Rosalind turned and ran out of the drawing room.
15
"Rosalind !"
"My lord, Miss Rosalind scampered out of the house. Are you responsible for this, my lord? Did you insult that sweet young pullet?" Willicombe, all puffed up, actually barred Nicholas's way.
"The pullet has nothing but air between her pretty ears. She ran out for no reason at all." Nicholas lifted Willicombe beneath his armpits, set him down to one side, and ran after her through the open front door. He paused when he saw a flash of her blue skirt swing around the corner.
He heard a yell and a shout. He came around the corner at a dead run to see her on her backside on the sidewalk, skirts billowed about her. Beside her sat a heavy matron, flushed to her eyebrows, hat askew, a lovely ruffled petticoat fluffed up about her knees, parcels scattered around her, her mouth open to yell again.
Nicholas quickly helped the woman to her feet, not an easy task, and gathered her parcels for her.
Chins wobbled as she shook her fist at Rosalind . "I am
Mrs. Pratt, sir, and I am the wife of Deacon Pratt of Pear Tree Lane. This young lady, sir, came flying out at me, fair to sending me to my maker, and it's Deacon Pratt who wants that pleasure. Lucky it was that my precious pork knivers didn't scatter themselves on the dirty ground. If she's your wife, sir, you need to clout her good."
"Yes, she is my wife, but she doesn't deserve a clout in this instance, ma'am, since it is my fault she was running and had the dreadful misfortune to hit you."
Mrs. Pratt crossed ample arms over her equally ample bosom and tapped her puce-colored boots. "Is that so? And what did you do, sir, to make this sweet young lady flee from you?"
"Well, I must be honest here, Mrs. Pratt. You deserve honesty. The fact is she isn't yet my wife. The second fact is that I asked her to marry me but she doesn't feel she's good enough for me, which is absurd. All right, I admit that if you look at her now, ma'am, sitting there rubbing her rear parts, looking as though she wants to burst into tears and scream at me at the same time, perhaps you'd agree with her. But standing upright or waltzing, an enchanting smile on her face, she's very fine indeed and will do me proud. And when she marries me, I will surely keep her from running over respectable ladies out doing their shopping."
"I've never eaten a pork kniver," Rosalind said.
The woman eyed Rosalind with disfavor. "You likely don't deserve one. Marry him or I will introduce him to my sweet nieces, who would never consider taking a single step away from him. Just look at him—he has all his teeth and nice and white they are, and there is no fat hanging off his middle, unlike Deacon Pratt, who wears a very wide belt to hold himself into his shirts. I have told him repeatedly not to be a glutton, but he looks at me and says a man must take his pleasure where he can. The gall, I tell him. Marry him, missy, marry him."
Rosalind stared up at Nicholas, wringing her hands again. "But, Nicholas—"
"You're not getting any younger," the woman said. "If I show him my nieces, he might turn his back on you fast enough. My little Lucretia is only seventeen."
Since Rosalind ignored Nicholas's outstretched hand, he turned to say to Mrs. Pratt, "Pray accept my apologies, ma'am, but she will wed me and thus I will not be available to make the acquaintance of Lucretia." Nicholas gave her a marvelous bow and a fat smile that made her chins wobble anew. Mrs. Pratt gave him a look that Rosalind now recognized as fast-crumbling female principles, and said, just this side of a simper, "Perhaps my lovely Lucretia is on the young side for you, sir, perhaps it is an older, more experienced lady who would suit you"—she patted the fat sausage curls over her ears then stared down at Rosalind with a good deal of antipathy—"not this harebrained knot-head who ran away from you."
"But you caught the knot-head for me, ma'am, and I thank you."
"Only in a very remote manner of speaking, sir. Well, now, I suppose there was no harm done." And Mrs. Pratt, all her parcels tucked beneath her arms, was gone with one long wistful backwards look at Nicholas and a sneer at Rosalind .
He stood over her, hands on hips. "Do you really want to sacrifice me to Mrs. Pratt's niece Lucretia?"
"She's only seventeen. You could mold her."
"You're only eighteen and I would rather mold you. Are you all right?"
"It is about time you inquired. No, I'm humiliated, and you had to rub my nose in it with your fine conversation with Mrs. Pratt."
"One must consider all Offers. I'm sorry to say this, but you deserved to be humiliated. Would you care to tell me why you bolted, or was I right on the mark?"
She looked away from him. "I simply couldn 't bear it."
"Bear what, for heaven's sake?"
"Your—your nobility."
He could but stare at her. "If only you knew," he said finally. He reached down a hand and jerked her up and into him, hard.
She said, her breath warm on his chin, "It's depressing, my lord. I cannot even execute a dramatic exit with any style at all. Blessed hell, I wish I'd scattered that dreadful woman's wretched pork knivers in the street. What is a pork kniver?"
"A cutlet that's baked with peonies and thyme until it resembles the leather on the bottom of your slippers. It is a challenge to all teeth. Quite tasty really."
He held her close, ignored the nanny and two children who passed close by. "So I am noble?"
"Yes, but what's important here is that I'm trying to be noble as well." She looked at his mouth, leaned forward, and kissed his neck. She actually felt the surge of energy pound through him. "It's difficult to be noble when you're holding me like this. Nicholas, are you perhaps feeling lust for me from that wee little kiss on your neck?"
"No, damn you, what I am feeling is abused. Now we have a good half dozen people staring at us, Rosalind . I am an important personage. Come along back to the house."
She took a step away from him. "All right, I have some distance from you and thus some perspective. Here it is, Nicholas. You are noble, I am noble. I will not, cannot, marry you. Take it to heart, for I mean it well."
"That sounds like you're quoting from Shakespeare."
"Well, naturally, since he provided me my name."
Nicholas said to the heavens, "I wonder if it would help me understand if I pounded my head against that stone wall over there." He looked at her, reached out, and managed to grab her hand. He pulled her after him back to the Sherbrooke town house. She didn't yell, for which he was profoundly grateful.
Douglas Sherbrooke, imposing in his black evening clothes and his head of thick white hair, eyed the newly arrived Nicholas Vail, Earl of Mountjoy, and felt a bolt of fear for
Rosalind. This young man was indeed honed hard to the bone, just as Ryder had said, and ruthless, he'd wager.
He watched the young man's eyes search the room until they found Rosalind , who was seated quietly in a wing chair by the fireplace. She looked pale to Douglas, not at all her usual laughing self, and the pale yellowish-green gown she wore didn't help. He frowned. Who had selected that gown for her? He would make sure she never wore it again.
He pulled his attention from Rosalind and her unfortunate gown as Ryder introduced him to Nicholas Vail.
The young man bowed, looked him straight in the eye. Be-damned, Nicholas Vail was as dark as he was, his eyes as black, and his swarthy skin wasn't entirely due to his months at sea.
Nicholas Vail could be my son, Douglas thought, and isn't that a kick to the head?
"My lord," Nicholas said. "It is my pleasure and honor to meet you."
Before Douglas could bear him off to seclusion in the estate room to pry every past sin out of him, Willicombe glided into the drawing room and announced dinner, addressing both the Countess of Northcliffe, all beautiful in dark green, her magnificent red hair twisted up about her finely shaped head (Willicombe occasionally entertained a vision of the countess's head as nicely shaved as his own) and Mrs. Sophie (such a gentle iron fist she had, and a lovely manner). "Cook requested th
at I inform you that she has prepared a very fine half calf's head, tongue, and brains, quite in the French way, although 'execrable' springs to mind when one speaks of the Frogs cooking anything."
The Countess of Northcliffe asked, "Is there perhaps something not quite so unambiguous she is also serving?"
"Fortunately yes, my lady. Not to be overlooked is her famous hailed bacon-cheek, garnished with spoonfuls of spinach followed by a compote of gooseberries, and cauliflower with cream sauce, all blessedly prepared in the English way."
"My dreams have come true," Sophie said.
"I do not see Master Grayson," Willicombe said.
"He is dining at his club," Ryder said.
Willicombe bowed and walked from the drawing room, head tilted back, assuming, rightfully, that his betters would quickly follow, which they did.
"He is amazing," Nicholas said.
"That is what he told me when he became our London butler," Douglas said.
Alexandra had placed Nicholas and Rosalind across the table from each other, as Rosalind had asked her to. One of Nicholas's black eyebrows shot up, but he said nothing. Douglas spoke about his twin sons' own sets of twins, how they were the pictures of their respective fathers, which meant they were so fine looking it curdled his innards. As conversation and laughter flowed, Rosalind served herself some stewed Spanish onions, and screwed up her courage. She waited until everyone was served and there was a lull in the conversation. She cleared her throat and announced to the table at large, "Nicholas Vail, Lord Mountjoy, has asked me to marry him. It struck me between the eyes, and only after I accepted, that he did not know who I was, or who I wasn't, and I knew it would be a gross misalliance.
"I wish to announce that I will not marry Nicholas Vail, even though he is insisting upon it because he is very fond of my person and my singing voice and yes, it must be said, he enjoys kissing me. He also speaks of Fate bringing us together, as if it were a meant thing, which sounds romantic, and somewhat mystical, but not at all to the point. He is noble. I am proving that I am noble as well." She stopped and spooned up some stewed Spanish onions, sweet with a punch of black pepper.
There was perhaps three seconds of stunned silence. As for Nicholas, he slowly put down his fork and smiled over at her. He said to Ryder and Sophie, "You are doubtless surprised that I have proposed marriage to her so quickly, perhaps more surprised that I did not speak with you first, sir. I apologize for that, but when a man is faced with his mate, the passage of time seems irrelevant. I wished to wait to speak to you, sir, to allow you more time to get to know me, to perhaps judge me as acceptable, but Rosalind has changed the game.
"I fear I must say it—she isn't being noble, she is being a knot-head, as a recent acquaintance of mine remarked. There is no one at this table who believes she is not worthy of me, that is, not worthy to be a peer's wife. Otherwise, I daresay Mr. Ryder Sherbrooke would not have made her his legai ward and brought her to London for her season. Am I correct, sir?"
Ryder was betwixt and between. He had to hand it to Nicholas Vail, he'd pinned him very nicely. He nodded, nothing else to do, his eyes never leaving Rosalind 's face, now flushed because—why? Because Nicholas hadn't folded his tent, but rather addressed the matter head on and with a great deal of skill? Ryder said slowly, unconsciously mangling a dinner roll in his hand, "Yes, we firmly believe she is wellborn. Actually, we have had no doubts from the time she finally opened her mouth and spoke, six months after I found her. However, Nicholas, we have been unable to locate her parents, or any relatives, for that matter. And we gave up because, honestly, someone had indeed tried to murder a child, and we feared if we found her parents, she would still be in danger.
"Even today, ten years later, who is to say the motives for this deed aren't still valid in this person's mind? No, we have kept quiet and we will continue to keep all our inquiries to ourselves. She will continue to be Rosalind de La Fontaine until she regains her memory, something our physician doubts will happen, given that she's remembered nothing at all over the years."
Douglas focused his dark eyes on Nicholas Vail's face. "Understand, my lord, we are her family now and we will keep her safe."
"As will I," Nicholas said. "I swear it to all of you. No one will harm her in my care."
Rosalind leaned toward Nicholas. "Listen to me, Nicholas Vail. I am no more real than Shakespeare's Rosalind . I found my name in As You Like It, but I had preferred Ganymede—you remember, Rosalind disguised herself as a shepherd and called herself Ganymede—since I was living a sort of disguise myself, but Uncle Ryder and Aunt Sophie felt the name was perhaps a bit too unconventional. You must realize I could be the descendant of Attila the Hun or Ivan the Terrible, an alarming thought, don't you agree?"
Sophie ignored her. "When you began speaking, Rosalind , your English was clearly that of a well-bred young English girl and we knew that you were wellborn. Your Italian was equally good, perhaps the result of an Italian nanny or an Italian parent.
"It was obvious there were evil persons in your background, evil persons who saw you as some sort of threat and acted on it. That is all we know for sure. Please don't embroider yourself into the Devil's spawn, else I must consider boxing your ears."
Ryder said, "My love, remember some of the pranks Rosalind pulled the children into in her younger years?"
Sophie nodded. "Yes, you're right. Upon reflection, perhaps the Devil's spawn might apply."
There was a spot of laughter, but not much. Ryder continued, "And your singing voice, my dear girl—the voice teacher we brought in to instruct you said you had received excellent instruction for at least the previous two years. To be honest here, I do not wish to know who you really are because I would fear for you. I want you safe. Naturally we discussed fully the chance we were taking with your safety bringing you to London for a season. Who's to say someone wouldn't recognize you? I will admit that sometimes I feel a certain foreboding about it, but no matter. Now, unless you remember someday, you will remain Rosalind . We are your family and we love you."
16
After dinner, Nicholas steered Rosalind to the music room, hoping for a bit of privacy. She eyed him a moment before saying, "I used to spin stories about who my parents were— the Czar and Czarina of Russia or dashing pirates in the Ca-ribbean. In each scenario there was a wicked witch who was afraid of my precocious self and yet jealous of my immense fairness of form and face."
"Excuse me a moment, Rosalind . You say your mother Was also a pirate?"
"Oh, yes, and she would wield her cutlass and wear a white shirt with flowing sleeves. Boots to her knees, of course. She and my father were the terror of the Caribbean. Yes, yes, I realize the odds of my speaking wonderful English are slim given that particular set of parents."
"No Italian counts in your scenarios?"
She frowned. "No, I've always shied away from anything Italian. Now that I think of it, that's odd, isn't it?"
Nicholas opened his mouth to reply, but closed it when he heard the countess's voice coming toward them. The private conversation he'd hoped for was not to be.
"Ah, dearest," Alexandra said, beaming a bright smile on the two of them, "how perfect to find you here in the music room. We have all decided to beg you to sing for us." The rest of the party followed her in.
Rosalind wanted to grab Nicholas and haul him away to some nice private nook or cranny in this immense house. At the same time she also wanted to kick him out the front door. She wanted to smack him for handling her family with such finesse and kiss him stupid that he'd so neatly cornered her.
"That would be quite nice," Nicholas said. "Do sit down at the pianoforte and sing me a love song. Perhaps one of the love songs sung by the Dragons of the Sallas Pond."
"Dragons of what?" Sophie asked.
Nicholas said calmly, "It's the name of beings in the Rules of the Pale, the book Grayson bought at the fair in Hyde Park."
Rosalind saw questions were ready to
burst out of Aunt Sophie's mouth, questions she didn't want to address, so she quickly ran her fingers over the keys. She had intended to sing something Scottish and amusing, for her Scottish accent was quite decent, but what came out of her mouth was the song that had lived deep within her for as long as she could remember, never distant from her thoughts, a song she didn't understand, a song that made her feel both tranquil and unsettled at the same time. Of course she didn't remember how she had come to learn this particular song, but she knew it was from before. It was odd, but it felt as if it were drawn out of her, no choice for her at all. She sang:
I dream of beauty and sightless night
I dream of strength and fevered might
I dream I'm not alone again
But I know of his death and her grievous sin.
Sophie said quietly, "Every time I hear you sing that song, Rosalind, it makes me want to weep. Nicholas, if you did not know, those were the first words Rosalind spoke when she finally opened her mouth six months after Ryder found her."
"She didn't exactly say them," Ryder said, "she rather hummed them, not quite a song, but almost."
Nicholas said, "You have no memories from before you were eight years old, but this song was inside you. The words are curious. His death—whose death? And her —who is she? And what was her grievous sin? It seems to me the four lines are filled with clues about who and what you were, Rosalind ."
Douglas nodded to the young man. "Yes, that is what we have all thought, but Rosalind has no memory at all of what the words could mean."
Rosalind shied away from thinking about the strange words. She began playing a Scottish reel, a clever tale about a bonnie lass who loved to dance for the prince of the faeries. Everyone tapped their toes on the pale blue and cream Aubus- son carpet