A Rose Before Dying (25 page)

At the turning for the road to Rochester,
Charles hesitated. If they were wrong, trying to locate Tunnes
would only delay his efforts to find Rose. But how else could he be
sure to find her?

He turned toward Rochester.

Tunnes’s cottage was easy enough to locate. A
number of roses grew prolifically over the small plot of land,
including one covered with white roses that reminded Charles of the
rose Ariadne identified as the White Bell. In fact, several of the
bushes looked familiar. He examined a few plants and found several
canes showing clean, fresh wounds with the edges just starting to
darken.

It had to be Tunnes. He grew roses and had
experience dressing as a woman. Despite this thought, a small,
niggling doubt haunted Charles, something felt wrong although the
rose garden should have allayed his doubts.

He was still bending over a newly planted
rose, eyeing the crumbling, dark brown earth, when a woman’s sharp
voice interrupted.

“You there! What are you doing in Mr.
Tunnes’s garden?”

He straightened. “I beg your pardon, I was
just admiring his roses. Do you know what variety this is?”

“How in Heaven’s name would I know?” She
wiped her reddened, chapped hands on an apron that had seen better
days. “I’m no gardener. I keep his house when he cares to pay me
and there’s an end to it.”

“Is Mr. Tunnes at home?”

“No he is not.”

“Do you know where I might find him?”

“No I do not.” Her small, brown eyes were as
hard as river-smoothed pebbles.

“When might he be back?”

“Persistent lad, aren’t you?”

“I merely—”

“You can
merely
leave, if you please!
You won’t make a fool of me with talk of this or that rose. You’re
after money if I don’t miss my guess! But he’s not here, so get on
with you! You can leave the bill, if you please! I’ll add it to the
pile on the sideboard.”

Charles smiled. “You’re very astute. I
am
here about money, but I mean to offer it to Mr. Tunnes,
not collect it. I came about a role in a new production.”

“Role?” She eyed him as if she expected him
to begin spinning on one leg and hollering like a madman.

“Yes. Or is he no longer practicing his
art?”

“Oh, he’s still at it, right enough. Went on
his summer tour, didn’t he?”

“Summer tour?” Hope faltered.

“Left nearly four days ago.”

“I see. Do you know his destination?”

“Well, his troop usually starts south and
then moves on up to Folkestone and Maidenhead.”

“You said,
usually
? Did he decide
against it this year?”

She shook her head and rubbed her knobby
fingers. The thick, reddened knuckles clearly pained her. “Needed a
change, he said. Had a chance to see the sea, and he meant to take
it.”

“He left the country?” So much for Mr. Tunnes
and Charles’s hope of questioning him about Rose.

Or exonerating his uncle.

She laughed and shook her head. “Not him, no.
He’ll never leave England. Gets seasick in a rowboat, he does. No,
he took a position with a new troop for the summer. In Rye, that
is.”

“Rye!” He’d sent Ariadne straight into the
lion’s den! When he caught the strange look on the housekeeper’s
face, he forced a smile and touched the brim of his hat. “Thank
you. Perhaps I can tempt him away.”

Her pebble eyes never wavered from his face.
“Good luck to you, then.” Her tone indicated her deep conviction
that there was insufficient luck in the world to grant Charles’s
wish.

“One last thing,” he said, before she closed
the door. Perhaps he could gain something to help him in his search
for Rose, after all. “Do you know if Mr. Tunnes is in the habit of
visiting the Bell public house?”

“The Bell? How he spends his time is his own
affair. Despite what you think, Mr. Tunnes is not in the habit of
dragging me with him when he has a fancy for a pint.”

“I suppose not—” The door shut before he
finished speaking.

He shrugged and climbed onto his horse. As he
gripped the reins, he hesitated. Was he chasing phantoms while Rose
might be dying? Had they guessed the correct name for the white
rose or was “White Bell” another false lead. Without Tunnes, he had
no way to confirm their guess and delay would only endanger her
further. His fingers tightened, and he turned the horse’s head
toward the southeast road. The Bell was on the road to Rye. Tunnes
had passed it every time he traveled to London if he went by way of
Maidstone.

He must have hidden Rose there. Four days
were enough time to kidnap her, leave the box of roses, and hide
Rose.

His horse was relatively fresh so Charles
urged it forward at a light canter. Then in a burst of frustration,
he muttered, “Bloody Hell!”

In response, the animal lengthened its stride
into a gallop.

Tension tightened his muscles as he crouched
over the horse’s neck. The pounding hoof beats sounded Rose’s name
over and over again. Wind cut through his jacket, and he clung to
the idea that if Rose could survive the streets of London, she
should be able to survive a few nights in an English inn.

An hour later, the horse’s gallop
disintegrated into a shambling walk. Its hooves barely cleared the
uneven surface of the road, and its head hung down, bobbing with
each step as it slogged wearily along. Flies nipped both Charles
and the horse, teasing them forward.

He shifted in the saddle and waved off the
latest assault of bugs. Leaves on the trees along the road flashed
silver, reminding him of his nanny’s warning. When leaves exposed
their silver undersides, a storm was on the way. In the distance,
thunder grumbled.

A storm was coming. If Rose was outside… He
sat up straighter and urged the weary horse to walk faster.

The summer evening drifted into night and a
few stars—or planets, he supposed, given their brightness—flickered
between thin curtains of clouds. Sweat trickled down his back and
between his thighs, generated by the heat pouring off the horse’s
flanks. The sun had beaten down on both of them for the better part
of a day, and now he felt as if he sat roasting on a pile of
coals.

Even the evening breeze, picking up now that
the sun had passed beyond the edge of the horizon, was unable to
cool his skin.

The horse flicked its ears and picked up its
pace when the inn came into view. It headed straight for the
courtyard as if sensing the deep trough of cool water inside. As
the horse stopped to drink, Charles climbed down, stiff and
relieved to get off the barrel-shaped furnace. An
intelligent-looking lad came out to take the reins and despite his
parched throat, Charles patted the sweating neck of his horse as it
drank gustily.

“You haven’t seen a little brown-haired girl
during the last two days, have you? In the company of a red-haired
gentleman?”

The boy laughed. “Seen any number of
brown-haired girls. Women, too. Most of ‘em in the company of
gentlemen.”

“This little girl is about five.”

“A young one, then.”

“My niece,” he lied in an attempt to get the
grinning lad to take matters a bit more seriously. “She’s missing.
Run away.”

“Run away? In the company of a redheaded
man?”

“I was hoping she was in his company. He’s,
uh, my brother-in-law.”

“What? You’re missing both your
brother-in-law and your niece? What kind of tale is this,
then?”

“My niece ran away,” he repeated patiently.
“And I’d hoped he’d found her.”

“What makes you think they’d have come this
way, then?”

“They were on their way from London to Rye.
The carriage lost a wheel up the road and my brother-in-law went
for help. When he returned, the child was gone. He sent his
coachman back to London in case she should wander that way, and he
continued. Here. The coachman came to me, asking for my aid. I’m
sincerely hoping it was a false alarm and the pair are already
safe.” His story grew more elaborate as he tried to instill a sense
of urgency in the boy without raising a hue-and-cry that would only
result in more panic and confusion. Then he realized his reluctance
to rouse the countryside arose from his fear that Mr. Tunnes would
use the ensuing maelstrom of activity to escape.

But it might help to find Rose. Alive.

“Well.” The lad stroked the horse’s soft
forehead and scratched a long, twitching ear. “Well, we had a
red-haired gent a few days ago. But he came through with the mail
coach. I can’t say as I remember another. Was he a regular
carrot-top or more sandy-haired, like?”

That was indeed the question. But if Mr.
Tunnes was the redhead the lad remembered on the mail coach, it
seemed odd at best. How could he have kidnapped a child and carried
her away on such a public transport? He could have drugged her to
keep her silent, but laudanum could kill a small child if one used
the same dosage as an adult. Possibilities strung out in an endless
chain.

“Copper red.” He hazarded a guess, fearing it
no longer mattered. Tunnes be damned. He needed to find Rose, one
way or the other. “It may be that he continued on, then, to Rye. If
he did, it’s likely he didn’t find the child. So have you seen a
little girl, about five years of age, with brown hair and blue
eyes? Alone?”

The young man flushed uneasily and rubbed the
horse’s head more vigorously. “There were a girl beggin’ for scraps
yesterday.”

“By herself?”

He shook his head. “Looked that way. At
first. But seems she had a governess with her.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither did I. Gave her a bit of bread and a
pickle—she seemed partial to pickles—thinking she were alone. A
beggar, like. Seemed half-starved and her face was as dusty as mine
with big blue eyes shining out under a mop of brown hair. Anyway,
she’d scarce eaten when this Long Meg grabs her by the wrist and
drags her off.” He shook his head. “Sorry—doesn’t sound like your
niece, but them blue eyes caught at you.”

“What’s your name?” Charles asked in a blunt
non sequitur.

“Sam, sir.”

“Well, Sam, you seem like a knowledgeable
lad. I’m Lord Castlemoor.” The lad’s eyes grew round with awe.
Charles pressed a coin in his hand. “I’d be grateful for your
assistance. Do you know where they went? Did they get into a
carriage?”

“That’s the odd thing, my lord. They just
vanished.”

“What do you mean,
vanished
? How could
they vanish?”

“Well, there weren’t no coach. Nor horse,
neither. But one minute they was here and the next they was gone.”
The horse pushed him off and shook its head, clearly irritated by
Sam’s incessant rubbing. “Sorry, my lord. I liked her and watched
the road for sign of her, but I never saw her go.”

“Are there houses nearby? Anywhere they could
have gone?”

Sam shook his head, his features squeezed in
concentration. “Not ‘less they know someone. It’s a small place,
and I’ve not seen her since.”

“She sounds like my niece.” Charles gripped
the boy’s shoulder. “Perhaps she met this woman on the road—a
stranger. I’ve heard of women who become unbalanced for want of a
child. I fear she may have fallen into the hands of such a one.
Help me search. My niece must be found. Her name is Rose, and her
father must have gone on to Rye in his search. There’ll be a reward
if you’re quick enough.”

“No need. Let me tell my father—he’s the head
stableman!”

“Please, don’t tell him what this is about.
If this woman hears of our search, she may harm Rose for fear of
losing her. We must be…careful.” No need to start gossip that might
reach Tunnes and make him harm Rose out of panic.

“But what am I to tell ‘im? He’ll ask why I’m
leaving.”

Charles handed him a gold coin. “Give him
this. Tell him I’ve asked for you to guide me along the road. It’s
dark, and I’m a stranger here, unsure of my way. It’s believable
enough.” Was he being unduly secretive?

He couldn’t shake the feeling that haste and
circumspection were needed.

Presumably, the coin satisfied the head
stableman because Sam hurried back to Charles with an excited grin.
“He says to go on—he doesn’t need me anymore today. Fact is, he
won’t need much of anything, now. He’s got the means to buy a
bottle’s deepest friendship.”

Charles looked at him, rather surprised by
his cynicism. “Have you any idea where that lady may have taken the
child?”

He shook his head and waited. After a moment,
Charles walked to the road and studied it first in one direction
and then another. The narrow street was nearly indistinguishable
from the surrounding landscape. Only faint, silvery starlight made
it slightly lighter gray amidst the blackness of the hedgerows and
blocky shapes of a few houses further along the road.

His eyes lingered on the street to his right,
leading to a few houses with the flicker of lamps lighting their
windows. He took a few tentative steps in that direction. In the
distance, the golden glow of candlelight shimmered like fireflies
dancing through a garden. He tried to imagine what Tunnes would do,
dressed as a woman and accompanied by a child. A recalcitrant,
unhappy child, who would make him regret dragging her away from
Rosewell.

He savagely hoped she’d driven Tunnes
mad.

Remembering the windswept isolation of the
marsh where they’d discovered Miss Baxter, he decided against the
village. Too many people who might discover her prematurely, and
Tunnes had chosen a secluded spot before, away from human
habitation.

A chill curl of air slipped under his jacket.
The warm, summer day had cooled into night. Rose might be anywhere,
lying hurt and exposed to the elements. Staked out like Miss
Baxter. While she was strong—a survivor of London’s back
alleys—she’d be lost out here.

“You would have seen them if they left by the
road.” He looked around again, trying to think matters through.