Lady Rosabella's Ruse

Chapter Three




Restlessness felt like maggots under Garth’s skin. Watching Penelope playing the harpsichord, while a solicitous Bannerby turned the pages of her music, was enough to turn his stomach.

After hours of ridiculous games in the afternoon and a dinner consisting of inane conversation, he really had to wonder if he’d survive the next few days without calling someone out. Someone like Hapton. He glared across the drawing room at the languid dandy and his fingers curled into his palms. He’d wanted to choke the life out of the ageing tulip of fashion this afternoon, and he would have, if he’d been certain Mrs Travenor hadn’t welcomed the man’s advances.

They’d looked very cosy in the linen cupboard. And she’d looked devastatingly flustered. Much as she’d looked the previous evening trapped in the passage. She’d certainly been angry when he interrupted them, but whether it was because he’d disturbed a tête-à-tête, or Hapton’s importunities, he had no way of knowing. Unless he asked.

He glanced her way. As usual she was sitting calmly at her embroidery beside Lady Keswick, looking thoroughly nunnish and utterly desirable. Her tapered, skilful fingers moved with a delicate precision. He imagined those fingers in his hair, or on various parts of his body. Most of all, he wondered how those lush courtesan-lips would feel beneath his own in the throes of passion.

He’d almost found out last night. Yet something, some chivalrous instinct, had held him back. An instinct he now heartily regretted after finding her with Hapton.

A stab of jealously twisted in his gut. For Hapton? Damn it all. What was he? A fifteen-year-old with a crush on his governess? He could have any one of the other women in this room at a snap of his fingers and the promise of a diamond necklace. And if he’d wanted, he could have had Mrs Travenor. He’d seen the longing in her eyes.

She might look like a nun, but his initial instincts had been correct: the woman was like all the others here. Available to the right man.

His gaze swung back to Penelope. Could he have her? Not that he wanted her. He didn’t. He would never touch another man’s wife, not even to prove a point to Mark, who deserved so much better.

No. Her he would chase back to London. Infuriatingly, Maria Mallow was sticking to her like a limpet to a rock and he’d yet to get Penelope alone and convince her to see reason.

Bannerby leaned over to turn the sheet of music. Didn’t the silly chit know he was looking down the front of her gown? Perhaps she didn’t care. Perhaps she wanted him to look.

Mark would be devastated if he learned of her perfidy. Why the hell hadn’t he made sure she stayed at home? Locked her in. Or, better yet, taken her with him wherever he’d gone. That was a man besotted for you. They saw what they wanted to see. Mark had forgotten how easily women gave in to temptation. Either that or the poor sap thought his wife was different.

Which left the field open to men like Bannerby and Hapton. Men who didn’t give a damn if a woman was married or not. They were curs. And the women who succumbed were no better.

He gritted his teeth and forced the thought aside, letting his idle gaze drift to Mrs Mallow. The woman pouted. He pretended not to notice. His gaze once more fell on Hapton, who was lounging, eyes half-closed as if listening to the music, when in reality he was also watching the companion ply her needle.

Garth kept his hands relaxed and his gaze moving. Mrs De Lacy and Mrs Phillips had commandeered the window seat furthest from the harpsichord and were exchanging remarks about their dress and yawning copiously.

All the while their plump hostess sat beaming happily.

For a house rumoured to be seething with carnal sin and every kind of vice known to man, he had never been so bored in his life.

He pushed to his feet as Penelope played the closing notes of the piece of music. Applauding loudly, he strolled to her side. Others politely joined him. Penelope blushed, rose to her feet and dipped a curtsy.

Garth took her hand and led her away from the instrument. ‘Let us take a turn about the room. You have been wearing your fingers to the bone, my lady. Perhaps there is someone else who would like to play or sing for us?’

Her gaze when it met his contained resentment. He gave her his most charming smile.

Lady Keswick said something to her companion, too low to be heard, and Mrs Travenor nodded and rose to her feet.

Hapton sat up. ‘Why, I believe Mrs Travenor has been hiding her light under a bushel.’

The lady in question stiffened, but kept walking.

‘How delightful,’ Mrs Mallow said.

‘Mrs Travenor has a beautiful voice,’ Lady Keswick said. ‘Will someone play while she sings?’

‘I will,’ Mrs De Lacy said from the window. She was one of the kindest of the racy females here. The ardent expression on Mrs Phillips’s face indicated a hope that the beautiful widow would sing like the old crow whose feathers she emulated in her dress. Garth found himself wincing. He had no wish to see Mrs Travenor embarrassed.

He guided Penelope to a chair and perched one hip on the arm, blocking her from any possible intrusion. Garth bared his teeth at the approaching Bannerby and the man gave him a sour look and with a huff took the seat vacated by Mrs De Lacy.

Rose—Mrs Travenor, Garth corrected himself—glided to stand beside the instrument. Black suited her. It emphasised the warm tones of her skin, the beauty of her stunningly expressive eyes and the lush ripeness of her lips. Most women looked washed out in black, their skin deadened. She looked dramatic, like an exotic fruit that could taste either gloriously sweet or surprisingly bitter.

Every muscle, every sinew, every blood beat inside him, wanted to taste, to savour, to learn her unique flavour. He curled his lip at his body’s state of arousal. These days most of the thrill lay in the chase, not in the capture.

He doubted this one would be any different.

In which case, why bother?

And yet…

Mrs Travenor gave Mrs De Lacy her music and stood at her right shoulder.

‘Why are you doing this?’ Penelope hissed up at him.

‘Adoring you?’ he murmured back. ‘Isn’t that what you want?’

‘No.’

He raised a brow and for a moment Penelope looked ready to scream. He curbed a smile. Adoring swains did not find the tantrums of their adored ones amusing, though he dearly wanted to laugh at her chagrin.

Mark would not appreciate his being amused. Probably wouldn’t appreciate his methods either. But that was his friend’s fault. He should better guard what was his instead of being so trusting. Had he learned nothing during his years on the town?

The first notes from Mrs Travenor’s throat were low and hoarse. Panic filled her gaze and he winced, expecting the worst. She dragged in another quick breath and her voice steadied; at first barely audible, it grew in volume. Everyone paused mid-breath the better to hear. Even Garth. Then her voice swelled with astonishing depth and strength. The room vibrated with its power.

Not a weak tinny soprano, after all, this dark exotic female. A stunning contralto. She’d chosen Handel’s ‘Ombra Mai Fu’, a distinctly odd choice. Originally composed for a castrato, it was often performed as a female trouser role. Her tones were rich with passion and dark with mystery.

There wasn’t a man in the room who wasn’t wholly focused on her. A feral odour of lust and excitement filled the room, when all she was singing about was sitting beneath the shade of a tree.

As the last notes died away, male applause thundered. Bannerby cried, ‘Bravo.’

Garth rose to his feet. ‘Encore.’

Hapton followed suit, as did Fitz and Phillips.

The women smiled and clapped, any sound deadened by their gloves.

Mrs Travenor curtsied and brought Mrs De Lacy to her feet. Both women curtsied together. Garth narrowed his eyes. So the mysterious young widow was wont to perform. In drawing rooms? Or on the stage? The professional manner, the confidence—hell, the skill—said she was no amateur. What a surprise. An opera singer who left the house in the dead of night.

What the hell was she up to?

Despite the calls for more, Mrs Travenor shook her head and returned to the shadows behind her employer, who said cheerfully, ‘Be still, you rascals. She will sing for us again another day. Will you play for us, Mrs Mallow, or will you sing?’

Mrs Mallow’s irritation in being asked to follow such a performance could not have been more obvious.

Garth leaned forwards to whisper in Penelope’s ear, ‘Be glad she did not call on you.’

Penelope’s expression said she was very glad indeed. She shrugged an impatient shoulder.

A glance at Mrs Travenor revealed no expression at all. The woman was an actress par excellence. First she played the nun and now the siren. His curiosity had been thoroughly roused. Along with a decidedly unruly part of his anatomy.

The woman presented a challenge. His blood stirred at the realisation. Very well. He’d pick up the gauntlet and find out exactly what she was about. Honest or nefarious. Virtuous or clever whore. The truth would out.

Mrs Mallow elected to play rather than sing. No fool, Maria Mallow. She never had been. She’d landed an ancient earl at the age of sixteen, buried him not long afterwards and spent most of her adult life as a rich and very indulged widow. She was the sort of woman he’d have been only too delighted to pursue at this kind of party, if his interest hadn’t been diverted.

Boredom had dissipated. He felt enervated. All because of Mrs Travenor. Fiend seize it, his quarry would be a whole lot easier to catch if he didn’t have to play nursemaid to Penelope.

He gulped down half of his wine and gave Penelope a toothsome smile.

She glowered over her fan. ‘Why can’t you bother someone else?’

‘Go home and I won’t bother you at all.’

Like the spoiled miss she was, Penelope slumped in her chair and gazed at the piano, her pretty mouth in a pout. What the hell was Mark thinking marrying such a girl? Obviously thought hadn’t entered into his decision. Thank God Bannerby was too much of a coward to challenge Garth head-on for what he wanted, the puny weakling.

Another warning would probably do it, despite Penelope’s encouragement. Not that she seemed particularly encouraging today. More sulky and unhappy.

No doubt because Garth was getting in the way. Well, she should have picked a man with a stiffer spine.

Hapton was a different proposition altogether. He took what he wanted and got away with it. Of all the men here, he presented the most danger to the pretty bride should he bestir himself in her direction. Fortunately, he seemed more taken with the lady companion. Garth suppressed the urge to warn him off there, too.

To Hapton that would be an irresistible dare.

While Mrs Mallow played competently, if without inspiration, the rest of the party listened politely or chatted softly. ‘This is so dull,’ Penelope whispered.

‘What were you expecting?’ Garth asked. ‘An orgy?’

Penelope’s cheeks turned pink. ‘You are disgusting.’ Married she might be, but she was no sophisticate.

‘You said you were bored,’ he said mildly.

The pout grew more pronounced. ‘And all you think about is…is…’ Now her face was fire red.

‘It is all any man thinks of.’

Pain filled her pretty green eyes. Tears welled. ‘I know that now.’

Why the hell was she crying? Mark was the one being betrayed. ‘What is going on, Penelope?’

She blinked a couple of times, teardrops clinging to her lashes. She dashed them away. ‘Why would you care?’ she muttered. ‘You are just like him.’ She turned her face away.

‘Penelope?’ he said.

She rose swiftly to her feet with her fingertips pressed to her temples. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said to the room at large. ‘I have a headache.’ She almost ran from the room.

Mrs Travenor leaned forwards and whispered something in Lady Keswick’s ear. The old lady nodded and Rose came to her feet and disappeared from the room.

She looked tired, he noticed, as if singing had tapped her strength. Or was her late-night excursion wearing her down? Would she go out again tonight? If she did, he would be right behind her.

Mrs Mallow finished her piece and the guests applauded.

Lady Keswick got to her feet, smiling broadly. ‘Come along, everyone. Rose has arranged for card tables in the drawing room.’





Cards had been an inspired idea. Rosa closed the door on a buzz of conversation and laughter. While the guests, including Lord Stanford, gambled away their wealth, Rosa had something else in mind.

She smiled at Jonas coming the other way with more port for the gentlemen. ‘Goodnight, Jonas. I hope they don’t keep you up too late.’

‘I’m used to it, Mrs Travenor. Got a note for you.’ He nodded at his tray. A white folded square of paper lay on its edge against one of the bottles. Who on earth would be writing to her? No one knew she was here, except her sisters. She nipped the paper between finger and thumb, smiled her thanks and ran off up the servants’ stairs, the missive a dead weight in her hand.

Inside her room, she opened the letter.

The spidery handwriting was unfamiliar, but the signature was not. She sat on the bed to read.

Inchbold’s note relayed the worst possible news. Her grandfather would arrive in two days’ time to ensure all was in readiness for the new tenants. Inchbold had been ordered off to Rye to procure supplies and servants and he would not be back until the day after tomorrow. Just in time to meet her grandfather. The dear sweet man had left her the key under a stone beside the door into the kitchen.

She only had two nights for her search.

Something hard and heavy weighed down her chest. Fear.

Fear that Grandfather’s blistering rant the day he came to the school to inform her of Father’s death was the truth. Fear her father had forgotten his daughters.

She got up from the desk and went to the window, fingers laced so tight her skin burned. She would not give up. She would prove Grandfather wrong.

Whirling around, she grabbed up her cloak and fled, pausing only long enough to pick up the small lantern she’d placed beneath the table near the side door earlier in the day. She lit it from one of the candles on the hall table and ducked out into a light drizzle.

Cloud cover made finding the path through the woods difficult. She shielded her light from the house with her body and held her skirts as high as possible with her other hand. The scent of wet leaf mould and greenery washed clean filled her nostrils. A friendly scent, unlike the heavy perfumes of Lady Keswick’s female guests.

She spun around at a sound. Could someone have followed her? Stanford? Hapton? She shuddered at the thought it might be the latter. She stood stock-still, not breathing and hearing nothing but the pounding of her heart and the rain pattering on soft earth. It must have been raindrops dripping from the trees that she’d heard. Or a nocturnal creature about its business. A badger or a fox. She waited a moment more. Waited for her heart to calm. Then hurried on, crossing the bridge in reckless haste, splashing through puddles and mud. She only had a few hours before she must return. It would not do for any of the early-rising servants to see her coming in.





She found the key as promised by Inchbold, unlocked the door and stepped into a kitchen that seemed oddly chill, when it had always been a warm friendly place in Rosa’s memories.

Where to start?

Her father’s chamber. Mother and Father had always shared a room and Rosa had visited them there in the mornings. To go there in the knowledge they would never be there again clawed at her heart. For her, there was some joy in the sadness. At least she remembered Mother and Father and how happy they were. The girls struggled to remember their faces and Grandfather had insisted that all pictures of their mother be destroyed.

On the way up the well-remembered flight of stairs to the second floor, memories flooded back. The pictures on the walls, all gone now, the pale green paint picked out in white replaced with Chinese silk. She flung open the chamber door, fearing the worst. If the pictures were gone, would the furniture be gone, too?

Everything was covered in holland covers—chairs, chests, tables. Hardly daring to hope, she lifted the corner of a sheet and discovered her father’s desk in its usual place. A cloud of dust rose in the air. She sneezed. The woman who dusted clearly didn’t make a very good job of it.

She smiled at the desk she remembered so well. Her father’s escritoire, inlaid with gilt and rosewood flowers and birds. She’d sat on his lap while he wrote his personal letters. She also remembered the secret drawer beneath the lid.

Could it be this simple? Could what she sought be right here, tucked away and forgotten? If it was going to be anywhere, would it not be here where he must have known she would look?

It had to be.