Page 53 of The Thorn and the Rose

“He’ll find me,” she said, forcing the words out, though his hand constricted her throat painfully. “He’s not what you think, Everett… Gillmont—”

“No, my dear. He’s not what you think,” Everett said, and though the words were not spoken harshly, there was a light in his eyes that made her afraid. “I made some useful friends in the months during which I was abandoned, including the man who tried to blackmail the oh, so honourable Thomas Barrington’s elder brother, Lord Ashburton.”

“Blackmail?” Marie repeated, her heart beating too fast.

“Yes. You see, there was one little detail I was unaware of, one that had been carefully kept quiet, and strangely enough, one he did not reveal to you. Miss Nichols got what she deserved for her lewd behaviour, you see, and lost her life bringing Ashburton’s bastard daughter into the world. So, you see, Rosemarie, all those pretty words he gave you that sounded so truthful and sincere, all those sweet kisses,” he added, his face so close to hers his stale breath fluttered over her mouth and nose, making her want to retch as she realised he’d seen and heard everything. “Lies,” he spat.

Rosemarie shook her head, misery welling up in her chest. No. No. Please no. “I don’t believe you!” she cried.

“That does not matter a damn to me, pet. All that matters is that I take you away from him, as his brother took my innocent girl from me. The only difference is, your life will be saved, providing you do exactly as I tell you and behave like a decent woman instead of a slut.”

His hand tightened just a fraction, but Rosemarie felt the strength there, saw the resolution in his eyes and knew he meant to do her harm if she did not obey him. There was no choice, as there had never been any choice. Everett owned her. She had no rights while he lived, and Lord Thomas had lied to her. For all she believed her brother might be losing what remained of his senses, she did not think him a liar. He believed, as he had always believed, the things he told her, and there was a ring of truth to the story that made her stomach turn. Not that it mattered. Whether the man was what she believed and hoped he was, or the liar Everett described, Lord Thomas would not search for her. Not again. He would believe she was playing games, that she had run from him as she had before, and he would not follow. Not this time. There would be no rescue from that quarter.

All she could do was bide her time and pray she could rescue herself.

The man her brother was keeping company with alarmed Rosemarie far more than anything he had said or done to date. Apparently going by the sobriquet of Scuttler, he said little, which was the only thing in his favour. An inch or two shorter than Everett, he was twice as wide, the majority of it pure muscle. His shoulders would have not looked amiss on a prize bull, and he seemed to have no neck to speak of, though a bright red spotted kerchief was tied around the place it ought to be. His hat, shiny with dirt and wear, sat at a jaunty angle on his bald head, small, pig-like eyes glittering with avarice and belligerence as he roamed about Magpie Hall.

“Where’s the goodies then, Ev, me old mucker?” he demanded, once Everett had supervised the packing of their cases, such as they were.

Rosemarie, sitting on one such case, pulled her mother closer against her. The poor darling was sobbing, a lace handkerchief pressed to her eyes as if to blot out the reality of what was happening to them. Mrs Mills sat on her other side, clasping Mama’s free hand tightly, her eyes never leaving the men in whose power they found themselves. Everett they might have dealt with between them, but this man was another matter, especially considering the pistol held in his belt, and the knife he had made certain they saw him tuck into his boot.

“I don’t know,” Everett replied, his expression grim, turning his attention to Rosemarie. “Well, Rosemarie. Where’s it all gone?”

“Sold,” Rosemarie replied at once, meeting his eyes. “What the devil do you think we’ve been living on, where the money came from that I sent you to keep you fed? Did you think I’d gone into business?” she asked, knowing better than to let her temper show but unable to stop herself.

“I can think of a business where she’d earn us a pretty penny,” Scuttler said with a lewd grin.

“You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head, you miserable excuse for a man,” Everett said sharply, and with less concern for his own safety that Rosemarie felt comfortable with. Did he have any idea what he was doing? “You’ll get your money.”

Everett moved to Rosemarie and crouched down in front of her. “Where is it?” he repeated, the look in his eyes suggesting she speak the truth.

Rosemarie hesitated. There was no power on earth that would make her admit to the little stash she had hidden in the tunnels of the under reach, but she needed to give him something he would believe. He had heard what she’d said to Lord Thomas, so he must know what she’d done.

“I’m s-so sorry, Everett. I… I went to Gillmont. I thought to expose those wicked men to the newspapers and shame them before the world. But I had to make the trip to London and the man I spoke with… he told me he was a journalist but… Oh, Everett, I’m so terribly sorry. He tricked me and took it. All of it.”

“All of it?” Everett growled, his fists clenching.

“Yes,” Rosemarie sobbed, though the tears were not for the ridiculous story she was pitching him but for herself, for her poor mama and for Mrs Mills, and the uncertain future that awaited them now when they’d seemed so close to being happy.

“God damn you, you stupid little bitch!” He raised his hand and Rosemarie steeled herself, but the blow never came.

“Gerald, no!”

Everett froze. That had been his father’s name. He stared at his mother, wide-eyed, as she gave a little shriek and fainted clean away, which was a blessed relief as it meant Everett took his anger away with him and vented it elsewhere. He still seemed to hold some affection for their mother, at least. Not enough to save her from the misery he was inflicting on her, but enough that he did not wish to do her harm, and the strain this was putting on her nerves was blatant enough.

It took a little while and several burned feathers before Mama revived, by which time Rosemarie heard a ripping sound coming from the dining room. Leaving Mama to Mrs Mills, she hurried to see what they were doing and covered her mouth with her hand when she saw Scuttler using his knife to cut the painting from its frame.

Everett heard the little shocked intake of breath however and turned, looking a little shame-faced at the treatment they were giving the masterpiece laid out on the floor. “We’ve no room for the frame,” he said irritably. “I’ll come back for it when I can, and we’ll sell it. It’s a handsome piece on its own.”

“That painting belongs to Mama,” Rosemarie cried, furious on her mother’s behalf, although she’d intended to sell it herself. “You’ve no right—”

“Too bad,” he snapped. “Shall I go now and ask her for her permission to sell it?”

“You’ll kill her,” Rosemarie said, the words as stark as they were true. “You are killing her. She’s not strong, Everett. She never has been.”

Everett snorted. “She’s a deal stronger than you give her credit for. She survived my father, didn’t she?” he said caustically and turned back to oversee Scuttler’s handiwork.

Rosemarie admitted herself surprised by that. He never referred to his father, never spoke of him. All she knew came from Mrs Mills, and all she would say was that he was an evil man who was cruel and violent to those who could not fight back, and they had all sighed with relief when he died young.