The Dark One (20 page)

Fidgety, Rosalind left the dining room and returned upstairs. She fetched her sewing basket, hoping work on her sampler might pass the time. She missed several stitches due to a lack of concentration. A soft rap sounded upon her door. “Yes?” she called.

Hawkins opened the door and she held her breath, hoping he would tell her that Armond had finally arrived home. His message surprised her.

“You have a guest downstairs, Lady Wulf.” He walked into the room and handed her a calling card. You could have knocked Rosalind over with a feather.

“I'll be right down,” she told Hawkins. Before he quit the room, she said, “Tea in the parlor would be nice, Hawkins, if it's not too much trouble.”

He inclined his head and closed her door. Rosalind gave her reflection a once-over in the mirror before she went downstairs. She entered the parlor to see a cloaked figure standing before the Wulf family portrait that hung over the large fireplace.

“Lady Amelia?”

The young woman turned, pushing back the hood of her cloak. She smiled at Rosalind. “I couldn't believe the rumors that you had married Lord Wulf were true. I had to come and see for myself.”

Rosalind glanced around, looking for the young lady's chaperone and wondering why one would allow Lady Amelia to visit Rosalind or, more precisely, Rosalind in Armond Wulf's home.

“I snuck away,” the young woman said, as if reading her thoughts. She came forward and took Rosalind's hands in hers. “I must be honest and tell you that you are quite shunned for your daring to marry Armond Wulf and for the rumors that you were his lover before the nuptials took place, but I for one applaud your courage.” Her pretty blue eyes sparkled. “I knew more happened between you and Lord Wulf the night of the Greenleys' ball than you were telling me. Then, at the LeGrandes', the way he kept staring across the room at you . . .” She stopped to sigh dramatically. “He has such passion for you.”

Rosalind might have smiled at Lady Amelia's dramatics if her heart hadn't suddenly felt as if it were breaking. Passion, yes; love, no. Hawkins entered carrying the tea service, wearing a bored expression even in light of a normally all-male household suddenly being invaded by women. “Shall I serve for you, Lady Wulf?”

“No, I'll serve,” Rosalind said. “Thank you, Hawkins.”

The man nodded and took his leave.

Lady Amelia giggled. “If his spine were any straighter, I suspect it might break.” The pretty blonde glanced around the parlor. “Your husband isn't here, is he?”

The reminder that Armond was missing took the joy out of Lady Amelia's visit. “No, not at the moment,” Rosalind answered. She poured tea. The silence stretched. Finally Lady Amelia bounded to her feet and walked to the fireplace, where a small fire burned.

“I must confess that I have more reason for coming to visit you than to reaffirm our friendship.”

Disappointed, Rosalind sighed. She had hoped for a friend but suspected Lady Amelia simply wanted gossip to spread among the rest of her social group. “What can I do for you, Lady Amelia?” she asked, her tone now cool.

The young lady didn't turn to face her. “First, please call me Amelia. No need for formal titles among friends. Next, you can tell me about him,” she said, pointing to the Wulf portrait.

Rosalind was pleased that Amelia had reaffirmed their friendship, but she was also confused. “Lord Gabriel?” she asked.

Amelia turned to face her. The young lady's cheeks were flushed. “I saw him with your husband in town. He's so handsome I could scarcely catch my breath. I haven't been able to stop thinking about him, which is very improper, considering I can't even stop thinking of him when I'm with Lord Collingsworth, who I know plans to offer for me.”

Her dilemma might have wrung more sympathy from Rosalind, but there was also a man she couldn't stop thinking about. Her husband. Where was Armond?

Armond came awake slowly, his head pounding and his senses dazed. He had trouble remembering where he was or how he'd come to be in his bed. He didn't remember coming home last night. For a moment, he didn't remember anything about last night. He turned and saw Rosalind sleeping beside him. Her back was turned to him, her dark hair a tangled mess.

What was she doing in his bed? He reached for her, touched her bare shoulder, and tried to rouse her. “Rosalind?”

She didn't respond, and that's when he noticed her skin was cold. Armond rose to a half-sitting position. He leaned over Rosalind to look at her. Her eyes were open, staring straight ahead. A trickle of blood ran a path from the corner of her mouth to her chin. A bruise covered the whole of her lower jaw.

“Christ!” Armond scrambled back from her. The woman was not Rosalind. The woman was dead. His gaze frantically searched the unfamiliar room. It was empty save for a mattress thrown on the floor—the one he'd obviously spent the night sleeping on—with a dead woman. Armond scrambled up. The pounding in his head grew worse.

He glanced around the empty room again, trying to remember how he'd come to be here, wherever here was,
and how the woman had come to be here as well. His gaze strayed to her lifeless form. She was naked, but a thin blanket had been thrown over her. Armond drew in a deep breath and walked around the mattress, bending down before the woman.

He closed her sightless eyes. Last night's events came rushing back to him. He'd followed Chapman to Covent Garden. He'd seen Chapman leave with a prostitute . . . a brunette, like this woman. Armond felt the back of his head, where a good-sized knot made him wince. He'd been set upon by thieves. He felt his pockets for his money pouch. It was missing.

One of the men had hit him on the back of the head with something, probably a rock. But how had he ended up here? Why had he ended up here? A commotion outside drew his attention. Armond walked to a dirty, streaked window and looked outside. He was on the second story of what appeared to be a deserted residence. Below him in the yard he saw a man walking with a young couple. They were headed for the door to the house. Armond tried to ease the window open, but it was stuck shut by dirt and grime.

He closed his eyes and tried to catch the conversation taking place below him.

“The house is in sad repair, but of course that is why the rent is cheap. I'd think a nice young couple such as yourselves could do well here. Just a bit of cleaning and fixing up and you'd have yourselves a nice home.”

“The neighborhood is not so nice,” the woman commented quietly. “I had hoped for a home where I wouldn't be afraid to go to sleep at night for fear someone would break in and slit my throat.”

“It's not that bad, Emma,” the younger man said. “It's got more room than anything else we've looked at for the cost.”

Armond heard a set of keys jingle below.

“Fancy that; it's not even locked,” the older man said, laughing nervously. “I must have forgotten to lock it up last time I showed the house.”

“See, Emma,” the younger man said. “Not even locked and not a broken window to be seen. The neighborhood is not so bad.”

Armond realized he was in trouble. He also understood that he'd been deliberately placed in this circumstance. He heard the people downstairs walking about. It would only be a matter of time before they came upstairs—came upstairs to discover him in a room with a dead woman. He tried the window again. He was unusually strong, but he couldn't budge the blasted thing. Glancing outside, he saw that the roof slanted away from the window. Even if he did manage to get it open and climb outside, he'd have a good drop to the ground below.

“There are two rooms upstairs. One, I'm thinking, would make a nice nursery.”

The people were coming up the stairs. If there were only two rooms, there wouldn't be much of a landing. No possible place for Armond to hide and try to sneak out once the couple and the older gentleman had gone into one of the rooms. He didn't like sneaking about at all, but he'd been placed in this position to implicate him in yet another murder. He couldn't be caught here.

Armond couldn't be identified. He in truth had no one to vouch for what had happened to him last night this time. It would be his word, which the inspectors had little faith in, against very damning evidence against him.

He tried the window again. It wouldn't give.

“Where is my stepbrother?”

Mary looked surprised to see Rosalind standing at the
door. “In his study, Lady Wulf, but I thought you weren't to come here if he was at home.”

“I need to speak to him.” Rosalind walked into the house and moved toward the back where Franklin had a small study. She was frightened at the prospect of seeing him again and seeing him when she was alone, but she was more worried about Armond. He had not come home and it was now afternoon. Even Hawkins seemed worried, though he did a good job of hiding it.

She had a terrible feeling something had happened to Armond. And she had just cause to suspect that Franklin had something to do with her husband's disappearance.

The study door was open. Franklin sat at his desk, looking over papers. Rosalind straightened her spine and walked inside.

“What have you done with my husband?” she demanded.

Franklin glanced up. “Rosalind,” he said. “So good to see you again.”

“Where is he?” she demanded, not in the least fooled by her stepbrother's cordial manner toward her. “I know you've done something to him.”

Rising from behind his desk, he walked toward her. “I haven't seen your husband since our last encounter the morning after you ran off and wed the bastard. Leaving me in a very awkward position, I might add, Rosalind. But then, you don't care about my feelings, do you?”

“No,” she said honestly. “The same as you don't care about mine. Armond didn't come home last night, and I feel you are in some way responsible.”

Franklin lifted a brow. “Troubles already, Rosalind? I have no idea where your husband is, and I don't give a damn. You barely know the man. Perhaps he often spends the night prowling around. Perhaps he prefers sport with
more experienced women than you, Rosalind. Did you stop to consider that before you barged in here accusing me of having done something to him? Not that I wouldn't like to,” he added. “He's taken something from me. Something that belongs to me.”

Rosalind lifted her chin. “I don't belong to you, Franklin. I've never belonged to you.” She saw that Franklin wasn't going to give her any information regarding Armond. She'd been a fool to think that he might. Still, Rosalind had been so worried about Armond she hadn't been thinking clearly. She turned to leave the study. Franklin was there an instant later blocking her way.

“Do you have any idea how furious I am with you?”

Unfortunately, she did. She felt his anger radiating from him. The pulse in his forehead throbbed. “Let me pass,” she said. “I'm no longer under your thumb. You'll have to get yourself out of trouble on your own, Franklin. You no longer have me to use.”

“Little whore,” he growled. He lifted his hand to strike her. Rosalind immediately tensed for the blow. It did not fall. Franklin was looking behind her, his hand poised to strike, his eyes wide.

“If you hit her, it will be the last thing you ever do, Chapman.”

“Armond,” Rosalind breathed, and whirled around to see her husband standing behind her. She was so relieved, her knees nearly buckled. His clothes were rumpled and he had a nasty-looking place on his temple, but she was never so happy to see anyone in her life. “I was worried about you. I—”

“Go home, Rosalind,” Armond interrupted. His steely gaze never left Franklin. “Go home now.”

Franklin had recovered from his earlier surprise. “You are not welcome here, Wulf. Get out.”

“And you are not welcome to abuse my wife,” he
countered. “Not ever again. If you so much as breathe on her, I'll kill you.”

Her stepbrother retreated to his desk. He seated himself as if he hadn't just been threatened with his life. “Sleep well last night, Wulf?” he asked.

Rosalind had no idea what Franklin had implied, but she felt Armond's anger. “You killed that woman,” he accused.

Her stepbrother merely smiled. “Prove it.”

“I will,” Armond assured him. “Come, Rosalind.”

Armond took her hand and led her from the study. Questions whirled in her mind, but she waited until Mary had held the door for them and they'd marched outside, headed toward the property next door, before she spoke.

“What happened, Armond? Where were you last night, and what woman were you talking about?”

“Not now,” Armond said in a clipped tone. “When we get home.”

Home. Armond's home didn't feel like her home, at least not yet. She hoped it someday would. Her ordeal of living with Franklin had made Rosalind realize how lonely for a real family she was, how much she wanted to love and be loved again. She knew deep inside that was the reason she'd so readily agreed to accompany Franklin to see his mother. The duchess was the only person Rosalind had left in the world who she thought might truly care about her.

Hawkins got the door for them once they reached the house. Although he tried to remain unmoved by the sight of his employer returning home, she could tell that he was relieved.

“I'll need a fresh basin of water to clean up,” Armond said to the man. “Bring it to my chambers.”

“Right away,” Hawkins responded.

Rosalind followed Armond upstairs. They had no sooner entered his room when he shut the door and glared at her. “Did I not tell you to never go next door without me, or without knowing for certain that Chapman wasn't home?”

She was stunned by his anger. “Well, yes,” she admitted. “But I was worried about you. I thought that Franklin—”

“I don't care why you felt moved to go over there,” he interrupted her. “You put yourself in danger, Rosalind. It was a foolish thing to do.”