The Dark One (11 page)

Panic overtook her and Rosalind tried to bolt. Where she would go, she didn't know, only that she turned toward the house next door and managed to make it a few feet before Franklin caught her.

“You think he can help you?” he hissed in her ear. He squeezed her already aching arm and she whimpered. “No one can help you, Rosalind.”

Desperation made her whisper Penmore's name as Franklin hauled her toward the house. Her stepbrother only laughed.

“He doesn't care, as long as the bruises don't show.” His gaze ran the length of her. “Of course we'll have to get you out of that gown. It cost a fortune and I won't see it ripped and stained.”

Rosalind tried to dig in the dainty heels of her slippers, but it did no good. Franklin was too strong. If Mary answered the door for them, she'd appeal to her for help,
although Rosalind wasn't sure what the woman could do. No one got the door, and Rosalind realized at this late hour, Mary would be upstairs with the duchess.

Franklin dragged Rosalind inside, headed toward the stairs and the bedchambers upstairs. Both of them drew up short at the sight that greeted them.

There along the rafters that ran the length of the tall ceiling hung a rope, on which a body swung slowly back and forth. The corpse was that of a woman. Rosalind might not have recognized her, the woman's face was blue from suffocation, not to mention the bruises that blackened her sightless eyes and distorted her features. But Rosalind did know her. It was Lydia.

Armond had just come in from a few rounds of cards and removed his coat when the sound drifted to him. He turned an ear toward his open window. Again he heard it. The distant sound of weeping. Always he had been aware of his keen sense of hearing, his even keener sense of smell.

He had never really thought much of it, not until he learned of the curse. Now he knew why his senses were more adept than those of normal men. It was the animal in him . . . the animal waiting to be set free.

Why did she weep? That it was Rosalind, he had no doubt. Should he rush to her aid? Or did she simply weep over something insignificant? A slight barb someone had delivered to her at the LeGrandes' soiree? But no, she cried with her heart, with her soul. Something was horribly wrong, and he would go and find out what it was.

Without bothering with his coat, he left his bedchamber. There were few servants at his townhome. All men. Women were too frightened to work for him. He saw no one as he descended the stairs, then went out the front door.

The grass was damp. Fog hung heavy in the air. A light drizzle fell. He'd be soaked through by the time he reached Rosalind's room. The closer he came to her
residence, the easier it was to hear her tearful sobs. He hurried.

He climbed the trellis to her balcony without incident, half-worried that she had taken to bolting her doors. The doors were closed against the chilly night air, but they were not locked. He let himself in. His eyes easily adjusted to the darkness. He saw her huddled beneath her covers.

“Rosalind?”

With a start, she threw back the heavy covers and sat up.

“Armond?”

“What's wrong?”

“Oh, Armond.” She was out of the bed, racing across the carpet. He couldn't have been more surprised when she threw herself into his arms. “It was horrible.”

His hand automatically strayed to her loose hair. It felt like the finest silk beneath his fingers. “What was horrible? Why are you crying?”

“Lydia,” she managed between sobs. “She hung herself.”

Armond steered Rosalind toward the bed. He helped her to sit before settling beside her. “Lydia? Was she a friend of yours?”

“My abigail,” she answered. “She had been dismissed earlier in the week, but tonight when I came home from the LeGrandes', there she was, hanging from the rafters.”

When Rosalind covered her face with her hands and another sob escaped her, he placed an arm around her shoulders.

“It's my fault,” she whispered. “I'm the reason Franklin dismissed her. I can only assume that she couldn't find other employment and then, well, something must have happened to her and she decided death was an easier escape than facing her bleak tomorrows.”

Rosalind's deep distress over a servant surprised him. True, what she must have seen would affect anyone, but most young socialites, he imagined, would have spent a few tears over the incident and then simply gone on, quickly forgetting the matter. Of course, she must have discovered the maid only a few short hours earlier.

“Did she leave a note? Any explanation as to why she would feel moved to take her own life?” he asked.

Rosalind shook her head. “No. Not that anyone has found anyway. She . . .”

“She what?”

“She had bruises on her.”

An alarm sounded in Armond's head. “Bruises?”

“On her face,” Rosalind continued. “It looked as if she'd been recently beaten, and beaten badly. Franklin said she ran with a rough crowd. I heard him tell the constable that one of her men, drunk on ale, had probably beaten her up. Maybe he ended their relationship. Maybe that along with being dismissed was why she hung herself.”

“Chapman was with you at the LeGrandes' all evening, correct?”

She nodded. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

Armond might suspect her stepbrother of foul play, but the man had been at the soiree with Rosalind all evening. He couldn't have possibly been responsible for the maid's death. At least not the hanging part.

“Were you close to this woman?”

Rosalind hiccupped softly. Her eyes were bright with tears when she looked up at him. “I thought we were friends. We were closer, I suspect, than most of different classes. But she never really talked much of her personal life.”

“Why was she dismissed?”

Suddenly Rosalind looked away from him. She wouldn't
answer. Armond started to turn her toward him, but the moment he touched her arm, she flinched.

“What happened to your arm?”

“I hurt it,” she answered softly, but still refused to look at him.

“How?”

“I don't recall.”

A suspicion surfaced, one that had surfaced before. He had to know this time. Armond had to know for certain. He reached out, took the sleeve of her cotton gown, and tore it from the shoulder. Rosalind gasped and tried to scramble away, but he would not let her escape. In the soft glow from her night fire he saw the ugly bruise, the imprint of fingers against her skin. His blood began to boil.

“Who did this to you, Rosalind?”

Her eyes filled with tears again. For a moment, he thought she wouldn't tell him. She drew in a deep breath and answered, “Franklin. He's hurt me before. He has a horrible temper.”

Armond cursed, rose, and moved toward her bedroom door. “We'll see how well he fares against another man.”

Rosalind bounded up from the bed, rushed ahead of him, and pressed herself against the door before he reached it. “No, Armond, you mustn't. He's not even home. After the constable left and Lydia's body was taken away, he went to the clubs.”

Undeterred, Armond turned toward the balcony doors. His rage grew by the second. “Then I'll find him.”

“Please don't leave me.”

Her choked request stopped him in his tracks. He turned to look at her, so delicate, so frightened. She stood shaking in the middle of the room, her torn gown hanging off of one creamy shoulder. He'd left the doors open and
the night chill had crept into the room. Armond walked over and closed them, then joined her.

“Get into bed,” he ordered softly. “You'll catch your death.”

She moved toward the bed and climbed beneath her covers. Armond joined her, sitting on the edge. His shirt was damp with drizzle, and now the chill penetrated his rage and made him aware of the cold.

“You didn't really trip and fall against a chair that night after the Greenleys' ball, did you?”

“No,” she answered. “Franklin slapped me for . . . for leaving with you.”

“And you didn't leave with me to impress your friends, either, did you?”

“I have no friends,” she admitted. “Franklin will force me into marriage because he needs money. I thought if you ruined me, no man would have me and he'd let me go back to the country.”

Armond sighed. He raked his fingers through his damp hair to push it back from his face. “Rosalind, you must have people who will help you. Family—”

“I have no one.” She suddenly sat. “My father is dead. He left my future up to my stepmother because he knew that she loved me and would look after me, but now she's terribly ill, and her lawyers have given Franklin my guardianship. He's squandered my inheritance. Now he thinks to use me further.”

His suspicions were mild compared to her admissions. Good Lord, how had she managed to survive under such deplorable conditions? She'd been little more than a prisoner in this house, at the mercy of a man who would use her for his gain and abuse her in the bargain. Armond wanted to kill Chapman. He more than wanted to kill him. He wanted to rip his throat out with his teeth.

“Why didn't you tell me the truth from the beginning?”

Rosalind glanced down at her hands. “I don't know you. I couldn't see where telling you would do me any good.” She glanced up. “I still can't.”

She was right. What could he do for her except perhaps kill the man who would dare treat her in this manner? The social set would jump on an opportunity to prove that he was, in fact, a murderer. How could he offer her his protection without offering her his name? And he could not offer her his name. He could not offer her a bright future, children, any of the things that she deserved.

“You're trembling again,” he noted. Armond pulled the covers up around her, but her teeth began to chatter. She needed more warmth than the fire could give her. He removed his damp shirt before he stretched out beside her, pulling her into his arms. She tensed. “Don't be afraid of me,” he said against her hair. “I mean only to give you my warmth.”

After a moment of being held by him, she relaxed against him. He wanted more information on Chapman. “You didn't tell me why the maid was dismissed,” he reminded her. “Or why you believe her dismissal was your fault.”

Rosalind's head was tucked beneath his chin. Her hair smelled of lavender and brushed against his chest. “She told me that Franklin had forced himself on her. I called him to account for it, and he flew into a rage. The next thing I knew, Mary, the housekeeper, said that Franklin had dismissed Lydia.”

A rapist and a man who would beat a woman with his fists? The more Armond learned of Chapman, the more he thought about Bess O'Conner. He couldn't figure out how she'd come to be in his stable, but if she was trying to escape, say from this house, she could have very well run
across the lawn to hide on his property. Chapman hadn't been under suspicion, not when the murder could be pinned on a man who already had a questionable reputation among society.

“Will you stay with me for a while?” Rosalind asked. “Just until I fall asleep?”

He was itching to find Chapman—beat the man senseless at the very least. Threaten him perhaps that if he ever raised a hand to Rosalind again, he'd get worse. But she still trembled in Armond's arms, and if his presence made her feel safe, even for a little while, he would give her that. It was all that he could give her.

“Yes, I'll stay,” he answered, stroking her silken hair. A question suddenly popped into his mind. “How does Penmore figure into all of this?”

She shivered against him, but he didn't know if it was from the chill or from the mention of the man's name. “Franklin owes him a great deal of money in gambling debts. He wants me in exchange.”

“So your stepbrother will trade you, like a used carpetbag?”

She didn't answer. He knew she was humiliated, having Armond discover her secrets. It angered him even more, if that were possible. He had to get Rosalind away from this situation, and away quickly.

“The dowager,” it suddenly occurred to him. “I could get you sanctuary with her. She's old, and she's frail, but she's as mean as an old hen when someone she's taken beneath her wing is threatened.”

“I don't think Franklin will let me go,” Rosalind said. “Not without a fight.”

Armond pulled her closer. Protective instincts rose inside of him. “If he wants a fight, I'll bloody well give it to him.”

Rosalind had wondered what Armond would do if she was given a second chance to tell him the truth about her stepbrother. Now she knew. She felt safe in Armond's arms, safe for the first time in months. Safe and yet not safe. Even in her state of mind, she was aware of the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear. Aware of the smooth, warm texture of his skin. Aware of his scent that awakened her senses.

She wondered at times if she hadn't put her daring plan into play that night at the Greenleys' ball, she would still be as attracted to him? But then she knew she would. She'd been attracted to him on sight, before she'd learned his name. Before she heard the dark whispers about him. Who would have thought then that Armond Wulf would come to a woman's defense? That he was perhaps more honorable than those who snubbed him?