Patrica Rice (23 page)

But he had seen the lady and known her fear. It was as simple and as complicated as that. If he could only find the wretched witch, he could satisfy himself that he wasn't totally moonstruck. But there wasn't any sign of her in the gardens or on the lawn, and he was certain that he wouldn't find her again this night.

Reassuring himself that no thieves lingered in the shadows and no smoke drifted from any windows, Peter returned to the house. His strength was waning, but he made himself methodically go through the downstairs rooms, throwing open doors and checking windows. He couldn't hear any snores from Hodges' room off the kitchen, but he left the man alone. There was no point in making a fool of himself in front of everyone in the house.

For it was becoming increasingly obvious that Cecily and Hodges and the lady were the only ones in the cottage. Not a curious head peered out of any of the rooms he threw open. Not a peep was heard from overhead as he rattled about, making enough noise to wake the dead. Had there been children, Peter felt certain they would have been down about his feet by now. The children were gone, just as Cecily had said.

The melancholy that had driven Peter to the reckless dash across the countryside in search of this place now descended upon him again as he climbed the stairs. All he had succeeded in doing in his impetuous escapade was to unhinge his mind and endanger his health. He coughed, a great racking cough that threatened to tear up his insides and spew them to the floor.

The door at the top of the stairs flew open and a creature in white flew out. For a moment, he thought it was the lady again, but Cecily's slender shoulders were soon beneath his arm, and she was leading him back to his chamber. He smiled at the feel of soft tresses beneath his rough hand. Daringly, he ran his fingers up and down her arm, showing her he didn't need this support but thanking her anyway. She gave him a slanted look that warned of her disapproval, but Peter only grinned and lurched toward his bed.

"Perhaps I'll wait a day or two before I leave, after all," he murmured as he fell into the soft protection of the featherbed.

"I'll send Hodges to help you undress," she replied unsympathetically.

"No, don't disturb him. I'll manage. Get yourself out of here,
cara mia,
and lock your door before I do something we'll both regret."

Cecily gave him an uncertain glance, but he was managing a feeble grin. She didn't think he possessed the strength to do anything untoward, but she resisted the urge to lean over and brush the curls back from his brow. She had the quite unreasoning fear she might kiss his cheek while doing so. She backed toward the door without asking him what
"cara mia"
meant.

* * * *

Coughing wretchedly, Peter forced himself from the bed next morning before Hodges could appear with his morning water. He hadn't bothered to strip off more than his coat and waistcoat the previous night before surrendering to sleep, and he was well aware of his wrinkled appearance when the manservant entered with the pitcher.

Hodges poured hot water into the bowl and began stropping the razor, giving Peter a meaningful look as he did.

Feeling his collar tighten around his throat, Peter sank into the nearest chair before he realized he wasn't wearing a collar. His cravat still lay in pristine condition in his bag where he had left it yesterday.

He submitted gracefully when Hodges did no more than approach him with a shaving brush and soap. The huge man was amazingly deft, and Peter was contemplating offering him the position of valet in place of the whining creature he presently paid when the giant rumbled something that made Peter's muscles knot.

"You'd best not be already married if you know what's good for you."

The razor stroked upward beneath his chin, and Peter tried not to gulp.

"What has that to do with you?" he asked with a bravery he wasn't certain he felt.

"You've been fooling around with my Cecily, and I won't have it."

The razor scraped carefully over his jaw and Peter managed to unclench it long enough to ask with surprise, "She's your daughter?"

The giant stepped back and stared at him with incredulity. "Are you daft, man?" Then, frowning, he returned to his work. "You just keep your hands off'n her lest you got a vicar with you."

That wasn't a half-bad idea if Peter gave much thought to it, but the image of a silvered figure in the moonlight kept haunting him, and he couldn't forget the mischievous laughter on her lips and the bold welcome of her eyes. The idea of Lady Honora of Rosebud Cottage still obsessed him, even after the prior night's debacle.

"I'll try to remember that," he replied affably. He felt the increase of pressure against his skin and knew he was tempting the man, but Peter wasn't one to run scared. He meant to stand and fight for what he wanted.

Sensing that, Hodges returned to his work with efficient precision. When he was done, he cleaned off the utensils and left without another word of warning or anything else.

Rubbing his hand over his smooth-shaven chin, Peter decided it was time to leave whether he felt like it or not.

When Cecily arrived with his breakfast tray, he had succeeded in tying his cravat and donning his waistcoat and almost appeared a proper gentleman once again. She watched him warily as he reached for his coat, but when he made no move toward her, she advanced into the room to set the tray on the table.

"I thought you were going to wait a day or two."

He almost imagined wistfulness in her voice, but her expression was as serene and determined as the lady's had been the night before when he was certain she was quite frightened out of her mind.

"I think it would be wiser if I left now. I'll be back, you know. Shall I bring a magistrate with me so you may discuss the theft of the painting?"

She looked at him askance, then returned to arranging objects on the tray to her satisfaction. "Inquiries should be made, I suppose. If the painting is the one that is missing, I shall report its return to the local magistrate. You needn't trouble yourself."

"Cecily." Peter came up behind her and caught her when she swung around too rapidly and unbalanced herself. He gripped her arms and studied her face before releasing her. "I must talk with Lady Honora. Just once. I ask for no more than that. Can you not arrange it for me?''

Disappointment followed by brief disdain flicked across her eyes and was gone. "I am not a magician. Return to London and your wealthy friends. If you purchased the painting, I suppose you have no real obligation to return it, but I would ask, in return for the favors we have done you, that you do so. I trust you'll have a safe journey."

She turned around and was gone before he discovered the courage to stop her. He had handled things very badly, Peter decided as he pushed the food around on his tray, but he wasn't at all certain where he had gone wrong. Should he not have had the presumption to ask to see the lady of the house? But he was quite certain she had encouraged him to call again. What was wrong with bidding her farewell?

There was no use in worrying about it now. He wanted to see the cottage in the broad light of day. He wanted to make certain that this wasn't all a dream. And then he wanted to return to London for the painting and a little more information about the Chelmsbys of Rosebud Cottage. Primed with that ammunition, he could return and find some way to make his offer.

For despite its ramshackle condition, he fully intended to buy the cottage and make it his home.

* * * *

Peter found his horses and gig waiting for him late that afternoon as he carried his bag outside. He gazed back at the house in the sunlight, admiring the simple angles and curves and the whimsical eccentricities that so delighted him. A shadow flickered in an upper-story window and he waved, uncertain who was watching but hoping it was her ladyship. He longed to see her again, but that would have to wait now. Perhaps he could arrange to be dreadfully ill again upon his return. He rather enjoyed the pampering attention of the ladies of Rosebud Cottage.

He set the horses to their paces, but he wasn't long in discovering that Cecily was closer to right than he cared to admit. The cool wind burned his aching lungs and his arms grew weak much faster than he had thought possible.

Disgusted with himself, he halted at an inn and promised himself he would arrive in London in time to make inquiries at his club on the morrow.

But when the next day came, he was stiff and sore, and the final leg of the journey was an excruciating experience that brought him to his bed and kept him there when he finally reached his own lodgings. His whining valet was of little or no use as a nurse, and Peter tossed and turned restlessly with the return of the fever and visions of the ladies of Rosebud Cottage.

The painting haunted him. He continued to see the stark terror on the lady's face as she raced down the stairs to some unknown disaster. The quiet panic of the disintegrating household stayed with him. Enormous blue eyes in a frail face beseeched him, and he couldn't sleep, couldn't rest, while the mystery remained unsolved.

Still weak some days later, Peter stumbled from his bed, certain that he would never recover until he returned the painting to the cottage. The fever had dissipated and he was stronger, but there were still things to be done before he could leave.

With grim determination, he set out to meet with some of his friends from the club, gaining the use of the contents of their extensive libraries. With perseverance, he tracked down family histories until he discovered the one he wanted:
The Family History of the Chemlsbys.

When he was done, he was thoroughly confused. Staring at his Wellingtons, Peter tried to put together the book's contents with the facts he knew, but the gap between seemed wide and unbreachable. True, the book was written in a prior generation and there was no mention of the present generation. And there was an earl with a wife with the name of Honora—during Cromwell's time. Rosebud Cottage itself dated back to that century. But although there seemed to be enormous numbers of descendants, and even an earl or two among them, no female descendant had ever been named Honora afterward.

Peter studied the date of the publication and attempted to guess the lady's birth date. There had been no mention of the cottage in the last generation discussed. The Chelmsbys had seemingly gone on to other things, dispersed across three continents. It did mention some descendants still living in High Wycombe, none of them with the name of Honora. The last mention of the cottage was during the Rebellion of '45 when the resident at that time had hidden an escaped soldier and later went on to marry him. A similar incident was briefly hinted at in a later period, but the gentleman involved was a highwayman and the book provokingly passed over him. It was a romantic history, but offered no explanations of the current residents.

Returning the book to the shelf and thanking his host, Peter set out for his own lodgings—to find a man in uniform waiting for him.

Peter stared at the hostile soldier in disbelief, turned to his sneering valet, and returned his questioning gaze to the intruder. The man was as large as himself and heavily armed. The rigid disapproval in his expression did not foretell easy explanations.

"Peter Aloysius Denning?" the statue inquired. At Peter's nod, he continued, "Only son of Matilda Brown Denning, late of Lord Emory's household?" At his second nod, the soldier announced, "You are under arrest."

That made about as much sense as anything else he had encountered this last week. Gesturing toward his study, Peter suggested, "Perhaps we could sit down and discuss this? I wasn't aware there was any reason for my arrest."

The soldier produced a notebook and scanned the pages. "Theft of a valuable painting. Suspicion of robbery. Suspicion of other unspecified criminal acts. The county magistrate wishes you brought forward to explain the charges."

Lady Honora. Peter pinched his eyes closed and hoped that he was dreaming. When he opened them again, he knew he was not. Impatience had begun to appear in the soldier's expression.

"The painting and the receipt for it are in my study. If you would be so good as to accompany me, we can retrieve them and return to High Wycombe with explanations. The other charges will have to be clarified. I cannot remember stealing anything more valuable than a kiss."

His nonchalant attitude as he led the soldier to the painting left the man momentarily nonplussed. Peter's ability to remain calm in the midst of a storm had saved his life more than once over the years. He strained to retain it now, although anger was a harder emotion to control than fear. Ordering the insolent valet to remove the painting from the wall, Peter opened his desk and rifled through the papers until he found what he wanted. The fact that a soldier stood over him with a gun in his hand and a sword at his side did not ease his fury.

"Let us go at once, then," Peter said arrogantly, pocketing the paper and indicating with a nod of his head that the soldier was to take the framed canvas. The confusion on the man's face gave Peter some satisfaction. He was accustomed to giving orders and the soldier was accustomed to taking them. The man carrying the warrant for his arrest obediently took the burden under his arm.

When it became apparent the man had arrived by mail coach and meant to return to the country by the same means, Peter balked and ordered his rig brought around. He had no intention of being transported like a common criminal. He meant to arrive in High Wycombe as a gentleman and face down Lady Honora with the same high-handedness that she had used to obtain his arrest.

Once his captor became convinced that Peter was coming willingly, the man relaxed enough to divulge some of the incidents leading to the arrest. To Peter's disgust, he learned the soldier was no more than the son of the magistrate, currently home from duty and called into service by his father. The tale of the stolen painting from Rosebud Cottage had led to suspicion about other recent thefts in the area. The final blow had come when the magistrate himself had been held up by a highway robber the night before Peter had left the cottage. The coincidence was somewhat damning, but Peter was confident he could put an end to the charges—until the man mentioned the quite thorough investigation his father had already conducted.