A Rose Before Dying (4 page)

“No, of course not. She—well, she met with an
accident.”

“I see.” The puzzled look on the butler’s
face clearly indicated he did
not
see. “I hope Mr. Lee was
not injured, as well?”

“No. It had nothing to do with Mr. Lee. He
was quite well when I left him this afternoon. He suggested I speak
to Mr. Wellfleet. Is he available?”

“Mr. Lee sent you to
Mr
. Wellfleet?”
The butler’s voice rose in surprise.

“Yes. If he’s at home?” Charles was fast
losing patience. The child seemed to be gaining weight simply by
breathing and minute wriggling along his collar suggested that the
additional passengers she carried were finding him tastier than
their current host.

“Best follow me, sir.” The butler led the way
down the elegant main hallway, past a curving, elaborately carved
grand stairway, and into a large room fitted out as a library.
Pausing near a pair of wing chairs covered with rich brown leather,
he waved toward a set of French doors. “This way, if you
please.”

The doors opened into a huge glass house.
Broad-leafed plants stood on either side of the doorway. A gray
flagstone path stretched between ferns, potted plants and several
long wooden tables laden with a variety of greenery. Huge rose
bushes grew nearby, lush with full, fragrant pale pink blossoms. A
few canes had been trimmed back to control their exuberant growth,
their ends dry and brown.

The air was as damply warm and fragrant as
the breath of a beautiful woman. Plants flourished and bloomed
everywhere, and the vegetation was so dense that he couldn’t see
the glass walls. Only the high roof remained visible, dark as
midnight blue velvet high above his head.

A slender woman bent over one of the tables,
repotting seedlings. Her chestnut hair gleamed under the glow of a
pair of lamps hanging from metal braces attached at either end of
the table. The light played over the curve of her long neck and the
graceful line of her jaw, leaving her face and dark dress lost in
shadows.

He stopped, struck by the painterly quality
of the scene. The woman stood vividly lit in the glow of the lamps,
gleaming with golden highlights against the lush greenery. The
colors were as rich and vivid as any portrait by a Dutch
master.

Charles thought he’d never before, and might
never again, see such perfection incarnate.

But the moment passed as all such moments do.
The scrape of his shoe made the woman glance up. His breath caught
in his throat in sudden awareness of attraction. Strength and
intelligence etched her features with pure, clean lines. Her eyes
glistened, the color shifting from deep coppery brown to a green as
rich as the foliage surrounding her.

“What is it, Mr. Abbott?” Her eyes rested on
Charles for a moment. She frowned. Her finely arched brows drew
down even further when she noticed the child riding his hip.

“This gentleman was sent by Mr. Lee,” the
butler explained, almost wringing his plump little hands. “He asked
for
Mr
. Wellfleet.”

Charles realized he’d failed to identify
himself and hurriedly pulled a calling card out of his pocket. He
handed it to Mr. Abbott.

The butler stared at the card and then
intoned, “Lord Castlemoor, Miss Wellfleet.”

She wiped her hands on a towel resting on the
table and faced him. A tan apron covered the front of her dress
from neat collar to hem, and dark, rich earth liberally smeared it
in long, sweeping streaks.

“I’m afraid we must disappoint him.” She
stared at Charles, but her movements placed the lamp behind her and
left her face in darkness. Her expression was hidden, but the light
behind her set her hair on fire. The thick coils glowed deep,
golden brown in a halo around her shadowed face.

“Are you sure Mr. Lee sent you? Here?” she
asked.

“Yes, quite sure.” Charles had the
uncomfortable feeling that Mr. Wellfleet was either gone from this
house, or worse, from this world. “I take it Mr. Wellfleet is
unavailable?”

“You might say that,” she said dryly. “He’s
been rather unavailable for the past six months. My father, Mr.
Wellfleet, is dead, my lord.”

“I’m sorry. However, I assure you Mr. Lee did
send me. And I freely admit it may have been my fault to assume he
sent me to speak to Mr. Wellfleet.” His voice slowed as he realized
his hopes had faded along with the daylight. Mr. Lee had sent him
on a fruitless mission to see a man who had died months ago.

Bitter anger gripped him, clogging his
throat. He stared at the woman, unable to speak through his
frustration. Someone would die—and soon—because he was unable to
identify a single, ridiculous rose.

“Is this your daughter?” she asked, breaking
the silence. Her lovely face remained impassive as she eyed the
little girl.

“What? No—good heavens, no.”

“Then…who is she?”

“Her name is Rose.” He bit the words off,
thinking furiously of a way to identify the next target. There had
to be a way, even without knowing the true name of the rose.

“And did you bring her here for a reason, my
lord?”

“Well, her name is Rose,” he replied
absently.

Rosa collina,
Lee had said. Someone
named Collins? That had to be the answer.

“I see. So you thought you could plant her in
the garden, perhaps? Next to the chrysanthemums?” She paused as if
in thought. “Well, Mr. Gibson dug a new bed this morning. I suppose
we can plant her there, assuming she will fit. What color are her
blooms? I hope they aren’t too garish. I was planning a display of
pale pinks and murrey-purple in that particular spot. It’s too late
to change now. I’ve already begun planting.”

He stared at her only to realize that despite
her solemn expression, her hazel eyes glowed with laughter. She
looked at the small girl clinging to him and smiled.

Rose stared back, her blue eyes wide before
she nodded and said with firm resolution, “Pink.”

“You’re sure? You look rather like one of the
mad Gallicas to me. Perhaps you’re a rich red streaked with a few
patches of the palest-of-pale pink?”

The little girl shook her head vigorously
before stepping over to Miss Wellfleet and taking her hand. “Pink.
I’m pink.”

“Then I just may have the perfect bed for
you.” Her wide mouth trembled with suppressed mirth. She glanced
back to Charles. “Since it seems, despite all appearances and the
company you keep, you aren’t quite
mad
after all.”

She clearly wasn’t convinced of his sanity,
however.

He flushed. “I beg your pardon. But truly, I
didn’t know where else to take her…”

“And just where are her parents? Her
mother?”

“She’s an orphan.”

“That’s certainly convenient, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied
stiffly.

She sighed and dipped a corner of the towel
into a small, tin pitcher of water on the table. She washed a
smudge of dirt from the girl’s cheek, revealing the soft, rosy
skin. “Do you even know who her mother is? Or was?”

“Yes. She resides just a few blocks from
here.” If she could joke about the situation, he could, too.

“Where?” she asked warily. “Oh, you mean St.
Saviour’s, I suppose.”

“Yes. At least, that’s what I
understand.”

“The orphanage—”

“Workhouse. Would you really ask me to take
her there?”

She studied him. “No, I suppose not. But
you….”

“I can’t keep her.” He paused. “Can I?”

“It does look odd.” The speculative gleam in
her eyes brought out their rich brown color. “And most improper.
What I don’t quite understand is your concern for her. Why, out of
all the dozens of children wandering the streets of London, did you
choose her? Are you certain she’s not yours?”

“No. In truth, I never knew of her existence
before today,” he replied honestly. “I just stumbled over her and
brought her along.” He raised his hands in a helpless gesture.
“There’s no compelling logic or reason.”

“I see. However, I fear I must ask again, are
you sure she’s not yours?”

“No. Truly. I never meet her until
today.”

“That’s hardly convincing, is it?” she asked
in her driest voice.

“I assure you, I don’t have a passel of…well,
love children, wandering the streets of London.” He flushed with
embarrassment. The hot color deepened when he realized she seemed
just wayward enough to believe he was more embarrassed that he
didn’t have a vast collection of by-blows, than he was by the
suggestion he had only one.

Despite his best efforts to educate himself
about females, they remained mysterious and largely
incomprehensible at best.

This disadvantage struck him
disagreeably.

“I couldn’t just leave her to starve.”

“This is most irregular, my lord. Any decent
woman would flatly refuse to accept an orphan thrust upon her by a
stranger—even one who is an earl.” She sighed. “However, I’m tired
and perhaps not at my most sensible. So I suppose she can
stay—”

“Thank you!” He leaned forward and almost
gripped her hand. “I sincerely appreciate it.”

Miss Wellfleet folded the towel with restless
hands. “May I ask if your sole reason for coming here was to divest
yourself of Rose?”

“No—no, of course not.” He pulled out the
small bundle containing the rose. He knew it was useless, her
father, the rose expert, was dead. But he couldn’t stop a small
spurt of hope. “I’d like to identify this rose. Do you recognize
it?”

“I supposed you’re only asking me as a last
resort. Because my father is no longer with us.” She held out a
peremptory hand. “Let me see it.”

Her face was a smooth, expressionless mask.
However, he detected traces of tired resignation at the implication
that she could not be expected to have the depth of knowledge
exhibited by a man.

When he placed the limp spray in her palm,
she held it up to her nose and breathed in several times with
closed eyes, cupping the flowers in her hands. Then she gave it a
cursory examination before pulling the petals off one flower.

“Stop!” He reached over to wrench it out of
her hand. She turned her shoulder, blocking him. “What are you
doing?”

“Counting the petals. Why?”

“You’re destroying it! How shall I identify
it if you ruin it?”

She held it out. “Take it. Plant it, or allow
me to root it. Or graft it. If it grows, you can ask your friend,
Mr. Lee, to identify it in two or three years from the shape of the
bush and bloom habit. Most
men
who grow roses agree that it
takes at least one cycle of blooming to identify a rose with any
assurance.”

“Two years!”

“Yes—if you want to be sure. And isn’t that
why you wish to identify it? So you can purchase a specimen for
your own garden?”

“Yes—but…”

“Yes?”

He gazed into her coolly discerning eyes and
realized she was aware that he was not being open with her. But
given Mr. Lee’s reaction, he could not bring himself to tell the
complete truth. The rose wouldn’t last long enough to find another
master gardener, assuming he could even locate one in London.
“It’s…a wager. Silly, I know, but one of my friends said I couldn’t
identify this rose.” The tips of his ears burned.

“I see.” Her eyes grew colder. “This is all a
wager?” She glanced at Rose.

“No, of course not. Not Rose—she’s not part
of it.”

Miss Wellfleet’s fingers pushed the petals
into a line on the table and hovered over them. Thirteen petals,
thin and wilting, spread in a tattered line. The slender spray was
dying. The small, tight buds had already blackened and hung limply.
His chest tightened with frustration.

Then with a theatrical gesture that suggested
more defiance than scientific inquiry, she ripped apart the
remaining flowers. She arranged the petals in three parallel lines,
one for each flower. The roses didn’t all have the same number of
petals. The first had thirteen petals. The next had eleven. The
final rose had seventeen.

After examining what remained of the stalk,
the yellow stamens, and leaves, she looked at him.

Although she didn’t precisely shrug, there
was a quality in her expression that spoke of disdain when she
said, “
Rosa Collina fastigiata
.”

“That’s it?” His tired disappointment
reminded him of the lateness of the hour.
Useless
. He
needn’t have come here at all. Lee had it right the first time.

“Well, yes. What were you expecting?”

“Something…more. A name…”

“That
is
a name.” Irritation sharpened
her voice. “Or Flat-Flowered Hill Rose, if you prefer an English
one.”

“You’re sure?”’

Her eyes hardened. “As sure as I can be from
this small spray.” She flung the petals and twig onto the table.
“No one can be absolutely sure without seeing the bush and knowing
the growth habit and bloom cycles. Have you any idea how many roses
there are?”

“I—”

“That’s why your
friend
made a clever
wager—if wager it was. My lord. And if the true wager wasn’t
bringing that girl, Rose, to a spinster plantsman.”

“No. Truly, I apologize. I sincerely
appreciate the name. And Rose was an accidental meeting on my way.
She was nearly killed in the road a few blocks from here. I
couldn’t just leave her—for God’s sake—she’s just a child!”

“No, I don’t suppose you could,” she replied
grudgingly. One of her slender hands rested on the girl’s lank
hair. “It’s late. You have your name. I hope you win your
wager.”

With a coolness he deserved but that saddened
him nonetheless, she gestured for him to leave. The butler, Mr.
Abbott, waited just outside the French doors to the greenhouse. His
silent presence ensured Miss Wellfleet had never been truly alone
with Charles. Somehow, this reminded him of how attractive he found
her, and he flushed when he caught Mr. Abbott’s curious gaze.