CHAPTER EIGHT
‘“Ignorance is the cause of fear.’ A roman-looking chap in a toga told me that, last Monday. Do you know, I could see his bare legs.”
Mrs Tadlow. Widow, mother and ten-year resident of Ingleford Lodge.
Where the devil was he? Rosalind had tried the library, study and kitchens, and Billy had told her that he wasn’t in his chambers either.
It had taken quite a while to disburse the guests, even though it could be said that Rosalind had harried them out of the door with undue haste. But she’d wanted to find Lucas.
The inky blackness of the night met her eyes as she pressed her forehead against the cold window pane; there wasn’t even a moon to lighten the mood, hidden as it was behind thick cloud. Biting her lip raw in worry, she listened: somewhere, a clock chimed eleven, a wind-tossed twig rapped on the window, making her jump, and the coal fire hissed its anger.
It had all been her fault. If she hadn’t goaded Lady Hurst, then the woman wouldn’t have been so rude to Lucas, calling him a monster – wicked harlot.
Had he gone back to the inn maybe? Perhaps Maggie was soothing his angry brow? She pulled away, the glass white from her warm breath, only for a faint orange glow to catch her eye through the misty pane.
The green-house held a prize collection of old citrus – oranges, lemons and lime – and although Benedict did not seem bothered by them, they were still grown, heated by an underground stove, the trees wheeled out every summer. It was from here that the faint light was emanating.
No one should be wandering around in the green-house at this hour of the night.
Could Lucas have found solace amongst the exotic blooms? Or had it to do with Benedict’s constant, mysterious disappearances?
Either way, she was going to find out, especially as you didn’t even have to leave the house, there being a doorway along the west wing that connected it. Even so, Rosalind pulled on her jade-green cloak with its fur lining.
Scurrying down the long passageway with such intent, she didn’t see the dark shadow lope around the corner. All breath left her body as strong hands held her upper arms, but she kept hold of the candle and fluttered it in the shadow’s face.
“Benedict.” She relaxed her shoulders. “What are you doing?”
Thin lips quirked a smile. “Isn’t that for me to ask?”
“I hate it when you answer with a question. You do it all the time.”
“Well, I don’t know why I bother as you never answer, do you?”
“Why are you whispering?”
“I don’t know. Because you’re whispering?” Really, this was getting childish.
“I’m looking for Lucas. I think he may be in the green-house.”
“You like him,” he stated.
She frowned. This was not a conversation to have now. “Yes. But I’m afraid he’s hurt after Lady Hurst’s comment. He might need comforting.”
Benedict smirked. “He’s a strong man, Rosalind.”
“So are you, but you go all quaggy when Lucas mentions Lady Webster.”
“Quaggy is not a word.”
“’Tis so. It’s a word used for stupid men who are hard on the outside and all quaggy on the inside.”
Rolling his eyes, he exhaled heavily. “I’ll consult Dr Johnson’s dictionary tomorrow, but let’s have a wager. If I’m right, you promise to ask Mrs Ludgate to cook something other than venison – chicken, fish even.”
“And what ifI’mright?” She supposed there was a faint chance.
“I won’t castigate you for leaving your bedchamber tocomforta bachelor in the green-houses at nearly midnight.”
Fair point, she thought.
