Lady Rosabella's Ruse

Chapter Four




Breath held, fingers trembling with hope, Rosa felt far at the back for the catch inside on the roof of the pigeon-hole. A small raised knob. It was easier to twist as a child. It slipped from between her thumb and forefinger. She huffed. Tried again. It turned. A faint click.

A drawer slid out from the elegant carving above the writing surface. She peered in. Nothing.

Either someone had found it already, or… Neither scenario boded well for her quest. She refused to give room to her doubts. He must have put it elsewhere.

She would not lose hope. For her sisters’ sake, she must search everywhere.

She glanced around the room. Under the bed?

She crawled on the floor, but found only dust.

Perhaps another secret hiding place. One she did not know about. She walked around the room and its adjoining dressing room, pushing and twisting any projection or seeming oddity in the hearth and the panelling until her fingers were sore.

A loose floorboard squeaked beneath her feet. She snatched up the poker and pried it up. An old mouse’s nest, full of bits of wool and fluff, met her gaze.

Rosa shuddered.

Despair rose in her throat. Hot moisture burned the backs of her eyes. She swallowed hard. She’d been so sure it would be in the desk.

She sucked in a breath. She’d try the other bedrooms on this floor and then the library, and after that, she’d try every other room in the house. And if she didn’t find it tonight, she’d come back tomorrow.

Oh, please let her find it tonight.





Garth wanted to curse. He would never have believed the woman could slip out of a house so quickly. He’d had to run to catch her up. Or at least to catch up to the sight of her lantern willow-wisping ahead to who knew where.

Thank heavens for the lack of a moon, though he could have done without the rain.

The lantern danced ahead like a glow worm. Or a naughty little wood sprite of children’s stories. Except there was nothing of the wood sprite in Mrs Travenor. Far from it. She looked like an innocent and sang like a siren, an erotic siren. As exotic as an eastern princess.

The lantern stopped bobbing.

Damn. She’d heard him. He remained still, not breathing, staring into the dark, listening to the sound of the rain splattering on leaves, on his hat and his shoulders. The rain itself was of the fine drizzling sort, a kind of irritating mist, but the leaves harboured the foggy stuff, releasing it in big fat drops.

The twinkle moved on. Faster this time. He increased the length of his stride, determined not to lose her. In his mind’s eye, he tried to guess her destination. There was nothing out here, except woods. He’d checked with the gardeners.

A new sound, the sound of running water, overpowered the pattering of the rain on the leafy floor. A small stream, if he recalled the map, with a narrow footbridge. It defined the boundary of the neighbouring estate.

The progress of the lantern slowed to a crawl. He drew closer, catching glimpses of ancient wooden rails in the swinging circle of light. Why would she risk life and limb crossing such a rickety structure?

He waited until she was clear and approached the stream. Feeling the slick boards beneath his feet and the shake in the timbers in his grip, he crossed slowly.

Wherever she was going, it had to be important to risk traversing this bridge.

By the time he reached the other side, all sign of her lantern had disappeared. Cursing under his breath, he wandered around seeking a path. Without her light to guide him, it took him a good few minutes to find the track, only to discover he’d gone in a circle ending back at the bridge. This time he used his brain and sparked his tinderbox. In the brief flash it provided, he found her footprints in the mud, heading off to the right.

He pressed on through the tangle of brambles. A wet branch slapped him in the face. He grabbed for his hat. He cursed at the trickle of chilly rain running down between his collar and his skin. Any owner of a property who let his woods grow wild ought to be shot.

The woods ended at a lawn. And beyond the lawn there had to be a house.

Got you!

He frowned. Why so much secrecy? He couldn’t imagine Lady Keswick caring if her lady companion had a special friend at her neighbour’s house. He could even imagine the old girl encouraging the lass.

Perhaps she had. Then why not admit it?

He forged on. The house was there, he knew, he’d seen it on the map, but strangely, it was utterly dark. Even if all the occupants were abed, which they couldn’t be if she was meeting someone there, then there ought to be some light in the corridors and stairways.

The house must be empty.

The crunching of gravel beneath his feet signified he’d reached a drive, albeit a rather weedy one. And at the end of the drive, he found a house. Of Mrs Travenor there was no sign. How far ahead of him was she? He must have lost sight of her at least a half an hour before. He went around to the back of the house and stopped.

Here were the lights he sought. A lantern hanging beside a back entrance to the house. It bounced off slick cobbles.

Of Mrs Travenor there was no sign.

He crossed the courtyard, searching for a clue to her whereabouts. He scanned the back of the house. There. A light. On the second floor. It wasn’t very bright, but it had to be her.

She’d gone inside. It was the only explanation.

What in hell’s name was she doing?

He walked carefully up to what was clearly the kitchen door and put his ear to the crack at the jamb. Nothing.

Slowly, he depressed the latch. The door opened silently. He stilled, breath held. No cry of alarm. No footsteps coming his way. He opened the door enough to allow his body to slide through and closed it behind him.

Now he really was in the dark. In the pitch-black, with the echoing sound of footsteps somewhere deeper in the house.

It seemed Mrs Travenor was up to no good.

A sense of disappointment slid through him, bitter edged and sharp. He hesitated. He could just walk away and forget what he’d seen. Or he could catch her in the act and, damn it, see her brought to justice. Clearly she’d been using Lady Keswick as her dupe to gain access to this empty house and now was about to make off with some sort of loot. His gut knotted. He almost preferred to think of her in the arms of a lover than this.

He fumbled around as quietly as possible until he found the stub of a candle. Taking his time in order not to alert her to his presence, he lit the wick. The light revealed an abandoned kitchen. Clean. Tidy, but definitely not used recently. A narrow set of stairs led upwards. Perfect. He’d take the servants’ stairs to the second floor, where he’d seen the light, and catch her in the act.





This was impossible, Rosa thought, staring around the library at chairs and tables covered in sheets and walls lined with empty bookshelves. Where did she start?

She set her lantern down on the red-leather-covered rent table in the middle of the room. It had a keyhole within its central circular section. Would her father have hidden his will in there? It seemed unlikely. Any fool would look there first, and Grandfather wasn’t a fool.

She pulled on the knob beside the keyhole. It lifted easily. She groped inside, feeling nothing but dust under her nails. Ugh.

Walking around the table, Rosa pulled open the three drawers beneath its top where Father would have kept his records of rents paid and collected. More emptiness.

She turned in a circle. This room still had all of its pictures. Perhaps they disguised a hiding place.

She pulled one of the straight-backed wooden chairs underneath a hunting scene adjacent to the hearth.

She hopped up on the chair. The picture shifted easily enough to reveal blank plaster painted blue like the rest of the walls. Disappointed, but not surprised, she slid the picture back in place. Something gave way with a snap. The picture slid through her hands. It was going to smash to the floor. She clutched it, wobbling on the chair.

‘Blast!’

‘Well, well,’ a menacing voice said from the doorway. ‘I had no idea you were an art lover, Mrs Travenor.’

Rosa gasped and almost dropped the picture. ‘Lord Stanford?’ Oh, no. What was he doing here?

He strolled to her chair and looked up at her. ‘It seems a call on the magistrate is in order.’

‘You followed me.’ Gripping the picture frame, she stared at the cynical twist to his mouth and the suspicion rampant in his dark eyes.

‘As well I did,’ he said. ‘Or you’d be making off with someone else’s property.’ He moved in close, too close, and grasped the picture by the frame. ‘I’m afraid I can’t allow you to steal this.’ He took the frame from her grasp and set it down, one edge on the floor, the other leaning against the wall.

He put his hands around her waist and lifted her. His hands were large and warm; he smelled of rain and cigars, and sandalwood. He set her down lightly, as if she weighed nothing at all. ‘Now then, madam, what are you up to?’

How to explain without giving too much away? ‘I know this doesn’t look good, but I am looking for something that belongs to me. I did not intend for the picture to come down off the wall.’

Stanford laughed. ‘Smooth, Mrs Travenor. Very smooth. You must think I’m an idiot.’

‘Then why do you think I have the key to the door?’

He frowned. Looked a little nonplussed. ‘Perhaps you have an accomplice.’

Her heart sank. She certainly did not want to implicate Mr Inchbold. Brazen it out. It was the best way—she’d learned that during her long years at school. And more recently in dealing with the doctor who had come to attend her sister, Sam. ‘I have the key, my lord, because I have every right to be here. I used to live here with my father and I believe he left something behind.’

If anything, the curl to his lip increased. ‘Money? Of course. You are looking for a safe. Expecting to find the family jewels, perhaps?’

‘There are no family jewels here.’ They had all gone to her stepmama. Even those her father bought for her mother. Blast Lord Stanford—why couldn’t he just stick to playing cards instead of chasing after her?

It was that business with Hapton in the linen closet, no doubt. A blush crept up her face. He thought she was no better than she should be. Apparently in more ways than one. ‘This really is none of your business.’

‘It is every man’s business to protect his fellow from thieves and burglars.’ He gave a rather nasty laugh. ‘Indeed, I’ll have you know I am sworn to uphold the law in my role as a member of the House of Lords.’

She gave him a sour look. ‘God help England.’

He cracked a laugh. ‘Indeed.’

Dare she trust him? She heaved a sigh. ‘Perhaps if I explain…’

He nodded, his eyes wary. ‘I’ll listen. But stick to the truth. I will know if you are lying.’

Not telling everything was not lying. All she had to do was convince him she wasn’t a thief. ‘As I said, I lived here once.’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Mrs Travenor, you are the most outrageous female I have ever met.’

‘It’s true. There is a servant here who can vouch for me.’

‘Where is this servant?’

She winced. ‘He had to go to Rye, but he will be back and he will confirm that my father was a tenant here before he died. We had to leave in a hurry.’

The laughter left his face, replaced by a swift frown. ‘Debts?’

Well, there were debts. Just not her father’s. ‘Yes.’

His mouth twisted in that cynical smile. ‘And what do you expect to find behind the pictures?’

He didn’t believe her. She swallowed. She couldn’t tell him about the will because then he would want to know the names of her relatives. If any word got back to her grandfather about her search, he would no doubt ban her from the house and Inchbold would be in terrible trouble.

She clasped her hands together, a prayer for his trust. ‘A miniature of my mother. It was only after he died that I realised it was missing from his effects.’ It wasn’t completely a lie. Change the word miniature for will and it was as close to the truth as she dared get.

He looked unconvinced.

‘In two days the house will be rented again. This is my last chance to search.’ She couldn’t stop the pleading note in her voice. Not that she thought pleading would do any good, judging by his forbidding expression.

‘Are you sure it is here?’

‘It cannot be anywhere else.’

‘Why sneak about in the night? Why not just ask the owner for permission to look?’

Did he have to be so logical? ‘The owner is unlikely to grant me permission, given the cloud we left under. Surely you won’t stop me from looking for what is mine? It has no value to anyone except me and my sisters.’

His expression remained doubtful.

She swallowed the dryness in her throat. ‘You can stay and watch if you wish.’

‘Good God, woman, it is long past midnight. A time when honest people are heading for their beds.’

‘I have other duties to perform during the day, as you know.’

He muttered something under his breath. ‘All right. Search. But you will not remove anything from the property without the owner’s express permission.’ He folded his arms across his chest and leant against the wall.

It was the best she could hope for. Besides, if she did find the will, she would be able to put paid to his suspicions in an instant.

She stared at the picture on the other side of the fireplace, another hunting scene. She dragged her chair around the hearth and stepped up. Taking care not to put any pressure on the cord, she pushed the picture aside. Nothing here either. Skirts in hand in preparation of jumping down, she glanced over at Stanford. He was staring at her ankles. When she didn’t move, he raised his gaze to her face. She glared. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Not in the slightest.’

Heat flooded her body at his lazy mocking smile. They locked gazes for a moment and then finally he shrugged and looked away. She leapt from the chair.

There was another picture, this time a Scottish scene, complete with a gillie and his dogs out amid the heather. A console table stood beneath it. It looked sturdy enough to hold her weight, but she needed the chair to climb up. She turned to pick it up.

‘Allow me.’

The velvety voice in her ear caused her heart to leap into her throat. She drew back. ‘Certainly. Over there by the window, if you please.’

‘That is not the kind of wall where one would locate a safe.’

‘I want to look.’

‘Well, we don’t need the chair.’ He strode to the picture, reached up, grasped the frame and shifted the picture at an angle. Nothing. His expression was long suffering. ‘As I said. Can we now put an end to this nonsense?’

Damnation. He was going to try to rush her out of here. ‘If you don’t want to help, sit down and leave me to it.’ She walked over to the bookshelves and tried twisting and turning any ornate projection she could see.

He let go a heavy sigh and did the same for the ones above her head. Lord, but the man was tall. When they were finished there, she peeled back the large rug covering the middle of the floor and started on the floorboards.

‘What is so important about this picture anyway?’ he grumbled while he tested the boards at the other end of the room.

‘It is the only picture we had of my mother.’

‘Why would someone hide it away?’

The man just couldn’t leave well alone. ‘My father couldn’t bear to look at it after she died. He put it away in a safe place for us. When we left, it was forgotten.’

‘It sounds like a very bad play,’ he said. ‘Who can’t bear to look at a picture?’

‘My father loved my mother very much.’

‘As I said, a very bad play,’ he scoffed.

She frowned at him. His gaze was fixed on the floor, but the smile on his lips was not merely mocking, it was bitterly cynical.

‘I suppose you are one of those men who does not believe in love,’ she said, flipping down one corner of the rug and moving to another carpet corner on her side of the room.

‘Love is a fairy tale created by females with nothing better to do than create fantastical events in their heads.’

‘Don’t you love anyone? Your family? Is there no woman you have ever loved?’

‘Family is a duty. I fulfil my responsibilities. I believe in friendship. It also has responsibilities.’ He looked up, his dark gaze shadowed and unfathomable. ‘But all this emotional talk and poetry about hearing music, the sky being brighter, because you love someone is just so much claptrap. It isn’t possible.’

The vehemence in his tone took her aback. ‘I will admit there are different kinds of love. Love of family is quite different from romantic love. But why would so many people, men and women, write about it, if they have never experienced it?’

‘Because they are in lust. People don’t like to think of their baser urges as the same as unthinking beasts, so they call it another name.’

She gasped. Baser urges. Is that how he saw love? ‘Then what about familial love?’

‘Family members care about each other as long as it benefits them. If it doesn’t, then they don’t.’

Never had she heard anything so cold. What on earth could have caused such a chilly outlook? She flung the carpet back in place and put her hands on her hips. ‘I feel sorry for you, Lord Stanford, if that is how you feel.’

He kicked his corner of the carpet flat. A puff of dust rose up. ‘Indeed, Mrs Travenor. Well, I am not the one searching a stranger’s home for a stray picture that a widower no longer wanted to look at and promptly forgot about because he probably married again to assuage his baser instincts.’

How had he guessed Father had married again? ‘My father never forgot my mother. Never.’

He gave her a dark glance. ‘Are we done here? Are there any other hiding places you can think of?’

‘The study.’

He groaned and pulled out his fob watch, bringing it close to the lantern on the table. ‘It is almost two. After the study, we will leave.’

‘After the study, there is nowhere else to look.’ She’d searched all the other rooms. Oh, how she hoped the study held the answer.

She blew out the candles she’d lit, picked up her lantern and marched along the corridor, all too aware of Stanford trailing behind.

She was aware of his presence all the time. It was like having the devil sitting on your shoulder, whispering tempting words in your ear, because she kept remembering their almost-kiss, kept feeling a glimmer of the heat that had ripped through her body, each time their gazes met. And she had the distinct impression, when he looked at her, that he was remembering it, too.

‘You certainly seem to know your way around,’ he said as she went to the study and flung back the door.

‘Because I lived here,’ she said, not quite disguising the triumph in her voice.

‘Or because this is not the first time you have searched.’

The room was bare of furniture. Not even one picture remained.

‘Oh,’ she said, recalling her father’s oak desk and the heavy wooden chairs. ‘Where is everything?’

Stanford shrugged.

If only Inchbold was here, he would know. She glanced around the oak-panelled walls. Could they hide a secret place? She tried tapping on the wall nearest the door.

Stanford groaned. ‘This is ridiculous.’

‘Not to me, it isn’t,’ she said fiercely. Her sisters were depending on her to find the will. They all were. The debts were mounting by the day. Debts to the school. Debts to the doctor. She’d managed to stave them off, but she had borrowed against the certain knowledge they would inherit something by way of her father. When no will was found, everything had gone to his new wife and their son and the debts had remained. Growing more crushing by the day as interest piled on top of interest. She clenched her hands. She would not believe her father had broken his promise.

‘If you want to help, then do so. If not, please stand back.’

She pushed past him to get to the wall on the other side of the door. Her tapping revealed nothing out of the ordinary. With a long-suffering sigh, Stanford inspected the floorboards.

‘There’s nothing here,’ he said after he’d covered every inch of the floor and she had done the same with the walls. She’d even looked up the chimney, which was an old-fashioned one, probably built when the first house occupied the estate.

Her shoulders slumped as defeat washed through her. ‘You are right. There is nothing here.’ And disaster loomed closer.

He shot her a considering look.

She forced a careless shrug. ‘He must have put it somewhere else. Perhaps his second wife has it.’

His mouth tightened. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Me, too. There is no point in searching any longer. It is time we went home to our beds.’

The hot look he sent her way seared her skin everywhere it touched and it roamed her at will. As if he’d like to eat her up. Or kiss her.

The thought of comfort in a pair of strong arms was very tempting right at this moment. It seemed like years since she’d had anyone to lean on. She forced her gaze away. ‘Let us go.’

Outside, she locked the door and put the key in her pocket. ‘I will return it to the servant tomorrow.’ In an oppressive silence they walked across the lawn and into the woods, with only the light of the lantern to guide their steps.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ she said. ‘About the miniature?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t the owner give you permission to look?’

‘He took the furnishings in lieu of rent,’ she said. ‘He would say the miniature also belonged to him.’

‘In that case, I’m afraid it does.’

She halted. ‘Have you no compassion at all?’

His gaze searched her face, the light from the lantern emphasising the starkness of his features, the high cheekbones, the angular jaw. The bleakness in his eyes. ‘None.’

‘Heaven help you, then.’

He gave that short laugh of his. ‘It won’t.’

She wanted to shake him. Then realisation flooded through her. ‘You are going to contact the owner, aren’t you?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you are lying.’

‘How can you say that?’

His lips twisted. ‘Do you want to know how I can tell when a woman is lying?’

She stared at him. ‘How?’

‘Her lips are moving.’

She recoiled. ‘What cynicism, my lord. Perhaps you have been mixing with the wrong kind of women.’

He inclined his head a fraction. ‘Perhaps.’ He took her arm firmly and urged her forwards. ‘But you are lying, nonetheless.’

Blast the man, she was, but not about what was important in this matter. ‘What I seek is rightfully mine.’

‘If so, you would not be sneaking around in the dark.’

Implacable. She jerked her arm free of his hand. ‘If I had any other choice, do you think I wouldn’t take it?’

Oh, dash it all, were those tears she heard in her voice? She despised tears. She swallowed the hot lump in her throat. ‘Fine. Tell whoever you wish.’ She broke into a run, slipping and sliding on the sodden ground, hearing his heavy steps behind her. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

‘Mrs Travenor,’ he said in low impatient tones. ‘Stop. You will fall and hurt yourself.’

She broke through the trees and saw the light of the house ahead. She lifted her skirts higher, ran faster.

A hand caught her arm. Swung her around. Held her upright. And then she was pressed against a hard wall of male chest. It rose and fell from running. As did hers. Heat invaded her breasts and thighs. She struggled to free her arms. He drew her closer, using only one hand, and lifted the lantern. Grim-faced he glared down at her. ‘What in hell’s name do you think you are doing?’

‘Let go of me.’

If anything he tightened his grip. The heat of the day before swirled around them. She stared at his mouth. At the lips that once more tempted. She could not tear her gaze away.

‘Rose,’ he whispered.

He bent his head and took her mouth.

She grabbed his lapels, stood on tiptoes and pressed against him, kissed him back. It seemed the only way to quench the fire in her blood.

A groan rumbled up from his chest. Her breasts tingled and tightened. She put her arms around his neck.

On a gasp, he broke the kiss.

A sense of loss engulfed her. Longing.

Retaining his grip on her shoulders, he blew out the lantern and set it down. ‘Now,’ he murmured, ‘where were we?’ Both arms went around her, one hand at her nape, the other around her waist, and once more their lips melded.

She felt as if she was flying ten feet off the ground. A dizzying, exciting sensation. Her body hummed with a longing to burrow against him. His tongue slipped through her parted lips and into her mouth. Her limbs became heavy and languid, her mind empty of all but the heat and the hunger. When his tongue retreated, she followed it with her own, tasting the darkness of his mouth, the brandy and pleasure.

His hand cupped her buttocks, lifting her, pressing her hard against him. Something hard, demanding, pressed against her belly.

He broke away on a groan. ‘My room or yours?’ he whispered, his voice hoarse and urgent against her neck.

She froze. He thought… He wanted… She’d misled him into thinking she was like all the other women under Lady Keswick’s roof. Of course he did. And, heaven help her, she was terribly tempted to ease the hot thrumming in her body, to learn what it meant to lie in a man’s arms. Ruin was literally staring her in the face, a fallen angel ready to lead her astray. This was why mothers didn’t leave daughters alone with handsome young men. Her body trembled with longing. If she was ruined, her life would be changed forever. There would be no hope left.

‘No,’ she said pushing backwards with her palms flat against his chest.

‘You are jesting?’

She shook her head. ‘I— No, I am not.’

She couldn’t see his face clearly, only hear the harshness of his breathing and feel the warmth radiating from his body.

‘Oh, now I have it.’ The note of cynicism was back in his voice, the sneer so audible, she could hear the curl of his lip, see it in her mind’s eye. ‘You want something in exchange.’

What on earth was he talking about?

‘You want to name your price. What is it? My silence about tonight? Money?’

She did want his silence. She didn’t want her grandfather learning about her search. But what he was suggesting was…was wrong. Against everything she believed in. This bargain he suggested was cold and calculating, without love or any deeper affection. It had nothing to do with feelings or emotions. This was all about lust.

Base urges paid for in some sort of coin.

She touched a finger to her lips and shook her head. ‘You have nothing I want.’

‘I’m sure I can think of something given time.’ The teasing note in his voice, the velvet purr, did nothing to soften his meaning, the implication that every woman could be had for a price. She’d been right not to trust him with her story.

She backed up a couple of steps, shaking her head. ‘No, thank you. I must bid you goodnight.’ With a fine show of bravado, she straightened her shoulders, swung around and ran for the house.