back on her heels and wrapped her hands around her waist. ‘Live with
it
. Will you, indeed? I’m sorry, the wedding is off.’

The pain of her words knifed through his chest. A new kind of anger flooded his veins. It was hotter than fire. Hotter than molten metal. If he set it free, it would destroy them both. He fought to contain it. ‘You don’t have a choice. I have kept my part of our bargain. Now you will keep yours. Think of your sisters. Of the child, if there is one.’

‘And if there isn’t…? There won’t be any, will there? Because you’ll make sure. You’ll do…whatever it is you’ve been doing.’

He stared at her, almost dumb in the face of her pain. ‘You don’t understand.’

Her gaze turned cold. ‘I understand very well. I made a bargain to marry a degenerate rake who wants to continue his life as if nothing has changed. There really is no point to us being married.’

‘You will marry me. Rosabella—’

‘I cannot let my child grow up with a father who does not love it.’

‘Why not? Plenty do.’

She stared at him, her eyes full of disgust. The look he’d seen on his parents’ face growing up. ‘I wouldn’t let you near a child of mine.’

‘I’m not a monster. I would never hurt a child.’

She regarded him for a moment from those velvet-soft eyes. ‘Not physically, no. But the way you spoke to your mother, you hurt her, Garth.’

‘My mother has no feelings to hurt. Do not speak about what you do not know.’

She shuddered. ‘She is your mother. She deserves your love and respect.’

‘No. She doesn’t.’

Her gaze returned to the trunk. She extracted a small pink satin reticule and stroked the fabric against her cheek.

He watched her warily. Saw the light of joy in her eyes, mingled with a sadness he didn’t understand.

‘This was my mother’s. She let me play with it when I was a child. She told me stories of her life before she met my father. And of how they fell in love. I want the same.’ She lifted her gaze. ‘I will not marry you.’

He took the blow from her words deep in his chest. Never had he felt such agony of spirit. Not even when he realised why his father hated him had he felt so wounded. He wanted to lash out, to hurt her back.

‘I won’t let you keep my child.’

Her lovely dark eyes widened. ‘You don’t want the child.’

He pushed to his feet. ‘I won’t let a child of mine grow up without its father.’

‘A father who doesn’t love it? Why would it matter?’

He looked down at her, smiling. ‘Make no mistake, Rosabella, we will marry, or you will lose the child.’

The look on her face said she’d fight him to the death.

Sanity eased into his brain. If he said another word right now, there would be no going back.

‘We will talk about this later, when we are both in a calmer frame of mind.’ He swung around and left, slamming the door behind him. He ran down the stairs and out of the door.

Outside in the street, the bright sunlight seemed almost obscene. There should be thunderclouds, lightning, rain. Where the hell was he going? He needed to get control of his temper, then work out how to woo Rosabella out of her anger. Diamonds should do it. He’d visit Rundell, Bridge and Rundell, then head for White’s for a brandy, before heading home.

One thing was certain. She wasn’t going to leave him. She needed him. Without him she had nothing. She had nowhere else to go.

The sound of the front door slamming jerked Rosa to her feet. She had to leave before he came back. Before his temper calmed and he used his charm, the pull of the allure she could not deny, and persuaded her to stay. It would be a terrible mistake to remain with a man who had that much coldness in his soul.

Gently she returned the reticule to the trunk and picked up the shoes, their leather cracked and worn, one much heavier than the other. Frowning, she pried the paper stuffing free from the heavy one. Not just paper. A green pear-shaped stone. It tumbled into her lap, glittering as its facets caught the light. She flattened the paper it was wrapped in.

Dear Rosabella, this jewel is your inheritance. It is the only thing I own of your mother’s that is not tied to the estate. It was always intended for you and your sisters. It has no sentimental value, bought by another noble admirer for your mother. My beloved Rosabella, sell it and live well. Please care for your sisters.
Signed
Andrew Cavendish
, with two scrawling signatures of the servants and dated 18th of June. She stared at an emerald as big as a pigeon’s egg.

Elation filled her. Father had kept his promise. He’d hidden his gift among her mother’s things where he knew Grandfather would never look. She lifted her gaze from the paper and stared at the dressing-room door. If she understood the value of this stone, she didn’t have to marry anyone. She and her sisters were wealthy.

She stuffed the paper and the jewel into the pink reticule and grabbed her cloak from the clothes press. She needed help. And there was only one person she could think of who might know what to do.

Clutching the scrap of pink satin to her chest, Rosa glanced up at the knocker on the modest front door of a town house in Golden Square. Thank goodness Lady Smythe had left her calling card with her address. The hackney driver had no trouble finding the house.

Would she stand by their promise to help? If not, where would she turn next? With more bravery than she felt, she banged on the door.

A rotund cheerful-faced butler opened the door. ‘Yes, miss?’

Rosa took a deep breath. ‘Is Lady Smythe at home?’

He opened the door wider. ‘I’ll enquire, shall I, miss? Who shall I say is calling?’

‘Lady Rosabella Cavendish,’ she said. She could barely remember the last time she’d introduced herself so formally, but she could not risk the butler refusing her admittance.

An eyebrow shot up. He gestured her to come in. ‘Please, have a seat, my lady. I’ll let my mistress know you are here.’

‘Thank you.’ Rosa sank down on the hall chair beside the door while he trotted off down the corridor.

She didn’t have long to wait before he was back. ‘This way, if you please, my lady.’

Rosa let go a sigh of relief and followed him to a small room at the back of the house. When the butler opened the door, she was surprised to find both husband and wife seated at tea in the drawing room. Of course, they would both be home; it was a Saturday.

Lord Smythe rose as she entered. ‘Lady Rosabella,’ he said. ‘Please, sit down. Would you care to partake of some luncheon?’

If she tried to swallow, she would be sick. ‘No, thank you. I am so sorry to disturb you. I didn’t know where to turn.’ She turned to Penelope. ‘You did say you would help me if…’

‘Please,’ Penelope said, ‘sit down. Tell us how we can be of service.’

Rosa bit her lip. Would Lord Smythe indeed be willing to help her if it meant going against his friend’s wishes? ‘I’m sorry. I should not have come here, after all. If you will excuse me.’ She turned away.

‘Rosabella,’ Lady Smythe said. ‘Please. Don’t go. Mark, tell her she can trust us.’

‘By us,’ the young husband said, in measured tones, ‘I presume my wife means me. I assure you, Lady Rosabella, anything you say to me will be held in confidence, on my honour.’

She turned back, looking at him standing beside his chair. His eyes were a clear grey, his face was open and grave. Something about him engendered her trust. And yet… She looked at his wife, who smiled. ‘Mark is employed by the Home Office. His word is his bond.’

Whatever differences lay between these two, it seemed there was mutual respect. She slipped into the chair offered by Lord Smythe.

‘What can we do?’ Penelope asked quietly.

‘Stanford didn’t hurt you, did he?’ Lord Smythe asked. ‘I’ve not seen him turn ugly since he’d ceased crooking his elbow.’

She blinked.

‘Drinking,’ Lady Smythe explained.

Her husband’s fair face flushed. ‘Canting talk. I beg your pardon.’

‘No,’ Rosa said softly. ‘He hasn’t physically harmed me.’

‘Lashed you with that damned tongue of his, did he?’ the young man said with a snort of indignation. ‘He doesn’t mean the half of it, you know.’

He didn’t know the half of it. ‘I need to hire a lawyer.’

He frowned.

‘It is a matter of an inheritance. From my father. I found a letter this morning among some things belonging to my mother. I—I’m not sure what to do next.’

For a moment both of them looked at her, mouths agape.

‘Oh, good Lord,’ Lord Smythe said, his fair brow creasing. ‘Is it a legal will? Signed and witnessed.’

‘Not a will, but a gift. No will was found when he died. The family lawyer said he didn’t make one and probate went ahead on that basis.’ She dug into the reticule and handed over the document. ‘The letter is signed and witnessed. The signature is his.’

Lord Smythe took the paper and glanced through it. ‘Oh, this is a fine kettle of fish. Do you have the stone?’

‘Is it legal?’ Lady Smythe asked, leaning to look over his shoulder as Rosa put the emerald on the table.

‘I have no legal training, but if the signature is genuine, it seems legal enough to stand in a court of law. What we need is at least one of the witnesses to swear to its authenticity.’

‘Inchbold,’ Rosa said. ‘He is caretaker of the property where we lived. He said he remembered signing something for my father, but he wasn’t sure what it was. That is his signature.’

‘Did you tell Stanford about this?’ Lady Smythe asked. ‘Can you not use his lawyer?’

Rosa swallowed. ‘We had a…a difference of opinion. We are not getting married.’