Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(106)

“Did he know about Lucy’s baby?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Once more Rosalie scrutinized the letter. “Amille doesn’t really explain. She writes that Lucy was very frail emotionally and succumbed easily to depression after her affair with Brummell. She never really recovered from losing his love, and she killed herself a month or two after I was born. I wonder . . . I wonder what my life would have been like had she lived.”

“It is possible,” Rand said thoughtfully, “that she would have given Amille most of the responsibility for your care and upbringing anyway.”

“She was just a child herself,” Rosalie said, nodding pragmatically. “I feel . . . so sorry for her.” She sighed, bending the corner of the parchment with her fingertip and letting it flick back. “After Lucy died, Amille decided to keep the child a secret. She told the Doncasters that the baby had died also, and then she took on a new name and new position, inventing a fictional husband to make her situation seem more respectable. And that is how I grew up as the daughter of the Winthrops’ governess.” Rosalie looked at Rand with eyes as round as saucers. “How odd chance is,” she said. “If there hadn’t been a fire in the theater that night and I hadn’t met you, I would probably still be living with the Winthrops, never having found out any of this.”

“You don’t think Amille would have eventually told you?”

“It says right here: she felt there was no reason to. She feels that only trouble will come out of the knowledge that I am Brummell’s daughter, and she says near the end . . . Oh, my.”

“What?”

“I didn’t really read this part before. How unlike her it is. She has heard the rumors that I am staying with you, and she urges me to stay under your protection as long as possible.”

“May I see the letter?” Rand asked, his tone sharpening. She handed it to him, and he scanned the last few sentences. He relaxed slightly but continued to frown. Amille had not written anything that would explain the drugging in Paris, yet it bothered him that she seemed so concerned about someone lending protection to Rosalie. “I’ll be glad,” he murmured, “when we are back in England. I would like to speak with Amille . . . there are a few things she will be able to explain further.”

“Back in England,” Rosalie echoed. Suddenly she noticed something strange about his expression, and her preoccupation with the letter and its contents disappeared to the back of her mind. She stood up from the bed, walking over to him slowly. “What’s wrong?” she murmured. “The news is bad?”

“Yes,” Rand said, and it tore at Rosalie’s heart to see the shadowed bitterness in his hazel eyes.

“How soon do we have to go back?” she inquired, reaching out to stroke his arm.

“Two days, no longer than that.”

“Rand,” she asked gently, somehow already knowing the answer, “what was in your letter? What did Colin write to you?”

There was an odd look about him as he stared down at her. His face, Rosalie noticed absently, was pale underneath the tan of his skin.

“My grandfather passed away,” Rand said. She laid her head on his chest and slid her arms around him, offering silent comfort. Rand did not shed a single tear, but he held her tightly, and something about the desperation of his grip betrayed his sense of loss. They stayed together for long minutes, swaying slightly. Finally Rosalie sensed the lessening of his grief, and it was then that she spoke with a watery sigh, her voice unsteady.

“This means that you’re the Earl of Berkeley . . . Dieu, did I really promise to marry you?”

“It’s too late to back out.”

“Where did I put my handkerchief? . . . Lord, it’s been a day for startling news.”

Reluctantly Rand released her, finding that his pain was greatly dulled by the fact that she was there to offer as much solace as he needed. He leaned his back against the wall once more, taking pleasure in the sight of her as she hunted for the handkerchief and dried the last of her tears away.

“My grandfather badgered me incessantly about my bachelor status,” Rand murmured. “My only regret is that he didn’t live to see what a perfect woman I found to wed.”

Rosalie suddenly chuckled. “Perfect woman?” she questioned. “With an unequaled crop of debutantes to pick from this year and scores of rich, eligible society women longing to accept your name, you chose a woman with the most singularly creative bloodlines imaginable.”

“Not one word more,” Rand warned, his eyes warm as he beheld her. “This is the one subject, sweet Rose, on which I won’t allow you to question my taste.” She smiled and went back to him, needing suddenly to have him hold her again.

Much later, Rosalie left the letter on her writing desk and went to tell Mireille about their imminent departure. There was much organization and packing to be done. She found to her surprise when she returned to her room that evening that the letter from Amille was gone. After checking every inch of the room without a clue as to its disappearance, Rosalie went to the library in search of Rand. He sat at a mahogany table, drafting several pieces of correspondence.

“I’ve been thinking . . .” Rand said, blotting a letter deftly. “There is no one to whom I’d particularly like to sell the château. There have been some offers, but nothing quite suitable.”