Wicked (29 page)

Lucas had always been just as worthless as she’d accused him of being, but he felt awful about his previous refusal to assist her. If she trotted off and suffered a mishap, he’d never forgive himself.

He was useless, but he liked to think he had occasional tendencies toward chivalry. It wouldn’t kill him to be kind.

He wrenched the saddle away from her and dropped it on the ground.

“I’ll help you,” he said. “I’ll take you home.”

“Don’t break a sweat over it.”

“I’ll rouse the stable hands and have them saddle our horses. You wait here.”

“Why?”

“I need to run to the house to tell James what’s happening.”

“I’ll give you fifteen minutes. If you’re not back by then, I’m departing without you.”

“I’ll hurry. I promise.”

“Do you travel with a pistol, Mr. Drake?” she asked as he started out.

“Not usually, but I can bring one if you like. Why?”

“Bring it then, but don’t bring James Talbot. Don’t let him come out here, for if I ever see him again, I will shoot him right between the eyes.”

“There’s a horse tied out front.”

“Could it be the new owner?”

“I hope not.”

Evangeline smiled over at Rose. They were in no hurry for the proprietor to appear, for then there would be no reason to linger at their beloved school.

It was a cool, blustery day. The wind whipped at their cloaks and bonnets, angry clouds flying overhead, hinting that rain might blow in later. They’d walked to the village and were slowly strolling back, reminiscing over their years as students, then as teachers.

It had been a good life, a satisfying life.

Amelia had left already, having sallied forth to meet her father-in-law, which seemed odd to Rose. Why wasn’t she on her way to meet her fiancé? Rose crossed her fingers that it wouldn’t be another catastrophe orchestrated by Miss Peabody.

Evangeline, the gardener, the cook, and a housemaid were the only ones still on the property. The servants were anxiously waiting to be offered jobs in the new household, while Evangeline was simply delaying the inevitable, staying in what she viewed as her childhood home for as long as she could manage it.

Rose was staying, too—for as long as she could.

She’d been back for a month, her useless, degenerate cousin escorting her as he’d promised he would. Their trip had been uneventful, and Lucas had actually proved to be a humorous and interesting traveling companion. Rose had spent the entire journey reminding herself not to like him.

Once they’d arrived, she’d shooed him away, not wanting to introduce him to Evangeline, not wanting to have any further contact with him for it forced her to remember Summerfield and James Talbot.

Rose was determined to move on from that horrid episode.

She wasn’t prone to regret or remorse, didn’t like to rue her decisions or lament her choices. By behaving so foolishly with Mr. Talbot, she understood the debacle was her own fault. She knew how to conduct herself in an honorable and moral way, but she wouldn’t chastise herself over her lapses in judgment. It was a waste of energy.

She had to focus on the future and start over. Since her return, she’d been writing letters of introduction, visiting neighbors to inquire about job possibilities, to beg for references, for help.

So far, no leads had magically presented themselves, but she wouldn’t give up. She couldn’t.

A particularly strong gust of wind hammered them, and Rose glanced up at the clouds. They were drifting by so fast that they made her dizzy. Ever since she’d departed Summerfield, she’d been having the strangest episodes of vertigo, and she stumbled slightly and grabbed Evangeline’s arm.

“Are you all right?” Evangeline asked.

“Just a tad dizzy.”

“That’s the third time this week you’ve told me that.”

“Is it? I hadn’t realized it was happening so often.”

“You’re not ill, are you?”

“No, merely tired, but with all I’ve been through, who wouldn’t be exhausted?”

“Too true.” They reached the front door, and as they stepped inside, Evangeline asked, “Do you suppose Miss Peabody knew that Mr. Oswald was insane?”

“He hid it well,” Rose said. “She might not have.”

“I would hate to think she knew he was mad and arranged the match anyway.”

“I can only hope she didn’t. I always assumed she liked me. I couldn’t bear to admit that she’d hurt me deliberately.”

She and Evangeline had been debating the issue, and Rose’s dreadful experience had certainly rattled Evangeline. She was packing her bags, preparing to leave to join the young vicar Miss Peabody had picked for her.

Evangeline had a vivacious and flamboyant personality that Miss Peabody had constantly sought to tamp down. She’d felt a staid and quiet life as a country vicar’s wife would be just the ticket for reining in Evangeline’s cheerful tendencies.

Rose reveled in Evangeline’s high spirits, and the notion of Evangeline tethered to a fussy, grumpy vicar was disturbing. Rose prayed he wasn’t fussy or grumpy, that he was handsome and fun and kind, but after Rose’s awful ordeal, they were both unnerved.

The vestibule was empty, the servants off to parts unknown. Rose peeked into the main parlor, but there was no one in it. Whoever’s horse was tethered in the drive, the individual wasn’t waiting for Rose and Evangeline.

They were removing their bonnets when Evangeline saw the mail laid out on the table. She riffled through it, grinning with excitement to find a letter from Amelia.

Rose watched as she flicked open the seal and scanned the words. But her grin swiftly turned to a frown.

“What is it?” Rose asked. “Don’t tell me she’s already having difficulty.”

“She’s at Sidwell Manor.”

Rose gasped. “Sidwell?”

“Isn’t that your uncle’s estate?”

“Yes. Who is her fiancé?”

“Lucas Drake. That’s your cousin, isn’t it?”

Rose jerked the letter from Evangeline and read it herself. Her jaw dropped. “Oh, no. This can’t be right.”

“Isn’t he a libertine and wastrel?”

“You have no idea.”

“What should we do?”

“Well, for starters, she’s absolutely
not
marrying him.” Rose hung her cloak on a hook by the door, then dashed up the stairs. “I’ll write immediately to warn her.”

“Then what? By the time you contact her, we won’t be here. If she refuses him, where would she go?”

“I don’t know—as I don’t know for myself—but I have to at least try to stop her.”

Rose hurried on, her temper spiking as she thought about Miss Peabody and her interference in their lives. How dare Miss Peabody play God! How dare she endanger Rose and Amelia! And what was Rose to think about Evangeline? She couldn’t possibly be riding off to a good ending.

Disgusted, incensed, she was muttering to herself as she marched into her room.

It bore no resemblance to her lavish suite at Summerfield. There was no inner bedchamber with a huge bed, no dressing room beyond, filled with plush towels and a silver bathing tub.

There was just the one room—it could have been a nun’s lonely cell—a narrow cot along the wall, a writing desk in the corner. The sole window looked out at the rolling hills that led to the village.

Yet even with her entering such a tiny space, she wasn’t paying attention.

“Hello, Rose,” a male voice said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

She whipped around to see Mr. Talbot seated in the chair at her desk. Apparently, he’d brazenly sneaked in as he used to at Summerfield.

If she suffered a race in her pulse, if she suffered a giddy moment of joy at realizing that he’d come for her, she ignored it and gave free rein to her unbridled fury.

He was slouched down, his fingers folded over his flat stomach, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He appeared handsome and lazy and pompously exasperating—as if he had every right to show his face, to bluster in without notice or permission.

This wasn’t Stanley Oswald’s house of decadent disrepute. This was a renowned, respectable girl’s school, and she was a renowned, respectable teacher.

“What are you doing in my room?” she raged.

“I thought we should chat.”

“Chat?” She was so angry, she worried she might faint.

“Yes, you were in such a rush to leave Summerfield. We didn’t finish our conversation.”

“Oh, we finished plenty.”

“I beg to disagree.”

“Get out!” She yanked open the door and made a shooing motion toward the hall, but of course, he didn’t budge.

He was an obstinate, annoying man who behaved however he pleased and be damned to everyone else.

“Get out!” she repeated.

“No.”

She hollered for Evangeline, but no footsteps hastened in her direction. She called for the gardener, for the maid, the cook, Evangeline again.

“This place is deserted.” He was very smug. “No servant will run to your rescue.”

“I don’t need any help. I’m completely capable of stamping out vermin on my own.”

“Vermin!”

He pushed himself to his feet, rising slowly to his full height. She’d forgotten how tall he was, and in an instant, he towered over her. He laid a palm on the wood of the door and shoved it closed.

It had a lock, and the key was in it. Before she saw what he meant to do, he spun the key and dropped it in his pocket.

“Give me that.”

“No.”

“Give it to me!” she bellowed, and it occurred to her that she probably sounded like a lunatic. But when she was around James Talbot, such demonstrations of madness couldn’t be avoided. He inspired that sort of derangement.

She pounded on the door and kept on pounding until her fist grew sore, but no one arrived to assist her.

“Where is everyone?” she fumed. “Did you bribe them to disappear?”

“Yes, actually.” He grinned and waved to the chair. “Sit down, Rose.”

“No.”

“I insist.”

“As do I. I don’t want you in here, and I won’t blithely submit to any of your ridiculous orders.”

“I won’t let you out until you calm yourself and listen to me.”

“You might as well choke on a crow as persuade me to listen.”

“When you were at Summerfield, I occasionally witnessed this side of you. Have you always had a temper?”

“I’ve never had an irate moment in my life—until I met you.”

“I’m sure that’s true. I’ve frequently been told that I can be vexing.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Would you like to hear how I’ve occupied my time since you left Summerfield?”

“No.”

“I’m going to tell you anyway.”

“Is there some reason you think I care?” She gestured to the locked door. “Shouldn’t you head home? Won’t your darling Veronica be wondering where you are?”

“See?” He wagged a scolding finger in her face. “That’s exactly the type of idiotic comment that proves why we need to have a long, frank talk.”

“What? You don’t like me mentioning your beloved? Aren’t there wedding bells in your future? Have you come to stick in the knife? To twist it a bit?”

She was exhibiting an enormous amount of rage, but deep down, she wasn’t incensed. She was heartbroken.

The past few weeks, she’d been able to rationally appraise her situation, admit to her mistakes, and begin to move on. It hadn’t been easy, but it had had to be done. Yet now, with him blustering into her small bedroom, she couldn’t breathe. Regret was devouring her like a sea monster.

She wanted to grab him by the lapels of his coat, to shake him and say,
How could you hurt me?
But she didn’t know how to have that discussion.

“First of all,” he said, “she was never more to me than Vicar Oswald’s spoiled, fussy stepdaughter.”

“A likely story! After you slinked away to London, Mr. Oswald told me everything.”

“He did, did he?”

“Yes.”

“Well, guess what?”

“What?”

“Your cousin, Lucas Drake, told me a few things too. Interesting how you never revealed a kinship with him.”

“Why would I confess a relationship with a complete wretch?”

“Point taken, Miss Ralston, but be that as it may, Lucas shared some tidbits that he learned while
you
were slinking off to this decrepit old school.”

“Me! Slinking off!” She grumbled low in her throat. “I promised my cousin if I ever saw you again, I’d shoot you. Too bad for me that he took his pistol with him.”

“But not too bad for me—for I refuse to be blamed for sins I didn’t commit.”

“You’re the innocent party, are you?”

“Absolutely.” He motioned crossly to the chair. “Sit down, Miss Ralston!”

“I prefer to stand.”

“Are you always this obstinate?”

“Are you?”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a letter. He waved it under her nose. “Since you’re so thoroughly convinced you know all, read this, then—if you still wish to ride your high horse—you can harangue at me a tad more.”

She tore the letter from his hand and scanned it, assuming she’d quickly peruse it, then toss it back, but as the meaning dawned, she slowed to a halt.

“This was written by Veronica Oswald,” she mumbled.

“Yes. To her stepfather.”

“She’s run off with a traveling peddler,” she muttered like a dunce.

“Yes.”

“She says she’s blissfully happy, and he shouldn’t try to find her.”

“And I might add, it’s precisely the sort of end Stanley and I predicted for her. I wouldn’t have touched that girl with a ten-foot pole.”

She scowled, her mind whirring as she struggled to decipher what she was supposed to glean from the information.

“Mr. Oswald told me,” she hesitantly started, “that you were sweet on her. He told me you’d seduced her.”

“I don’t fault you for believing him. He’s an accomplished liar.”

“He begged me to be quiet about when you’d left the manor so he could thwart the vicar on your behalf.”

“Yes. He was also desperately anxious for me to leave Summerfield, and like the silliest fool in the world, I let him pressure me into going.”

“Why would he want you to leave?”

“For
some
reason, he got the idea that I was sweet on
you
. Not Veronica. You.”