A Rose Before Dying (23 page)

Ariadne pressed his hand gratefully before
they escaped the confines of the kitchen for the relative cool of
the neat, geometric path winding through the garden. They had not
gone more than a dozen feet before she stopped and turned to
him.

“Mr. Tunnes is an actor. He was one of my
father’s best customers—and he had an affair with Lady Banks prior
to your uncle’s, um, friendship with her.” She gripped his sleeve
and tilted her face upward with an earnest expression on her face.
Her shadowed eyes glittered. “My father had to break up a fight
between Sir Edward and Mr. Tunnes just a year ago. We had a new
rose, you see. And he was here again recently to purchase a ‘Rose
des Meaux’. It must be him!”

“But Miss Baxter said it was a woman—”

“That’s precisely the point! Don’t you see?
Mr. Tunnes frequently took the role of a lady. On the stage.” An
excited giggle escaped her. “A remarkably beautiful lady, in fact.
My father often remarked on it. She—he—was more beautiful than many
of the most celebrated women in London. Or so my father said.”

“So you believe Mr. Tunnes is responsible?”
Excitement coursed through him.

“Yes! Who else would wish to hurt your uncle
in this way?”

“Who, indeed?” Charles stared at her upturned
face. Dare he kiss her and tell her how he felt? No. The heaviness
in his chest reminded him, she’d made her choice. And he had an
investigation to conduct, even if something in Ariadne’s tale
failed to resonate with him after that first, hopeful flush.

It sounded worth investigating, however. And
he had to follow any lead, no matter how peculiar, if he hoped to
rescue his uncle and end this nightmare.

Hesitation would only place more innocent
souls in danger.

He took a step back to release himself from
her grasp. She followed him, stepping closer. “You’ll look for
Rose, too, won’t you? I’m frantic with worry. If only I had
returned sooner…”

“I’ll find her. Is there anything else?” He
studied her, willing her to explain the scene that had greeted him
when he arrived.

Deny your engagement. Admit it was a
mistake!

She flushed and seemed to hesitate. But after
catching the avid look of the maid standing nearby, she bit her
lower lip. She shook her head.

“If you need anything—anything—you need only
ask. Anything at all.”

“Thank you.” Her words were so low he almost
missed them.

Unable to stop himself, he touched her wrist
in a gesture meant to be sympathetic. She didn’t appear to notice.
Her head bowed so he couldn’t see her face.

He swore at himself for being several kinds
of a fool. Their walk had taken them in a loop through the herb
garden, and as they neared the kitchen door, he remembered the
cook’s dramatic sweep of the arm and shaking finger as she pointed
to the box on the table. Or the mounds of vegetables next to
it.

The box could have contained peas for all he
knew.

When they entered the kitchen, two young
maids were seated at the table. One peeled potatoes while the other
busied herself shelling peas. The cook, liberally covered with
flour, was kneading a huge mass of dough at the other end of the
battered table.

He removed his soft, felt hat and eyed the
brown-haired maid shelling peas. “Do you remember the circumstances
of Rose’s departure? Did she say anything?”

The maids looked at each other with blank
faces and then transferred their gazes to the cook. “No, my lord,”
the one shelling peas answered. “Nuffin’ as I remember. She just
disappeared.”

The cook, Mrs. Holdfirth, rubbed her forehead
with her thick forearm, leaving a wide swath of flour behind. “That
box, there, came. As I already told you, my lord. It’s addressed to
Miss Rose Barlowe. To my way of thinking, if you want to know where
that child went, you ought to start there.”

Worry trickled down his back. He managed a
tight smile as he reached for the box.

It was ridiculously light. That fact only
increased his sense of wrongness. Ariadne stared at it,
white-faced. Her hands gripped her elbows so tightly the fingers
looked like carved marble. He undid the twine and folded back the
top flap. At first, all he saw were damp curls of torn paper. He
poked at them. Something pricked his fingertip.

Two intertwined roses nestled inside amongst
the layers of paper.

“What is it?” Ariadne asked sharply, moving
closer.

“Nothing.” He glanced around at the avid
curiosity glowing in the eyes of the servants. He tucked the box
under his arm. “I nearly forgot—I left something in your greenhouse
the other day. Would it be possible for me to retrieve it?”

Ariadne looked at him. A flicker of
comprehension stirred in the depths of her hazel eyes. “Yes.
There’s a shortcut through the garden, and I wanted to show you my
latest batch of seedlings. Some are quite promising. If you intend
to start a rose garden, my lord, I hope you might consider
acquiring one or two.” She forced a smile. “That is, if they grow
to be as lovely as I anticipate.”

Reaching over her shoulder, he pushed the
kitchen door open and held it for her. When she brushed past him,
the smooth line of her neck and graceful shoulder caught his gaze
and his heart. A heated rush curled through him. The forgotten door
swung shut of its own accord, slapping his back.

Ariadne walked swiftly, skirting the low,
fragrant beds of thyme, lavender, and basil. As they neared the
fork in the graveled walk that branched toward the greenhouse, he
took one step in that direction only to discover Ariadne moving in
the other.

He stopped. “Ariadne?”

Instead of answering, she moved more swiftly.
Beyond her shoulder, he spotted the white columns of a lovely
little gazebo, partially enclosed on one side. She climbed the
shallow steps and walked through the domed entry before
disappearing inside.

Uncomfortably aware of the impropriety of
joining her in such a secluded spot, he nonetheless followed. The
tiny, ornamental house had only three walls. The fourth opened into
the rounded and domed colonnade. The interior walls were liberally
pierced with wide windows, under which rested long benches covered
with thick pillows. A round maple table stood in the center between
a pair of gracefully carved chairs.

“I’m sorry.” She turned to face him, her
hands clenched. “I—we couldn’t speak in front of the servants. It’s
bad enough as things stand—oh, I beg your pardon! That sounds
hysterical, doesn’t it?” A trembling smile crossed her pale lips
before she covered them with her fingers.

He took a step toward her, hand outstretched,
and then willed himself to halt.

A sob shook her.

“To hell with it!” He threw the box onto the
table and took her in his arms, pressing her head into his
neck.

Laying his cheek against her soft, chestnut
hair, he tightened his hold until her trembling subsided. Her
fragrant hair smelled of sunshine and herbs. He breathed deeply,
unsure how he could ever let her go. He wanted her more than any
woman he’d known.

At last she pushed him away. After a brief,
shaky laugh, she turned aside. Her arms wrapped around her waist as
if desperate to retain his warmth, and it was all he could do to
stand and watch without touching her.

“Rose… That box has something to do with
Rose’s disappearance, doesn’t it?” she asked, her voice hoarse. She
glanced back toward the house. “I didn’t want the others to
know—they might panic…”

“Of course.” He picked up the box and lifted
the flap. As gently as he could, he removed the two roses and laid
them on the table. One pink rose, one white. “Do you recognize
these varieties?”

As he spoke, he dumped out the box and sifted
through the paper. As he expected, a note had been tucked to one
side, wrapped in oilskin to protect it from the moisture used to
keep the roses fresh.

She pressed her fingers to her mouth and
swallowed. Then, with a shaking hand, she picked up one of the
sprays—the one with simple pink flowers. “This one—it’s just,” a
hiccupping laugh broke through her words, “it’s just a common rose.
No special variety.” She dropped it on the table and covered her
face with her hands. “I can’t bear to think of him hurting her! I
can’t bear any of this! Why doesn’t it stop?”

This time, when he tried to offer her comfort
she resisted. She sat down heavily on one of the wooden chairs and
rubbed her face, breathing deeply with her effort to regain her
self-control. His heart ached. She clearly regretted her previous
weakness in letting him hold her.

“I’ll find her—I promise you that.” He
removed the oilcloth from the note and read it to himself.
Lost
and found, then lost again
, he read silently.

“What does it say?”

“Nothing useful.”

She wiped her eyes and held out her hand.
“Give it to me. I must know!”

He placed it on her palm.

Her eyes scanned the lines twice before she
threw it onto the table. “You’re right—it means nothing. Just a
taunt.” A flush of anger burned her cheeks. “If that isn’t just
like Mr. Tunnes. You must find him and make him tell us where she
is!”

“I will. You have my word.” He pushed the
white rose toward her. “Have you any notion what this one might
be?”

Sighing, she picked it up. This time, she
counted the petals and studied it for several minutes before
dropping it. “There are so many white roses. This game is cruel!
Senselessly
cruel
!”

“Then you can’t identify it?”

“To be honest, I’ve done nothing but guess.
Without seeing the bush itself and studying it over several
seasons, it’s nearly impossible. Is it any wonder Mr. Lee refused
when you told him an incorrect guess might be a death sentence for
some poor soul?” She raised the white rose. “This one—I’m not sure.
I’m so tired…”

“Then rest. Let me find Mr. Tunnes. He’ll
lead us to Rose, voluntarily or not.”

“Wait—I’ll hazard a guess. It may help you
when you find him.” Her mouth curved in a small, gallant smile. “Or
serve to confuse you further. Here are most of the names I
know—assuming this is even the correct variety. It may be a variety
of
Rosa francofurtana
. Also known as
Rosier Campanulé à
fleurs blanches
or Rosa Campanulata alba.”

Those names suggested nothing. “Is there an
English name?”

“Some call it the White Bell rose.”

“White Bell? That sounds like the name of an
inn, but I don’t know of any called the White Bell.” Then a flash
of inspiration burst. “There is an inn called the Bell, though, in
Bredhurst. It’s painted white, and it’s on one of the roads to Rye.
If you go through Maidstone.”

Eyes glowing, she stood. “Do you think she
could be there?”

“It’s worth investigating. It’s an area he
may know well if he regularly goes to Rye.” He grasped her hands
and in his excitement, kissed her full on the mouth.

Instead of thrusting him away, she flung her
arms around him and pulled him closer. When he released her lips,
she pressed her face into his shoulder as if reluctant to let him
go. All he could do was hold her and breathe in the clean scent of
her skin and hair. He pressed his mouth against the soft, warm
curve of her shoulder and threaded his fingers through the curls at
the nape of her neck wishing he could stay. The muslin gown she
wore was so light she felt unclothed against him, supple and damp
with the July heat.

“I’m sorry.” She pushed him away when his
hand rested on the curve of her hip. “You must think me wanton.”
She stared at the marble floor, her skin flushed.

“No.” But he could not help glancing toward
the house.

She noticed the movement and took a step
further away. A strained, white look possessed her face. “It was
not of my choosing. My father arranged this betrothal—a business
deal. Nothing more.”

“Then you—”

“I don’t love him. But the contracts have
been signed. My father made sure of that before he died. Mr.
Phillips owns me, just as he owns Rosewell and the business. Or at
least a percentage of each.”

“Surely, if the arrangement is distasteful to
you, you could terminate it?”

“How? How am I to do that? All my funds are
tied up in this house and the nursery. If I resist, I’ll lose it
all. I have no money to acquire his portion.”

A decent man would be reasonable. He should
advise her that her father knew best. He’d made arrangements to
secure her future. Love rarely provided as firm a basis for
marriage as common backgrounds and beneficial finances.

But he stubbornly refused to obey reason.

“Then delay.” He grabbed her arms and gave
her a gentle shake. “Just a few days. Until we find Rose and settle
this terrible business.” What was he saying? He was encouraging her
to gamble with Rosewell, the home she loved. And he’d seen her
glowing face as she potted her seedlings. What right did he have to
ask her to risk the things she loved most? He didn’t know what
arrangements had been made, or if he could overturn them honorably.
Nonetheless, he couldn’t help himself. “If you must, return to Rye.
Tell them Miss Baxter needs you.”

She stared at him, her eyes suddenly bright
and clear as she gripped his lapel. “Go with me! Please!”

“No. I dare not. I must find Rose, if she’s
still alive.” He couldn’t forget the way the little girl clung to
him with trust filling her eyes. How could he abandon her? “And I
must bring Mr. Tunnes to the coroner’s inquest. If there’s any
possibility of proving my uncle’s innocence, it may lie with him.
And Dr. Humphrey. In fact, if I can persuade you to leave again, so
soon after returning to your home, you could carry a note to him.
He must come to London and testify concerning Sir Edward’s
incapacity. And the state of Miss Baxter. Thus far, it’s only my
inexpert opinion that he was too crippled to murder both Lady Banks
and Mr. Nivelle.”