Handsome, muscular and an earl, but he stirred no feeling other than platonic affection and brotherly love.
She would do anything for Benedict…except marry him.
“’Tis a shame, Ben, that no one cared enough to put more thought into that poor maid’s death, just because she had no relatives. Miss Risley is another matter entirely. I saw her parents last week and they are devastated, as is her betrothed.”
“I agree entirely that too much blame was laid upon outsiders for the maid’s death. Now, after Miss Risley’s untimely passing, the whole village is scared and women, except for you it seems, are afraid to go out.”
Rosalind took the rebuke with good grace, aware that she was slightly more inured to mishap and death; it was not exactly a shining characteristic, but she had seen more of life than Benedict, despite what he cared to think.
The windows shook in their frames as a fierce wind suddenly battered at them, and Rosalind drew her bright-blue Indian shawl tightly about her. Here in Cheshire it was freezing already, and it was only just into the month of November.
“I’m glad you didn’t change this fire to a coal grate as I do love the smell of burning wood.”
Benedict took the hint and added another log to the fire, causing sparks to spit at the carpet.
“I will accept your marriage refusal with dignity, but please, Rosalind, take care in these times. I know you hate being cooped up inside, and with good reason, but take a maid on your long walks – or even better a footman. I know Mrs Mereworth is not a keen walker, and even if she was, would be no deterrent to a murderer.”
Rosalind smiled, imagining her chaperone striding forth with pistol aloft; Mrs Mereworth, in fact, hated walking. Hated everything actually, but she was another relation dependent on Benedict’s kindness and largesse.
“These murdered women were found in our woods,” he continued, “and although far from the house, you have to be careful. I’ll never know how Ridges found that first body; it was right at the edge of my estate.”
She nodded. Benedict’s advice was sound if a little unnecessary. She liked to be independent and free, but she wasn’t stupid. Two women with their throats cut, and the killer had still not been found. Although strong from walking, years of bad food and inactivity had left her somewhat delicate – she was sturdy in mind, but less so in body.
“Your groom does seem to wander afar. I saw him near the magistrate’s house not so many days ago. Anyhow, I must leave you to your brandy and change for dinner. Mrs Ludgate has prepared venison stew and her special dumplings; they are like clouds in the mouth.”
“You will look like a dumpling after all those sugared almonds you’ve eaten.”
“Lud, was that a joke from the Surly Stonebridge?” Rosalind teased, rising from the comfort of her armchair.
Benedict’s face fell into a scowl. “Don’t call me surly.”
Smirking, she opened the study door but his voice made her pause.
“By the way,” he said, “the other reason I called you in was to let you know that we have a visitor coming to assist Sir Hector with the investigations. A certain Major Lucas Mainwaring, although he’s recently come into a title – now he’s the Earl of Helmdon. Never met the chap, but I hope you’ll make him feel welcome. He’ll be here in two days’ time – left London a while ago, apparently.” He crossed the room and shuffled her out. “You’re creating a dreadful draught, my dear.”
Rosalind leaned back against the study door through which she had just been hastily bustled.
Lucas Mainwaring.
How many years would go by before she learned that she could never outrun her dreams? How many nights would go by until she realised that however strong she may be, she couldn’t ignore her curse?
Benedict had once told her that she ought to embrace heraffliction.To learn from it, to call it a gift. After all, it had saved his life. Buthenever dreaded going to sleep at night, or wondered if he would dream of death, life, sickness…love – and to then see it come true.
“You are a child of Satan. Devil’s spawn. Insane,” her father had oft spat. To embrace her curse was to believe everything he’d ever called her.
And now…Lucas Mainwaring.
A man that thought she’d fainted in shock at his scarred face during Clara’s house party.
How was she to explain herself? How was she to apologise? She pulled away and stamped up the stairs to her bedchamber, closing the door quickly against the cold and crossing to the fiercely glowing coal fire, not particularly caring that the heat burned her face, leaving her skin ruddy. Mrs Mereworth kept an embroidered fire screen in her room to save her delicate skin from the heat; Rosalind would rather look a little flushed but be warm.
She would apologise as soon as he arrived. No delay.
As if something like scars would bother her. Goodness, what kind of women was he acquainted with that swooned at some disfigurement? If the blasted man had stayed a while longer, she would have let him know in no uncertain terms that she was made of sterner stuff but he’d left the very next day, obviously offended.
Besides, she’d seen those scars before that house party.
She’d…dreamed of them.
