A Rose Before Dying (29 page)

Tunnes had also lost out on the acquisition
of a new rose that the Wellfleets had offered a year ago, just
before Mr. Wellfleet died. Sir Edward had obtained the bush.

Competitive men were known to fight over such
things. A recent news article gleefully documented a brawl at a
local nursery when several rare roses were put up for auction.
Interested parties got into a serious fight when there were fewer
bushes than prospective buyers.

Finally, Rose had been attacked, and her only
sin was her presence at Rosewell while these tragic events
unfolded.

The fact proved that the murderer’s interest
had shifted to center more firmly on Rosewell.

Ariadne.

A shiver ran through him. He gripped the arms
of his chair. While his eyes watched the gradual lightening of the
sky, he barely noted the change. If the madman was interested in
the occupants of Rosewell, Ariadne might not be safe. Whoever was
responsible knew Rye and had gone there before.

Who knew Rye? Certainly, Sir Edward, but
there were others.

With complete certainty, he knew the
inhabitants of the cottage were in danger, and with the exception
of the Bewforest women, there was no one capable of putting up a
defense.

Some fact shifted in his mind like a shape
half-glimpsed through a storm cloud.

“Rose.” He lightly touched the little girl’s
shoulder.

She shrugged off his touch and burrowed
deeper into her pillow, pulling the quilt up to her ear. It was
cruel to wake her. Her cheeks were flushed with sleep and her pale
brown hair curled softly around her face, giving her a cherubic
appearance that was entirely undeserved. With a sigh, he touched
her shoulder again.

She opened one blue eye and glared at him.
“Wotcher want?”

“I’m sorry to wake you, but we must be up and
dressed soon. Miss Wellfleet is in Rye. We’re going to visit her.
You want to see her, don’t you?”

“Not this early.” She resolutely closed her
eyes and pulled the covers over her head.

He tugged the covers back. “Come on, my
little cherub.”

“Leave off, it’s not even daylight!”

“It is. Just.” He pulled the quilt off the
bed, folded it into a plump square and placed it on the chest of
drawers. “Now get out of bed. I’ll send a maid up with water so you
can wash and dress.”

“Wash?” She stared at him, pulling the sheet
around her. “Wash? I nearly drowned last night and you want me to
take another bath?”

“Yes. You want to look your best when we see
Miss Wellfleet, don’t you?”

“I’ll hardly look my best if I’m blue-lipped
and drowned, now will I?”

He laughed. “You won’t drown just by washing
your face and hands.”

“A fat lot you know for all your fancy words.
It ain’t natural, all this bathing. Everyone knows washing too much
will kill you.
Everyone
!”

“That’s a gross exaggeration. Now I expect
you to be up, washed, and dressed in a half hour or there shall be
no breakfast before we leave.”

He waited until she touched one grubby foot
to the bare floor before he left to fetch the maid and a ewer of
water. As he shut the door, he could hear Rose muttering vague
imprecations and a dire prophecy along the lines of a firm
expectation she’d die within the hour, just see if she didn’t, from
some terrible disease brought on by too much bathing and arising so
early in the morning. Then they’d all be sorry, see if they
weren’t.

He chuckled as he descended the stairs. At
least Rose had the luxury of complaining while her belly was full.
It was more than she had yesterday.

After arranging for their journey, he
returned a half hour later to find a maid braiding Rose’s hair. A
rather limp blue ribbon the color of the little girl’s eyes hung
over the maid’s wrist. While he waited with one hand on the
doorknob, the young woman tied an expert bow at the end of the
braid and declared Rose ready for anything.

“Well, I were scrubbed raw,” Rose said,
catching sight of him. “Hope yer happy, then.”

“Delighted.” He flipped an extra coin into
the maid’s pink hand and turned Rose toward the door. “We’ve a
carriage waiting—”

“You promised food if I did as you said!”

He propelled her forward. “So I did. And
there’s a basket, too, full of all manner of delicacies. Now come
along.”

At the bottom of the stairs he took her hand,
afraid of losing her. Although the sky was still pale apricot and
air fresh with the dawn breeze, a sense of urgency swept through
him. Time was passing. He could feel events rushing toward some
conclusion, welcomed or not. They’d dallied here last night, and
while Rose might have needed the rest, he needed to get to Rye.
They had to prevent anything else from happening at the
cottage.

The basket bulged with food and appeased
Rose, at least temporarily. The crusty bread was still warm, and
she was delighted with a generous portion of smooth, creamy
farmer’s cheese. The air in the carriage was redolent with the
scents of yeast and cheese.

But despite the rapidity with which she
consumed their provisions, she managed to chatter incessantly about
the misty weather, countryside, and anything else that came into
her head. Her statements invariably came as questions addressed to
Charles. After two attempts at answering, he soon realized she had
little need of him to maintain their conversation. She was quite
capable of carrying on without anything more than a grunt from
him.

“What’s that, then?” She craned her neck to
stare out the window while nibbling vigorously on the crust of the
smallest loaf of bread. “Is that a cow? Coo, he’s a daft lookin’
beast, ain’t he?”

“She—”

She jumped up on the seat, kneeling so she
could cross her arms on the window sill. “And there’s another! Why
it’s an entire herd of the beasts! Oh, do look!”

“Yes. They’re lovely.”

“And look—what’s that?” She pointed toward a
smallish bird flushed from the hedgerow by the passage of the
carriage. “A bird, then! With a yellow head!”

“Yellowhammer.”

“Yellow—what?”

“
Yellowhammer
. The bird you observed
was a Yellowhammer.” He sighed, thinking longingly of a nice,
comfortable bed. His own bed, in fact. It seemed like ages since
he’d had an entire night in his own flat.

And yet, looking at Rose’s face, agog with
curiosity and excitement, he could not truly regret it. Her
excitement caught at him. He started watching the countryside,
searching for sights she missed.

“Are there others? I’d like to see another,”
she said.

“I expect there are. Keep a sharp
lookout.”

“Look there!” She pointed. “An ‘ouse! Who
lives there, I wonder?”

“I—”

“A rich man, I expect, what with all them
windows. Like Miss Wellfleet. She’s rich—got a cook and maid and
all manner of servants.”

“Perhaps not precisely rich—”

“What?” she scoffed. “Not rich? What with all
them servants? I should think she was!” She eyed him in an oddly
adult, assessing way. “Are you rich, too? I expect you’d like to be
and that’s why you’re hanging about making sheep’s eyes at
‘er.”

No amount of self-control could stop a flush
from burning the tips of his ears. “I’m not rich.” Rich was a
matter of degree, after all. He refused to admit that the earldom
he’d inherited left him more than comfortable. “And I’ll thank you
to mind your manners, young lady.”

“But you do like ‘er.”

“Yes, I do.” For all the good it did him. He
couldn’t purchase life, or a solution to the murders, although some
odd ideas were beginning to surface. “I’m going to take a nap, and
I suggest you do the same.”

Her only response was a rather exasperated
sniff before she resumed her post at the window. He closed his eyes
and leaned into the corner, pretending to be asleep. For her part,
Rose was perfectly happy to continue her running commentary on the
English countryside while he worried about the residents at Marsh
Rose Cottage.

The rain continued on and off for most of the
day, obscuring the lush scenery much to Rose’s evident dismay. The
inclement weather prevented her from catching sight of more birds,
although they occasionally heard a mournful chirp from nearby
hedges. Evening settled in early, turning everything gray. Even
Rose grew subdued. She settled back into her seat and after
foraging briefly in the hamper, she fell asleep clutching another
bit of bread in her grubby fingers.

Studying her, his heart swelled. Who would
have thought such a stubborn child would be so easy to love?

Like Ariadne.

The carriage finally reached Rye shortly
after eight. When Charles leapt down in front of the cottage, most
of the front windows were dark. A pale gray glimmer lingered in the
sky despite the overhanging clouds. But even as he watched, the
wind picked up and the last of the light faded away.

He reached inside the carriage, gathered Rose
into his arms and walked to the house. Thankfully, the front door
was unlocked.

“Sir Edward!” he called from the hallway.
“Agnes! Mrs. Bewforest?”

“Good heavens!” Mrs. Bewforest walked into
the hallway. She wiped her hands on her limp apron and stared at
the girl he carried. “Who’s that? A child? Is she hurt?”

“No. This is Rose Barlowe, Miss Wellfleet’s
ward, and she’s asleep at the moment. Do you think we can find a
bed for her?”

“Of course. Here, let me take the poor
child.” Without waiting for his reply, she efficiently swept Rose
out of his arms and carried her up the stairs.

“Where is Miss Wellfleet?” he called before
she disappeared.

“In the garden—”

“Garden? What’s she doing in the garden after
dark?”

She laughed. “No need to upset yourself.
She’s collecting a few of them herbs as the doctor required. For
Miss Baxter’s kettle what’s misting her room. His orders, my
lord.”

But Charles was already moving through the
kitchen to the garden door. Outside, the rain had started again,
settling in with a soft persistence that threatened to last through
the night.

A lantern stood on the path a few yards away.
Nearby, an overturned wicker basket lay, half-full with tiny white
flowers and wispy greenery.

“Ariadne!” He moved toward the lantern.
Raindrops pattered against the metal lid of the lantern, sizzling
into small clouds that haloed the wavering light. The air smelled
of sea and the muddy marshland stretching out into the darkness. A
pale mist curled over the warm ground as the cool air condensed in
patches, shrouding the marshes beyond the cottage garden.

Brushing the rain out of his eyes, he looked
around. Droplets pattered against the leaves of the plants and his
oilskin coat. The incessant drumming deafened him, overshadowing
any other sounds. He shook his head and listened.

A slight noise whispered ahead of him. Then,
a flash of lighter color, the flap of a skirt, flickered at the far
end of the garden.

He ran in that direction. “Ariadne!”

Through the increasing beat of the rain he
heard a grunt and a sharp inhalation.

He saw her, a black silhouette with mist
curling over her shoulder. Not her—them! Ariadne’s long, pale skirt
caught the breeze and tore around her and the black form behind
her. A shadow loomed over her like an ancient force arising from
the marsh.

“Stop!” Charles ran forward.

At the sound of his voice, Ariadne’s
struggles grew fiercer. She jerked her head backward and pried at
the arm clamped across her throat. A flash of metal, lit briefly in
a fitful gleam from the lantern, flickered beside her pale
face.

“Let her go.” He paused, a bare two yards
away.

The dark silhouette resolved itself into the
form of a man, shrouded in an oilskin coat and black, wide-brimmed
hat. Part of a nose and cheek was visible, but the rest of his face
remained obscured.

The intruder yanked her back another step. A
harsh whisper slipped through the falling wind. “Go back if you
want her to live.”

“No.” Charles stepped closer.

Ariadne’s eyes flickered toward him,
unreadable in the poor light. Terror made a damp, pallid mask of
her face.

The knife in the man’s hand glinted again,
pressing against her cheekbone.

Charles stopped, mind racing. “Do you really
want the game to end like this? Without even a final rose?”

An eerie, muffled chuckle puffed through the
mist. “Check your kitchen table. There’s a present for you. And a
note—a word for the unwise.”

Charles tried to catch Ariadne’s eyes, but
the man behind her dragged her away another yard. He wrestled her
bodily, her feet kicking air as she struggled to free herself. Only
her ivory profile was visible against the night, their bodies
merged with the misty shadows. Something shifted. Her hands tugged
at the arm encircling her throat, and she gasped, struggling to
breathe.

Charles’s heart skipped a beat as his hands
patted his pockets. He was unarmed.
Fool!
He could overpower
a man with a knife, but could he risk Ariadne?

The thick fingers holding the knife
tightened. The knuckles gleamed bone-white in the faint light.

Charles tensed, balancing on the balls of his
feet. He was too far away to stop the blade. It hovered over her
slender throat.

“Mr. Phillips!” Charles called.

The hat tipped back as the man raised his
head.

In that moment of surprise, Ariadne twisted
her head. She bit the knuckles of the hand holding the knife.
Phillips spun her to the left with a curse, toward the marsh and
away from Charles.

He sprang forward and tried to grab him, only
to have Phillips’s hat come away in his hand. Charles flung an arm
around Phillips’s head and wrapped his elbow over the man’s face to
blind him. Before he could shift free, Charles pulled his head
back, just as Phillips’s flailing arm caught Ariadne and wrenched
her closer.