Page 5 of Roseanna (The Shackleford Legacies #3)

Five

Tristan sighed as he made his way toward Blackmore’s gatehouse. Of all the bad luck running into the same bloody woman – but at least her tumble had nothing to do with him this time. In truth, coming upon her as he did – just as she stepped blindly into the hole – he couldn’t have left her to her own devices. She was deuced lucky she didn’t break an ankle.

Unfortunately, rather than the danger she was in, his thoughts were, even now, occupied by the sight of her slender legs uncovered as she fell backwards. He’d actually been able to see the tops of her stockings. He gritted his teeth. It was ridiculous that even picturing it caused the kind of stirring he’d last felt as a green boy.

And when he’d taken hold of her hand… He shook his head, quickening his pace. This kind of complication was the last thing he needed. He hadn’t had a prigging since he’d left London, that was all. He gritted his teeth - if all went to plan, he wouldn’t be getting one in the near future either, so he needed to put any carnal thoughts about slender ankles and dazzling smiles firmly aside and get on with the bloody job at hand. Then his steps faltered as he thought back to her use of the word excuse . It seemed a strange term to use, and he found himself wondering if she somehow knew of their plans. Then he shook his head again and shrugged. How the devil would she know anything? She was simply an empty-headed chit with no thoughts between her ears aside from her next ball.

And if a small voice inside his head argued that she hadn’t seemed that way at all during their two encounters, he resolutely ignored it.

Nicholas stared in disbelief at the letter in his hand - the one he’d been handed by Boscastle not five minutes earlier. The news it contained was nothing short of catastrophic. Unfortunately, he’d already sent Tristan down to meet with Jamie and Prudence, but his brother-in-law would have to be informed. In a rare fit of anger, Nicholas screwed the paper into a ball and threw it towards the wall. He was getting too bloody old for this. Seconds later, he grimaced, and climbing to his feet, went over to pick it up. His back gave an ominous crack as he bent down, and his ire was replaced by a dry chuckle. Smoothing the sheet out, he looked again at the missive. The news would have to be broken to two brothers-in-law before Roan and Jamie sought their beds, so at least he wouldn’t be the only one getting very little sleep this night. Malcolm too would have to postpone any thoughts of slumber. Grace had already retired, and Nicholas decided against disturbing her. She at least could wait until the morning without this additional nightmare to intrude on her dreams.

And he needed to send a missive to Anthony so at least he could inform Jennifer and Brendon of the delicate situation they’d found themselves in.

But there was one other person he’d have to apprise in advance -and just the thought of it was enough to give him an apoplexy. With another sigh, he climbed to his feet and went to his desk, pulling a sheet of paper towards him and taking up his quill…

Roseanna was up early the next morning, more determined than ever to find out exactly what the Duke and Duchess were involved in. Why it should be so important to her? She chose not to question. She wasn’t particularly inquisitive by nature, but then she’d never come across a footman who wasn’t really a footman before.

Well, in all honesty, that wasn’t quite true. Her Uncle Nicholas had several retainers specifically used by members of the family as protection during long, possibly hazardous journeys. As far as she remembered, they masqueraded as anything from grooms to footmen whenever called upon. Could this Tristan be one of those?

It was possible, she supposed. But somehow, she didn’t think so. Most servants possessed a natural air of subservience, whereas everything about Tristan, whatever his name was, suggested he thought himself equal. But if he wasn’t an actual servant, what was he? And what havey-cavey business could he be involved in with her uncle? Malcolm spoke about him being recruited by someone. Did he mean Tristan to infiltrate some nefarious plot?

She’d heard tell that the Duke of Blackmore had been called upon to assist the Crown on several occasions and was even involved in preventing an assassination attempt at the old King George IV’s coronation. Though she didn’t really know much about it, she did know that the plot had also involved Uncle Jamie who’d been a Bow Street Runner at the time. Sooo… putting two and two together – could this be something of that ilk? Something involving treason towards the new king?

Rosie felt a sudden thrill of fear as she thought about the possibility of someone again targeting the Crown. King William IV had been on the throne for barely a year. While politics were not something she generally thought about, she was aware of talk about a possible reform bill –she didn’t know exactly what it entailed – only that her mother and father had spoken about it. How or why proposals for reform might lead to someone wanting to assassinate the King, she had no idea. She grimaced. It all seemed terribly far-fetched.

She knew well that she could very well end up in over her head by trying to discover what was going on. But for some reason, she felt an urge to pursue it - however foolish. Sighing, she climbed out of bed and parted the curtains. It was still early, not long past dawn. The maid wouldn’t be in for another hour at least. Shrugging off her nightgown, she pulled on the only day dress she possessed that didn’t have hundreds of buttons down the back. Then, throwing a shawl over her shoulders to cover any fastenings she may have missed, she cautiously opened the door to her bedchamber.

While Trixie looked at her enquiringly, the little dog made no move to jump off the bed, and as Roseanna put her fingers to her lips, her furry companion dropped her head back onto her paws and closed her eyes.

A couple of minutes later, Rosie was tiptoeing down the main staircase. If she remembered correctly, the Duke’s study was close to the library. On reaching the large square hall, she strode quietly but confidently towards her destination. If anyone asked what she was doing abroad so early, she could say she was looking for a book to read.

Happily, she saw no one, and in no time at all, she was slipping through the door into Blackmore’s impressive library. Once inside, she couldn’t help but stop and stare. It was a couple of years since she’d last spent any time in the opulent room, and she’d forgotten quite how magnificent it was.

After a few moments, she remembered why she was there and turned left towards the wall dividing the study and the library. The room was quite dark with muslin covering most of the large picture windows - no doubt to protect the books, and she had to tread carefully to avoid crashing into large pieces of furniture in the dimness. On reaching the wall, she stood for a second, looking for a portion that wasn’t covered in bookshelves. There would be no chance of overhearing anything with shelves and books in between the two rooms.

Rosie was just about to give up when she spied a small, narrow door incongruously situated at the very end of the shelves. She’d missed it at first, as it was partly obscured by the window drapes. Her heart beating ridiculously fast, she hurried to the door. She guessed it had to lead into her uncle’s study. She tried lifting the latch, but predictably it was locked. Pursing her lips, she looked behind her before laying her head against the wood. There was no telling whether she’d be able to hear anything through it, but she’d read that if one had a glass, it would amplify whatever was being said. If she was careful to cover herself with the drapes, she wouldn’t be spotted by anyone else using the library.

Her mind made up. She was anxious to get back to her bedchamber and was just about to turn away when she heard the sound of voices coming from the other side of the door. In sudden excitement, she put her ear against it.

‘There has to be one here somewhere. Sinclair wouldn’t keep the bloody thing anywhere else.’

‘He’s hardly going to leave something like that lying around for anyone to pick up. At the very least, it’s going to be under lock and key.’

Roseanna didn’t recognise either voice. While they were reasonably cultured, they didn’t have the refined, nasally tones that traditionally characterised members of the upper-class.

‘You try the desk, and I’ll go through the cupboards. We might get lucky, and at least we can tell his nibs we tried. Remember to leave everything exactly as it was. The last thing we want is for Sinclair to know that someone’s been nosing in his private bloody sanctum.’

Rosie’s heart was beating almost too loud for her to hear what was being said. She swallowed, endeavouring to calm herself down. Was there time for her to fetch her uncle? Or even Malcolm? But she couldn’t guarantee that either of them would be in their bedchambers. By the time she’d tracked them down and explained that someone was illicitly searching the study, the miscreants would likely be long gone. Better for her to remain where she was and find out as much as she could.

The two voices went quiet for the next few minutes, apart from the occasional muttered epithet. Whatever it was they were looking for, they didn’t appear to be having much luck. From what she’d overheard, they clearly didn’t want to risk leaving any trace of their presence.

As the minutes ticked by, she could hear their movements becoming more frantic. Evidently, they were getting desperate. The longer they were there, the more likely they were to be found. A sudden thought occurred to her. If she headed back into the corridor now, she might be able to catch sight of the perpetrators as they left the study. The thought of possibly coming under the varmint's scrutiny filled her with terror, but if worse came to worst, she could just act as though she was simply passing. She nibbled at her fingernails in indecision. What was beyond the library? The noises next door continued, but she knew she had only seconds to decide what to do. In the end, the heated words she overheard next made the decision for her.

‘We daren’t stay here any longer. The maid’ll be in any minute to set the fire. His nibs’ll just have to get hold of another copy somehow. At the end of the day, as long as the bastard’s dead…’

A sudden stab of fear rooted Roseanna to the spot. Did they plan to assassinate her uncle? Could it be that these men weren’t just thieves, but murderers? What if they came into the library next? Her instinct was to run. But if they did come in, she might well bump into them on her way out. She bit her lip to stifle a frightened moan and stepped closer to the window, wrapping herself in the muslin drapes.

There she stood, hardly daring to move, her whole being focussed on the movements next door. She could still hear voices, but it sounded as though they’d given up the search and were now making sure they’d covered their tracks. A moment later, to her overwhelming relief, she heard the study door open and close, followed by blessed silence.

‘The thing is Agnes, I’m going to need your help.’ Augustus Shackleford could never in a million years have envisaged himself actually saying those words. Even practising them in front of a mirror brought him out in a cold sweat. He really needed Percy. But the Almighty had put a kibosh on that.

He gave a sigh. Perhaps some fresh air would do him good. It was still early, but at least he’d be assured of some peace and quiet. Calling to Flossy, he made his way downstairs and through the still silent kitchen.

Once outside, he took a deep breath. He couldn’t deny that this sudden attack of conscience, the Almighty had seen fit to saddle him with, had really put him in the basket since it meant he couldn’t confide in Percy as was his usual wont - for fear of casting aspersions on Dougal Galbraith. So, somehow, he’d have to keep the troublemaker away from Finn without alerting Percy as to why. In truth, the Reverend never really had a problem calling a spade a spade in the past, and while he might have been a trifle blunt on occasion, things had usually sorted themselves out before too much harm was done. Evidently, the Almighty wasn’t of the same opinion. The Reverend could even see His point, but tare an’ hounds, this sudden advent of noble-mindedness now was deuced inconvenient. And it certainly made his upcoming task all the more difficult.

In fact, doubly so, since he’d discovered the missive from Nicholas waiting for him when he returned from the Red Lion late last eve. Indeed, the news therein put his concern about wrongly defaming his Scottish friend at the back of the queue, since there was another, potentially more explosive reason that Reverend Shackleford would need to keep the Scot out of mischief.

In the letter, Nicholas revealed that the former Prime Minister – Arthur Wellesley, the First Duke of Wellington, and the current Prime Minister – Charles Grey, the Second Earl Grey, would both be attending the garden party at Blackmore. It was therefore imperative that Dougal Galbraith be kept on as short a leash as possible. Reverend Shackleford groaned. Thunder an’ turf, this was getting more complicated by the minute. Indeed, given this new, perturbing news, his best option would have been to share the responsibility for the troublesome Scot with Percy, Lizzy and Finn.

Augustus Shackleford sat down on the wall and desolately put his head in his hands. It wasn’t often he was entirely bereft of ideas. Sensing his misery, Flossy put her front paws onto his lap and licked his nose. Shaking his head, the Reverend stroked her soft head. ‘We’re in the deuced suds and no mistake, Floss. I know the Almighty’s got a peculiar sense of humour on occasion, but this time he’s outdone himself. I daren’t leave old Dougal and Finn together, but I can’t tell Percy the why of it.’

In truth, his entire issue lay with the fact that he simply wasn’t accustomed to dealing with such a thorny problem without his curate’s assistance. He thought again about the possibility of asking for his wife’s help. But how the devil could he allow Agnes within a full mile of two of the most powerful men in England? He wouldn’t put it past her to accidentally poison one of them.

So, who did that leave? Who could he get to help him ensure that Dougal did not inadvertently (or otherwise) set relations between England and Scotland back over eighty years and potentially cause another Culloden?