Page 19 of Roseanna (The Shackleford Legacies #3)

Nineteen

If Roseanna was flushed and breathless when she arrived in the large drawing room, the only person who remarked upon it was her mother who mentioned how well she was looking. ‘Clearly, spending a little more time outdoors is doing you good, darling.’

Rosie felt herself redden further as images of exactly what she’d been doing outdoors not half an hour earlier assailed her. ‘Has the Comte come downstairs yet?’ she asked, as much to change the subject as a morbid curiosity to finally discover what the rogue looked like.

‘He’s over there with Grace and Temperance,’ Hope responded with a small shudder. ‘I must admit I admire their aplomb, but rather them than me. And certainly not you or Frankie. Nicholas was quite right in ordering all of you to stay well away from him wherever possible.’

‘I have no wish to converse with the man,’ Rosie assured her as they were joined by Francesca, Henrietta and Lilyanna.

While her mother determinedly steered the conversation to more mundane matters, Rosie looked around for Dougal. He was the only one who could say for sure if the man they’d seen earlier today had indeed been Pierre d’Ansouis. At first, she thought the Scot had decided to take dinner in his room, but she finally caught sight of him in conversation with her grandparents. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I think I will go over and pay my respects to Grandpapa and Grandmama,’ she interrupted at the first pause in the conversation, only to fight an unseemly giggle at the four incredulous looks she received in return.

Keeping to the edge of the room to avoid being waylaid by other family members, she quickly reached her destination.

‘Have you brought any of that baggage with you?’ her grandmother was asking Dougal. ‘I must admit I did become rather partial to boiled baggage while I was in Scotland. Very tasty with a bit of turnip.’

‘Hello, Grandmama,’ Rosie hastily interjected before the old Scot had the opportunity to think up a scathing retort. ‘I think you might be referring to haggis.’

‘Oh, I can’t remember having any of that,’ Agnes returned with a frown as Roseanna dutifully kissed her plump cheek.

‘If I were you, I’d stop right there,’ her grandfather muttered to Rosie. ‘Believe me, girl, you’ll tie yourself in knots if you continue that conversation.’

Rosie nodded in relief. ‘How is your toe, Mr Galbraith?’ she asked instead.

‘Ah think in the circumstances ye’d better call me Dougal,’ he answered. ‘Ah think since ah felt oot o’ a tree practically on tae yer head, we’re well past all the niceties. An’ ma toe is still attached tae ma foot, thank ye for askin’’

Rosie laughed. Truly, the man was incorrigible.

‘Have you spoken to Uncle Nicholas since we returned this afternoon?’ she asked her grandfather, wondering if he’d been informed of the latest disastrous developments.

‘The Duke asked me tae enlighten him,’ Dougal responded. At Rosie’s sceptical look, he chortled and added, ‘Aye, it took me by surprise an aw. Ah were lookin’ fer the flyin’ pigs o’er his head.’

‘Is our newest guest the same gentleman we met earlier?’ Roseanna asked carefully.

‘Aye, nae doot aboot it,’ Dougal answered. ‘Ah told the laird and since then ah’ve bin keepin’ ma distance jest in case he happened tae catch sight o’ me.’

‘And one look at your physog is likely to be permanently engraved on anybody’s brain,’ the Reverend retorted.

Dougal gave a delighted guffaw. ‘Ah cannae deny ye be improvin’, Augustus,’ he chuckled.

Reverend Shackleford’s lips quirked, though he hurriedly coughed to cover it up. ‘Did you tell the Duke about the cull you saw?’ he asked Rosie

She nodded, repeating the description she’d given to her uncle and Malcolm earlier as well as the Duke’s warning about taking matters into their own hands. Not that she thought that would make any difference to her grandfather.

A gong sounded by the door. ‘Dinner is served, your graces,’ Mrs Tenner intoned, her curtsy a little deeper than usual. Rosie suspected she was practising for the King.

‘I’ll prepare you a tincture for your toe, Mr Galbraith,’ Agnes suddenly announced as she took the Reverend’s arm, ‘and Mrs Tomlinson has an excellent knife if it needs to come off.’

Having been furnished with a description of at least one of d’Ansouis’ flunkies, Tristan was tempted to go looking once he’d finished searching the Comte’s room. The problem was that by then it would be full dark and the possibility of being jumped upon couldn’t entirely be discounted. Even if he was merely spotted being somewhere he shouldn’t, the conspirators might well grow suspicious. So, as frustrating as it was to have his hands hogtied by being undercover, he knew his best chance of helping bring his old nemesis to justice was by keeping in character. At least for the moment.

Going up the servants’ stairs, he headed for the Comte’s bedchamber, making sure to carry a couple of extra candles in his pocket. Once outside the room, he knocked loudly, waiting until he was certain there was no one inside.

After a couple of minutes, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The room was exactly as he’d left it, but this time there was the faintest trace of an odd smell. It was strange that he’d not noticed it earlier, but then the Comte hadn’t exactly been sparing with his hair pomade. Frowning, Tristan remained still, sniffing the stale air. The smell might be faint but even so, it reminded him of something.

He went over to the large dressing table and pulled out the top drawer. A quick search confirmed that nothing had changed since he’d unpacked for the Comte earlier. The other two drawers were the same.

Next, he went over to the tallboy. As soon as he pulled open the first drawer, the smell wafted up to his nose, stronger this time – musty and sulphuric. He recognised it instantly.

Unused gunpowder.

Tristan realised that the reason he hadn’t smelled it when he’d unpacked earlier was simply because it hadn’t been there. He carefully went through each of the drawers, expecting to find a hidden pistol, but there was nothing untoward in any of them, though the smell gradually became stronger as he got closer to the floor. When he reached the bottom drawer with no luck, he sat back on his heels, baffled.

Maybe d’Ansouis had taken the pistol with him, but it certainly went against all rules of etiquette to carry a weapon into dinner. And even if the Comte intended it to be used to commit murder, it was unlikely he’d be the one doing the firing. So, that left the possibility that he’d hidden the pistol elsewhere for one of his followers to find. If so, when did they intend to use it? And he had no way of knowing whether there was only one.

Swearing in frustration, he pushed the bottom drawer back in with unnecessary force, except that halfway in, it appeared stuck. Gritting his teeth, Tristan pulled it back out, then tried again. This time he was able to push it almost all the way in. ‘Third one’s a charm,’ he muttered to himself, yanking the drawer back out, then shoving it hard. To his relief, it slid back fully. But seconds later the front panel below the drawer fell out.

To Rosie’s relief, the dinner passed without incident. Indeed, it was quite a lively affair with the Comte d’Ansouis providing many amusing anecdotes of his childhood in France.

The Duke and Duchess were careful to keep any more intimate conversations confined to themselves and the Earl and Countess of Ravenstone. It was perfectly credible, as Adam and Temperance were possessed of the highest rank with the exception of the Marquess of Guildford. However, allowing Patience to exchange more than a couple of sentences with the Comte was entirely out of the question.

The Earl and Countess of Cottesmore provided the additional blockade, effectively preventing any other more imprudent members of the family from getting anywhere near their murderous guest.

Under normal circumstances, of course, the Duchess would have been seated at the opposite end of the table to the Duke, and indeed, that would undoubtedly be the case once the King and the other guests arrived, but tonight the excuse was to ensure the Comte felt at ease as the only non-family member there.

Roseanna had been particularly abstracted during the meal, but since that was nothing out of the ordinary, Frankie, Henri and Lily, thought little of it. Of course, had they known the truth, the three women would not have been nearly so sanguine - after they’d lifted their jaws off the floor naturally.

In truth, Rosie could not stop thinking about Tristan Bernart. Their kiss had unleashed emotions she never even dreamed she possessed. Her mind kept picturing the way he’d pressed her to him - and the way she’d responded. Wantonly thrusting her hips against his hardness. How the devil had she known what to do? She was completely baffled by all of it. Only two things were uppermost in her mind.

Firstly, she wanted to do it again – the sooner the better, and secondly, he’d told her he had a house in Torquay.

He would not have shared that with her if all he’d wanted from her was a quick tumble.

The smell of musty sulphur became suddenly stronger, and Tristan laid his head on the floor and pushed his hand into the aperture. After a second, his fingers touched what felt like cloth. Grasping it between his thumb and forefinger, he dragged it towards him, finally pulling out a white shirt. Except there was hardly any white left on it.

Frowning, Tristan climbed to his feet and held out the shirt. The fine lawn was liberally coated in what looked like fine black dust which was clearly the source of the smell.

He’d been wrong, the black powder hadn’t come from a pistol. There was far too much of it for that to be the case. Tristan froze as he realised the truth.

This much powder had to have come from a barrel. And a barrel of black powder would only be used for one thing.

An explosion.

Tristan felt himself come out in a cold sweat. On its own, one barrel of black powder could certainly do some damage, but it would be localised. He didn’t know what Babin’s ultimate objective was, but causing as much chaos as possible had to be a priority.

Blowing up the house of a prominent member of the aristocracy whilst the heads of the two major political parties were in residence would certainly fit the bill. And now, by some unlucky coincidence, the King of England would also be present…

Tristan felt sick. To achieve the damage Babin was looking for, he would certainly need more than one barrel of black powder. All of them placed strategically to create the most impact.

That was why the bastard needed a plan of the house.