Secluded with the Rogue

Chapter 5

Five

“H ere we are, Rosalyn.” Mrs. Sullivan closed the door on a frigid, unused, attic chamber and set down her lamp. “Let’s get you out of those wet things.”

Shivering and blinking back tears, she began stripping off clothing, choking out the story of Nelly and Mindy, and the auction, and omitting the matter of the ring. Mrs. Sullivan helped her out of her soggy gown, rubbed her down with a flannel, and settled a nightgown over her head.

“We’ll see that you’re warm and safe tonight,” the housekeeper said. “I’ll bring some bedding and get you a fire. Meanwhile, the chest in the corner has a warm robe and some slippers, as well as some other clothing you’ll find familiar. The thrifty old gentleman, Mr. Maxwell, couldn’t bear to part with your mother’s lovely things, so I stored them.”

Mr. Maxwell must have been a much kinder man than his son. “Why did Lord Cathmore keep them?”

“He’s not changed a thing since his father’s death. Even has your mother’s picture hanging in his dressing room, just as your father and his father left it.”

Her heart churned, tears welling. She wanted to see that picture. She would have to find her way to it when his lordship was otherwise occupied, through her mother’s dressing room, perhaps. And perhaps he would even let her take it away when she left.

No. Of course not. Asking would tell him who she was, the weak, unprotected, last of the Montagus. He’d made his intentions clear, and knowing her true impoverished identity would only add an incentive to his campaign.

“Mrs. Sullivan, Lord Cathmore knows me as Rosalyn Crompton.”

The old housekeeper arched a brow, her gaze suddenly questioning.

“It, it seemed prudent to conceal my true name from two unknown gentlemen.” She shook her head. “I know I was foolish to come like this. I had no idea of anything except to help Nelly save Mindy.”

Mrs. Sullivan sighed. “One may endure much for an honorable cause, but I’ll not lie for you, child. I’ll not see you bothered by him, either. He’s a good master, but he’s a man, one with something of a… reputation , I hear. I, however, don’t fear him, and he knows it. Best the others don’t know I’ve put you up here. I’ll see to your linens and kindling myself.”

The housekeeper coughed and rubbed at her chest. Eyes drooping, she sighed again and turned to go.

“Wait.” Rosalyn touched her arm. “You look terribly done in, Mrs. Sullivan.”

The older lady’s shoulders sagged. “Aye, for good reason. There’s only three of us here in the house, and old Joseph and two others outside.”

“Joseph is still here?”

“He is. His lordship gave the rest of the staff leave to spend a few days with family.” She rubbed her cheek. “Though perhaps, I understand now, he wished to have as little gossip as possible about Mr. Logan’s new wife .”

Mrs. Sullivan appeared to be taking the affair in stride, not at all what Rosalyn would have expected.

Yet she looked unbearably weary, and Rosalyn’s secrets only added to the housekeeper’s burdens.

“Does the cook still keep a chair by the fire in the kitchen?”

“Yes, Mr. Maxwell wooed his new cook in part with that grand new chair.”

“And the cook is gone?”

“Yes, off visiting family as well.”

“And the kitchen fire?”

“Sally has tended it while we’ve both seen to the meals.”

Her stomach growled. It had been hours since her breakfast of toast and tea.

“Is his lordship one to visit the kitchens?”

“Not as I’ve ever seen.”

A weight lifted as her latest plan came together. “Then there’s no need to haul anything up here. Perhaps Sally can hang my clothes to dry by the fire in my mother’s chamber, and I’ll sleep in the kitchen, snug and warm in my mother’s robe and Cook’s chair. And if there’s any bread and cheese, by your leave, I’ll have some. I’m so very hungry.”

T he scents of wood smoke, bread, and roasted beef swirled around her as Rosalyn sank into the massive upholstered chair, her bare toes comfortably toasty, and her stomach blessedly full. She’d almost dozed off when she heard footsteps in the servant’s corridor. She ducked her head below the chair’s back until she recognized the housekeeper’s voice.

Mrs. Sullivan and the footman were back from delivering trays to his lordship and the newlyweds . When the young footman went off to bed, Rosalyn slipped on the velvet mules and rose.

Mrs. Sullivan held a baby up to her shoulder. She spotted Rosalyn and put a finger to her lips.

“I’m to have this little one watched,” she whispered. She coughed and seated herself on a bench by the worktable.

Rosalyn hurried over and lifted the edge of the baby’s shawl. The child sported a fine downy fringe on his well-formed head, and he yawned in his sleep, not a care in the world.

Her heart twisted with longing and tears moistened her eyes. He was adorable.

“May I?” She eased the sleeping child away, tucked him against her, and dropped a kiss on a tiny pink hand.

Another cough rattled through the housekeeper.

Rosalyn sat down next to her. “How long have you had that cough?” she whispered.

“It’s nothing. I’m not ill, but I am tired. Thank heavens, Cook and some of the others will be back tomorrow.”

Rosalyn reached out a hand to Mrs. Sullivan’s head. “Permit me?”

The older woman nodded, and Rosalyn touched her forehead. “No fever, I think. Perhaps you just need rest. Will they call for you or the footman again tonight?”

“No, his Lordship said to leave everything till morning. I’ve sent the others to bed. You won’t be bothered here, either.”

The baby stirred and sighed, making her heart bloom. “Allow me to watch this one tonight, the poor dear.”

“But if he cries?—”

“I’ve learned a few things since I left Brockton Manor, including my way around a kitchen. I spotted a pitcher of milk here. Do not worry.”

When Mrs. Sullivan left, Rosalyn sank into the chair cradling the babe and watching his little chest rise up and down. The wee one was an innocent, not yet responsible for the vagaries of his life, but destined to carry the stigma of illegitimacy. Still, if Mr. Logan was truly his father, and a true gentleman, the little boy might be better off with him than he would be living as a cur at Ned Morgan’s feet. Miss Harris’s home was filled with little boys and girls like that, discarded by their parents, by their masters, by Fate.

The young vicar who’d courted her had shown no sympathy for the last baby abandoned there. The child’s suffering, he’d gently scolded, was the fault of the woman who’d made free with her virtue.

She’d refused his offer of marriage with far more courtesy than he deserved.

The flames licked, and a log fell, and her eyelids drooped. She must rest. When she last looked out the window, the snow had stopped. If all went well, she would leave early tomorrow. She settled the baby safely in the crook of her arm and gave in to the urge to sleep.

I n his bedchamber, Hamish made quick work of the dinner tray, then hurried into his dressing room. He stripped and washed, all the while studying the red-haired lady on the wall.

What he wanted, he decided, was to study the red-haired lady on the other side of the wall, the one who so strongly resembled this one that they could be sisters. There was a puzzle here involving Lady Montagu and Rosalyn Crompton, both ladies so much alike, except for the color of the eyes. Rosalyn was a relative, some distant cousin perhaps.

His father had taken an interest in the Montagu pedigree; he could search out his father’s notes on their family tree. Or he could just ask the living lady herself.

Between bouts of coughing, Mrs. Sullivan had reported that his guest had dry clothing and a warm fire. He’d held off questioning the dear lady, ordering her to deliver the Logans their dinner and then go directly to bed.

Besides, the footman had accompanied her, and it wouldn’t do to interrogate a housekeeper in front of an underling.

And now, he’d allowed his red-haired lady enough time to settle in.

He pressed an ear to the connecting door. All was quiet in her suite, but perhaps she was already abed.

The thought caused a stirring in his loins. While it was obvious, she was gently bred, she was no gently bred whore. No doxy, not even the finest of actresses, could take a kiss from such startled reluctance to sweet enthusiasm. Her shock had been clear, her awakening real. The kiss had been her first, or at least, her first with any passion.

Blast it. He was stiff again just remembering. This wouldn’t do. He intended to approach this discussion in full control.

He threw aside his robe, tugged on a fresh shirt, trousers, a clean waistcoat, and coat, and shoved his feet into his house slippers. His valet would have apoplexy over the lack of a neckcloth and proper shoes, but it would do.

Candle in hand, he paused at the door to the adjoining suite. Did one knock for one’s wife? What about for a woman one wanted to seduce?

The thought roused him again, and he wanted to charge through the door like a Highlander on a hunt.

He took in a deep breath and let his finely honed training take hold. Rosalyn was gently bred and should be gently taken, if that is what it came to, and, by God, he hoped it would.

There was no answer to his rap at the door, so he inched it open. The dressing room felt cold, not even a banked fire. He pushed through to the bedroom, this time without a knock.

Wet clothing hung by the small, screened fire, but she was not here either.

Hamish went down the corridor, peeking into every bedchamber on the floor, to no avail. The rooms were cold and dark. Retracing his steps back to the Rose Bedchamber, he shut the door, and leaned against the paneled wood.

Where was she? And what had he missed? He lit a brace of candles and scanned the room.

There. In the corner of the fireplace hearth, she’d dropped her wet valise, politely sparing the carpet. She was leading him a polite merry chase. The thought made him smile—she was a challenge, this woman.

He dumped the contents of the valise onto the bed: women’s underthings, some clean, smelling of lavender, some used, smelling of lavender and a woman’s scent that drove him into hot anticipation again. There were, however, no journals or letters, no documents or money, and no rings of any kind. He felt around the inside and the outside of the valise for a compartment and then noticed the faded monogram on the outside, RM .

He brought the light closer and peered inside. Stitched carefully in script in the lining was a name, The Honorable Rosalyn Montagu .

He rubbed his jaw which had begun to tingle as if struck by a dainty hand.

The Honorable . Lord Montagu had been a mere baron. A baron’s daughter would be the honorable .

What was the story his father had shared? The Montagus had held Brockton Manor for several generations until the last heir died and the estate was sold to pay unpaid debts. There’d been no son to inherit, no cadet branches of the family.

But he seemed to remember, there’d been a daughter who’d gone to live with her mother’s relatives.

Her name would be in his father’s notes in the library, but he didn’t need to check it. Her name had to be Rosalyn.

Back in his dressing room, the beautiful lady gazed down from the wall.

“Your daughter has come for a visit.”

He blinked. Her usual air of mystery now appeared almost hopeful. In fact, for a moment he’d seen her lip twitch.

She’s driving you mad, Cathmore. He snuffed out the candles and banked the fire. Best to stand down. Seducing even a dead nobleman’s daughter might bring consequences. The girl must still have some family.

He took one last glance at the shadowed portrait. Paint over the eyes in green. Make the lips a little fuller, and she wouldn’t need to sit for her own portrait to hang in this chamber.

God help him, he still wanted her.

Sleep wouldn’t come easy with a beautiful woman so near. He needed a drink.

On the way to the bottle in his bedchamber, he spotted the empty dishes from the dinner tray. There was always a fire laid in his library. He’d carry these dishes down to the kitchen, and head to the library for a drink.