Lady Be Good: Lord Love a Lady Series, Book 5 Page 18

  Rome had gotten on well enough with the Creightons but perhaps that had been because he’d never deigned to cross their wishes considering Wesley.

  He’d watched the boy grow from a distance.

  “He needs to know you. It will make him a better person.”

  Rose’s words had compelled him onward in those moments when doubts had set in. Her confidence, her conviction, had bolstered his own.

  As angry as he’d been with her for rejecting him, he could not dismiss her from his thoughts. He hated that he craved her presence at his side, even in this, the task of persuading his son to return with him.

  His son would be grief-stricken. Rome hoped persuasion was enough, he’d rather not be heavy-handed at such a time.

  He wasn’t even sure he could be, if Wesley refused.

  Riding up to the small cottage on the edge of the almost non-existent village, the sun was low in the sky and he felt the cold more so than usual. Nearly six months had passed since he’d spoken with Wesley last fall, since he and Mrs. Creighton had departed from their tenant house on the edge of Harlow Point.

  Rome tied off his mount, promising her a thorough rubdown once they returned to the inn he’d passed a few miles back, before approaching the front door.

  This time, he rejected the notion that he was an interloper.

  Aside from the identifiable noises from some farm animals in the back, no sounds emerged from the house and his knocks clamored louder than he expected. The stench from the livestock seemed unusually thick.

  A rustling, a quiet again, and then heavy footsteps.

  The man who opened the door seemed none too pleased at the interruption. Rome did not care. He wanted to see his son. He’d been more than amicable in his dealings with his son’s grandparents.

  “You must be the boy’s blueblood father. I told you I’d keep him on. Wasn’t necessary for you to come all this way.”

  The age of the gentleman standing before him was nearly impossible to guess. He wasn’t tall, but he was sturdy looking, weathered.

  Bitter.

  Rome surmised him to be Mrs. Creighton’s brother.

  Rome set his jaw. “Oh, but it is. I am his father. I’ll see him now, if he’s about.”

  “He’s in the fields. Needed to check on the sheep. Should be back soon.”

  This gave Rome pause. It was winter. Cold. And the man of the house was inside.

  “The field behind the house?”

  “That’s right. You kin wait in here or come back tomorrow. Like I said, though, there’s no need.” But the man did not hold the door open any wider.

  A part of Rome was proud of the boy, proud that he knew how to work hard. Wesley would never suffer for lack of self-sufficiency. The viscount in him, however, wanted more for his son. He wanted Wesley to put his initiative to work at schooling. Rome knew his son was not simple. He had shown intelligence, even as a child.

  Movement caught his eye where in the distance several sheep seemed to be grazing lazily on a patch of green in an otherwise sparse looking field. He headed in that direction until his son, who was examining one of the sheep’s feet, realized he was no longer alone.

  Other than a brief expression of surprise, the boy’s face showed neither disappointment nor pleasure.

  “My Lord.” His voice had changed, and the low-pitched tones of a man took Rome by surprise.

  “I’m sorry about your grandmother.” Rome cleared his throat, not sure how to go about this.

  Wesley went about his business with nothing but a barely perceptible nod. This was what he’d run up against before. How did one become a father to someone who refused to speak with him? Who refused to look at him, even?

  He could not give Wesley all the rights he ought to have as his son, but what had Rose said? “You can give him other things. Share your knowledge of the land, your knowledge about life, about being a man.

  “Your knowledge of the land…”

  Rome flicked a glance at the animal. “Is she injured?”

  Wesley shook his head. “Her feet. She wasn’t walking yesterday and when I came back out today, she hadn’t moved.” He pointed behind him at another animal. “And it’s the same with that one. If she won’t walk, she can’t graze.”

  The boy was obviously concerned. More concerned than his uncle had appeared to be.

  Rome dropped to his haunches beside Wesley and stared over his son’s shoulder. The animal was obviously in pain. Pus oozed between her hooves where they appeared to have split and were separating.

  Damn. “Thrush.” He’d seen it spread across an entire herd. If he was to guess, the sheep had spent time near the house, likely wading in their own feces mixed with mud. “Did you notice it in any of the others?”

  Wesley looked up to him, and for the first time since he’d passed the age of nine, wasn’t glaring at him with suspicion. “No. But I haven’t inspected all of them.”

  There was work to be done, then. Rather than be annoyed by the task, Rome actually felt relief that he had something productive to set his mind to. For weeks now, he’d fought to push Rose from his mind. If the predicament of these smelly sheep wasn’t able to do the trick, he wasn’t sure what would.

  Even more importantly, the unexpected undertaking would buy him time with his son.

  He perused the area thoughtfully. “We’ll need to bring these two in. Clean the hooves. Soak the feet in chamber–lye. They’ll need to be fed. The others ought to be moved to dryer land.” He pointed north, to what appeared to be higher ground. “After we’ve inspected them.”

  Rome instructed his son as he caught hold of one of the sheep and lifted it onto his own shoulders. “You bring that one.” Wesley rose and Rome took note that he had become a tall, sturdy young man. Pierce would have apoplexy to see the animal resting on one of Rome’s finest jackets. After a quick glance at the second animal’s feet, he confirmed that she suffered the same plight as the first.

  “Chamber–lye, My Lord?”

  “Urine.”

  Wesley gave him an odd look but then nodded. He freely asked all sorts of questions of Rome as they walked back to the stable.

  Apparently, the time Rome had spent in the fields at Harlow Point had not been wasted after all. For the first time in years, his son was talking to him.

  “Black.” Margaret smiled.

  “Milk and sugar, please,” Rose answered as the countess, Josephine, poured steaming tea into four delicate cups decorated with tiny flowers and vines.

  “Oh, you shall be a friend to me indeed, Rose.” The older woman smiled up at her as she spooned sugar into two of the cups. “My children make fun of me, even Natalie, who only takes milk with hers. One would think their mother deserves more respect than that.” But she sent an affectionate smile in her daughter’s direction.

  “I envy you, Rose. Penelope said chocolates and candy never settle upon you, whereas the moment I indulge, they immediately take up residence upon my hips. Especially after our little viscount came along.” Lady Hawthorne smoothed the front of her gown. She’d given birth not quite a year before and although not as slim as she’d been as a debutante, boasted a most attractive figure.

  Nearly identical to her mother’s.

  “I’m certain I caught Lord Darlington eating chocolates just after Christmas.” Margaret laughed. “So, one of your children, anyhow, has inherited your sweet tooth.”

  “He was!” Lady Hawthorne turned to Margaret in surprise. “He weaseled the chocolate prize away from me. Which reminds me. He owes me a favor.” Rome’s sister scowled. “I don’t know where he’s gone off to. He promised he was coming and then without a word disappeared from Summers Park. I was certain he would be here when we arrived. Have you still heard nothing, Mother?”

  “Mr. Pierce said he’s visiting a former tenant in Wales.” The countess shook her head. “That boy never stays put in one place for long. Well, I suppose he isn’t a boy anymore.”

  “But they’re always your boy
s, I imagine,” Margaret inserted. Rose couldn’t help but notice disappointment in Margaret’s expression. Riding in a carriage for two long days had allowed them to share a great deal, and Margaret had confided to her that before her husband passed, she’d given birth to a stillborn. Looking sheepish, she had admitted she was open to the idea of marrying again. She’d grieved her husband for over three years now, and she yearned to have children before she was too old.

  Already, she thought she might be getting too old to marry, but she was hopeful. If Lord Darlington might be interested in an arrangement, she was willing to consider it.

  Rose had mostly listened. Penelope had asked her to encourage Margaret, and Rose had agreed. But everything had changed, hadn’t it? She did not want to encourage Margaret if Rome no longer intended to court her. And if he did… Rose could not comprehend being a part of it.

  The woman was all but expecting a proposal from him this spring, and he’d failed to arrive at his parents’ estate as promised. Rose wanted to be angry with Darlington on Margaret’s behalf, but she could not do so. It would be the height of hypocrisy on her part.

  “Indeed, they are. Stone and Peter arrived a few days ago, however. Stone is working on my husband’s pet project, an irrigation system, which has taken on a life of its own.” Josephine rolled her eyes as she explained it for Rose’s benefit. “And my son Peter is locked inside the music room most of the time.”

  “With his cello?” Rose remembered Rome telling her about him.

  Lady Ravensdale looked at her curiously. “Not many know about Peter’s… obsession.” She did not ask Rose how she had learned of it, but the statement was a question in itself. “Do you play, Rose?”

  “Oh, no. It’s a lovely instrument but I prefer the pianoforte.”

  “You did not tell me you played,” Margaret admonished her. “We would have had you perform for us at Summers Park.”

  Rose stared down at her hands. “I have not had much occasion to practice for the past decade. It is something I enjoyed mostly in my youth.” She didn’t want to explain to their hostess why this was the case.

  “I insist you make use of the music room as well then.”

  “Oh, but I would not presume to interrupt Mr. Spencer’s practice.” Rose swallowed hard.

  But the countess was smiling. “Oh, my dear. He plays mostly at night. The room will be yours without interruption during most of the daylight hours.”

  Rose glanced at Margaret, who nodded encouragingly.

  “Thank you,” she finally answered. “I am more than pleased to take you up on your kind offer.” Normally, she had a plethora of duties to attend to and would not have dared for fear that other servants would catch her at it. But this visit was already proving to be as far from normal as she’d known in a very long time.

  Had she retained any of her skills? At the thought, she could hardly wait to run her fingers across the keys. She wanted to flex her hands, and songs she’d learned long ago came to mind. She could dwell upon none of this for long, however, as a familiar and somewhat intimidating woman appeared at the door.

  “Lady Sheffield,” Josephine welcomed one of the women Rose knew to be a Patroness at Almacks.

  Rose and Margaret both rose at the elderly lady’s arrival.

  “Aunt Eleanor.” Lady Hawthorne crossed the room to kiss her aunt’s cheek. “I didn’t realize you had arrived already.”

  Rose wondered who she’d met this past Christmas who was not related in some way to the older woman, who spent the next half an hour regaling them all with stories and antics involving her great-nephew, Cortland’s heir, as well as her great-great-niece, Rome’s youngest brother’s son’s daughter.

  By the time the tea had gone cold, the ladies present seemed more like old friends than the sticklers of the ton Rose had presumed them to be.

  They all treated her with the utmost courtesy. Not one of them asked her to fetch their bonnet or expected her to sit in the corner. Penelope had told her this was what it would be like for her to act as a chaperone to Margaret. Why on earth had they never thought of it before?

  Just before Rose was to be sent up north, Penelope’s governess had quit without giving notice, which hadn’t been an unusual occurrence. Baron and Baroness Riverton had thought to hire a lady’s maid, instead, who might be better at keeping their daughter in line.

  Penelope had suggested Rose…

  Because, of course, Rose would not keep Penelope from doing pretty much exactly what she wanted. In fact, in those days, Rose likely would have encouraged her.

  Rose had hastily accepted, devastated by the thought of moving away to live with her aunt.

  They really ought to have given the matter more thought.

  “He must have changed his mind. We were sat beside one another at dinner on the Third Night and I went on and on about Niles and his illness and the very next morning, the man packed up and left.”

  Margaret sat at the vanity in Rose’s chamber and Rose could not help herself. She’d sent Hazel away most nights and insisted upon brushing out Margaret’s long raven tresses so that she could braid them. Being idle was not something she could ever embrace.

  “I’m certain that’s not it. And for the record, Margaret, you don’t go on and on about anything. You are a most interesting conversationalist and I’d suspect that even if you were talking about your late husband it would only reveal what a sympathetic and compassionate soul you are.”

  Rose swallowed hard as she separated the thick strands into three separate sections.

  He’d proposed to Rose very late on the Third Night. He’d told Rose that he loved her, and she’d sent him away.

  Because she’d been afraid.

  Having spent a lovely afternoon and evening with his mother and father and siblings, however, she wondered…

  “It is no matter.” Margaret stared into the mirror and nodded firmly. “Nothing had been made official. Knowing Danbury and Penelope, both of them likely had the cart before the horses anyhow.”

  Rose grimaced. Margaret did, indeed, know her brother. And her sister-in-law as well. It would not be the first time the couple acted impulsively…

  “Mr. Stone Spencer seems quite taken with you,” Rose pointed out. “And I am not putting any carts before any horses.”

  Margaret blushed. “He is a kind gentleman as well.”

  And if the Spencer’s second son did not pan out for her friend, Rose would simply send her in the direction of the third one.

  Chapter 19

  Who is Rose?

  Over the next three weeks, Rose would have thought that Lady Ravensdale would have grown tired of having guests, but she had not. The countess, in fact, seemed to thrive on company; setting up outings to the nearby town of Bath, arranging for them to attend concerts, take the waters and of course, shopping.

  Penelope had not allowed Rose to travel without funds, either. Rose wanted to feel guilty, but Danbury had insisted the additional money was to be considered a bonus for putting up with his wife for all those years before he could ‘tame’ her.

  And so, Rose tentatively allowed herself to make a few purchases, one of them, a small box of chocolates. She would bring them out on those late nights when she could not shove him out of her thoughts. If she couldn’t indulge in her true craving, at least she’d have something sweet.

  Sitting in between Josephine and Margaret in the magnificent Theatre Royal, she could not help but gaze around her in awe at the sheer size of the structure. The first half of the concert had thoroughly mesmerized her, and she could hardly wait for the intermission to come to an end.

  “I was struck dumb with awe the first time Broderick brought me here.” Josephine leaned closer so that Rose could hear her over the din of conversations roaring around them. “It had just been built, and he’d only just assumed his title.”

  Rose furrowed her brows. Somehow, she’d forgotten that the countess had not been born into the aristocracy. “He said you worked in serv
ice when he was a child.” The words escaped past her lips before Rose could think to stop them.

  Josephine turned to look at her with narrowed eyes and nodded. “Darlington remembers what the other children have forgotten. I’m surprised he said anything. I had not realized you had become so well acquainted with him.”

  Josephine knows! At that moment, Rose realized that the countess knew exactly who Rose was and what her true position was in life. It explained her confusion that Rose had ever spoken with her son.

  Overcome by a sudden onslaught of insecurity, Rose dropped her gaze. “He mentioned it to Lady Danbury.”

  Despite the lovely gown, the money in her purse, and the fact that she was sitting in an awe-inspiring theatre awaiting the second half of a world-class concert, the reality of her true position in life came rushing back to squelch any different ideas she’d begun to form about herself. Who was she to be sitting beside the Countess of Ravensdale, calling her Josephine, of all things?

  Conversation hummed all around them, but it barely registered as Rose’s own insignificance reared itself into her awareness. She was an imposter, a phony.

  “I worked as a maid—at the Tipping Pot Inn—on the edge of Cheapside.”

  Rose turned to stare at the countess, who was gazing directly ahead, almost as though she’d spoken to herself.

  Rose had known that Rome’s mother worked and yet for some reason she had pictured the woman as a teacher, or a governess. That would not have been possible, however, for a married woman with children.

  “It was the only employment I could find. Broderick barely made enough for one to live on, as an apprentice to another solicitor. We had no choice.” She shrugged.

  “Your parents?” Rose could not help but ask. This woman had been a maid?