Page 38 of The Thorn and the Rose

“Then tell me this: why does he want revenge on us? What have we done to him? For none of us can find a reason, Marie. How can we have done something so despicable and not realise it?”

“Perhaps your values differ from his,” she said, her voice cool now.

Thorn narrowed his eyes at her. “Ah. I see. We are guilty of being wealthy and over privileged, is that it? Who is it we have crushed beneath our boots with our callous indifference?”

Marie turned away from his searching gaze. “I could not say, my lord. It is his vendetta. Not mine.”

“But you know who, don’t you, Marie?”

“Yes,” she said, not looking at him.

“Tell me!” he shouted, frustration getting the better of him.

She jumped, and he instantly regretted it when he saw the way she cowered away from him, the fear in her eyes. That reaction certainly wasn’t feigned. Her brother had treated her roughly, then. And her father had died when she was a child, he reminded himself. Had there ever been a man she could rely on?

Thorn let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly, feeling like a brute and yet so angry he wanted to shake her. “I ought not to have spoken so harshly.”

“It’s of no matter,” she replied, resignation in her voice. She had expected such behaviour, then.

“You are in no danger from me. I would never harm you,” he added, hoping he could at least assure her of that.

She did not look at him, merely watched the scenery as it passed them by without making comment. Well, what had he expected? That she weep with gratitude at the knowledge he would not beat her?

“Won’t you tell me what we did, Marie?” he tried again, a caressing note to his voice now. More flies with honey than vinegar, he told himself. “Which of us is at fault? Surely not all?”

She glanced up at him through thick, sooty lashes, her hazel eyes searching his. Trust me, he thought, wishing he could read her, could have the slightest idea what she was thinking… or plotting.

“He believes you hurt someone he loved, and I do not know who is culpable, but he blames all of you,” she said, and then looked away from him again. “Do not ask me more. I will not tell you.”

Thorn believed that much, and they carried on in silence, with him racking his brain with every mile that passed, wondering how on earth he was to figure this strange creature out.

Chapter 13

Leo,

I met the most peculiar girl today. She says she knows you, though it amuses me to inform you she seemed more enamoured of your cat than yourself. I did not know until later who she was, but I am told she’s Wrexham’s sister, Lady Cordelia Steyning. What an odd duck she is.

Bonnie, though.

What do you know of her?

―Excerpt of a letter from The Hon’ble Muir Anderson (younger son of The Right Hon’ble Ruth and Gordon Anderson, Countess and Earl of Morven) to Mr Leo Hunt (son of Mr and Mrs Nathaniel and Alice Hunt).

12th February 1847. The George, Battle, East Sussex.

There was a fire in the grate and Rosemarie hurried towards it, holding out her chilled hands to warm them. For the hundredth time that morning, she asked herself what she thought she was playing at. She was in too deep, so far over her head she might as well have flung herself off the cliffs at Pett Level instead of meeting Mr Barry. Except he wasn’t Mr Barry at all. She’d known that, obviously. The day she had met him in broad daylight, in the market at Covent Garden, then she had known for certain. Everything about him had screamed nobility, rank and fortune, and the sight of him had dazzled her.

Keep your head, Rosemarie, she told herself. You must do this for Mama and Mrs Mills and for yourself. They are relying on you. If you do not prevail, we are all of us sunk.

A moment later, Lord Thomas entered the parlour. He gave her a brief glance before he set his hat down and took off his gloves and coat. “I took the liberty of ordering some mulled wine for you. It will warm you up. I’m told they’re serving steak and ale pie, I hope that suits?”

“Thank you, yes. That all sounds wonderful,” she admitted, pressing a hand to her stomach as an audible and mortifying growl erupted.

He frowned at her, looking her up and down, his gaze moving over her so intimately she felt her colour rise. “You’ve lost weight,” he observed, though there was no inflection in his voice which suggested either approval or dismay. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Last night,” she said, putting up her chin, though why she felt defensive she could not say. She wanted him to pity her, did she not? “I was too nervous to eat this morning.”

He said nothing more as a serving girl hurried in, bringing him a tankard of ale and Rosemarie a steaming hot jug of wine and a cup. Lord Thomas poured the wine for her, and Marie went to the table and sat down. She took off her bonnet and then her gloves and cradled the cup between her chilled hands. About to take a sip, Rosemarie started as he took her hand before she could raise the cup to her lips.