Rosalyn’s Ring
2014 Book Buyer’s Best Winner,
Novella Category
Soul Mate Publishing
When a young woman is put up for auction in a wife sale, Rosalyn Montagu seizes the chance to rescue her—and to recover a treasured family heirloom, her father’s signet ring. Her plans are thwarted by the newly anointed Viscount Cathmore who finds her provoking beauty, upper crust manner, and larcenous streak intriguing. Her secrets rouse his jaded heart, including the truth of her identity. But more mysteries swirl around Rosalyn’s past, and Cathmore is just the man to help her uncover the truth.
* * *
Chapter One
Rosalyn Montagu had calculated there would be dangers on this increasingly madcap mission of mercy, but she never expected to be sitting in opposite seats from one them, and in his snug, well-appointed, private coach, too.
It put her at a disadvantage, it did. The weather, all grey sky and arctic wind with the smell of snow, had halted her public coach at the last staging inn. A private coach waited there for the two silent gentlemen who had joined them that morning, ready to carry the gentlemen onward to the Village of Glen Murray.
With as much dignity as she could muster, Rosalyn had begged a ride for her and her maid. After all, a woman’s future—her dignity, her safety, maybe even her life—were at stake, though Rosalyn did not feel compelled to share the particulars.
Lord Cathmore and Mr. Logan, they were Not young, not old, for men. Possibly thirty, and both quite handsome. Lord and steward, or Lord and secretary perhaps.
Unfortunately, his lordship was silent no longer. After she and Nelly had settled on his cushioned seats, he had begun a polite campaign to get at those particulars.
“I live in London,” Rosalyn answered him, omitting the precise neighborhood, “with my mother’s elderly cousin. She was kind enough to take me in after my father’s death.”
It was only a small lie. Almost true. Her cousin and benefactor, Abigail Crompton, had died after Christmas last year. This would be Abigail’s first Yuletide spent underground, rolling probably, at the misuse of her monetary bequest.
Lord Cathmore raised only one wicked eyebrow.
A padded little elbow poked her rib. She gasped, and quickly covered the sound with a cough.
“Are you all right, Miss Crompton?” Hooded eyes peered down a noble beak, daring her to squirm.
Miss Crompton? Oh, yes, she had lied about her name, too. Another poke to her side.
“Yes, my lord, I am quite fine.” She turned her head to her maid. “What is it, Nelly?”
“Nothing, Miss. Only the bumps in the road.”
Nelly smiled happily at the men, flirtatiously, even. Cousin Abigail had warned Rosalyn to manage her maid. But Rosalyn understood. Nelly’s advanced age, almost thirty, weighed on her maid’s mind. That was why she was sometimes a bit fresh.
Besides, Nelly was all that Rosalyn had left of her childhood and Brockton Manor.
“Are you warm enough, Miss Crompton?” Lord Cathmore asked.
She could not discern any emotion in the dark depths of his eyes, but his thin upper lip curved up at one corner, bringing the full lower one with it into a smirk, like naughty little Tommy at Miss Harris’s orphanage.
Rosalyn shivered, then heated, and barely retrieved some composure.
“I am fine.” She pulled her cape tighter against that gaze, and against some intoxicating aura that was spinning in the air. This fine coach was well sealed against the icy wind that had knifed through the cracked glass and creaky seams of the public coach. She was well sealed into a tight cocoon of unexpected warmth and unfamiliar sensations.
Heavens. His eyes still studied her, riled her. In his well-cut clothes, and still-shiny boots, he was dashingly handsome, full of himself and his privilege, like every other “my Lord” she had met. Like her own dear father, she thought sadly.
Rosalyn inwardly shook herself. She was heading back into the district of her childhood, and thoughts of her father and her lost inheritance had plagued her through much of this journey. She must keep her focus. After this leg of the trip, Cathmore would surely be no bother to her. Since he had arranged for his private coach, he would surely travel on to his own estate after dropping them at their destination in Glen Murray, the Strutting Stag Inn.
Strutting Stag, indeed. There were plenty of dangers ahead without the intrusion of an entitled lord. Even without this Christmas Eve storm, they would not have been able to return to London tonight with Nelly’s cousin Mindy and her baby. Rosalyn counted on finding a room at the village’s other inn, and failing that, she and Nelly had calculated that Mindy would surely know a villager to offer them shelter.
“You are very lucky to have a cousin take you in,” Lord Cathmore’s voice dragged her back from her woolgathering. “What is her name? Perhaps I know her.”
He could not possibly run in Cousin Abigail’s circles, else Rosalyn would know him already. “Abigail Crompton,” she said, and then realized she had stumbled. She had said Abigail was her mother’s cousin.
The dark eyebrow lifted again.
Rosalyn had learned much about lying from her work at the orphanage. Not enough perhaps for the present need, but she must try. She mastered her urge to tremble and looked at him calmly.
“Begging your pardon, milord,” Nelly said. “But is it true you were at Waterloo? I lost a cousin there.”
Rosalyn eyed her maid, wondering where the girl had gleaned that bit of information, but grateful for the diversion.
Cathmore’s sardonic gaze shifted and he looked kindly at Nelly. “I was, Miss,” he said. “And I’m very sorry for your loss. A great many good men died that day.”
“But you stopped Boney. You did that.”
Nelly’s smile didn’t bring the attention Rosalyn knew the girl craved. Instead, Cathmore’s gaze moved to the coach window, and the silent Mr. Logan cast a concerned glance at his lordship.
The blowing snow obscured landmarks, but they seemed to be passing buildings. The trip had taken twice as long as it should have. The storm must indeed be worse in these parts.
“We’re here,” Cathmore said. “Where shall we drop you ladies?”
“At the inn,” Rosalyn said, “The Strutting Stag. Not the other one.”
“Since the fire a few years back, the Stag is the only inn in Glen Murray,” Mr. Logan said in a cultured, melodious tenor.
Apprehension chilled her. So, finding a bed for the night might be difficult.
“That is our destination also.” Cathmore’s eyes honed in on her.
A dart of some animal power struck Rosalyn, and the tingle she felt went beyond the anticipation of taking on Ned Morgan to free Mindy and possibly achieve her other, more secret, more personal, quest.
She must keep to her purpose. She had seen his lordship’s type in London, perched on high horses, kicking up mud, and disrupting traffic. The money they spent on gambling and prostitutes—Cousin Abigail wasn’t one to hide the sordid straits of other young women—that money could have kept the orphans well fed from the cradle till they left for positions and apprenticeships. Cousin Abigail had warned about his type, but Rosalyn had never truly understood the feelings such a man could incite with only a smile.
Her face burned with confused emotions, but she latched on to indignation. Her presence at the Inn would be no invitation to Cathmore, and he would soon find that out.
“I would be so happy for a spot of something hot,” Nelly said.
“Then you shall have it,” Cathmore replied.
Rosalyn’s hackles rose at the forthright manner of her maid, and his Lordship’s accommodating response, but he still looked without impropriety on Nelly. He seemed to save his burning looks for Rosalyn.
She squeezed Nelly’s hand. “All will soon be well,” she said. She caught Cathmore’s curious eye and managed a firm frown.
When the coach stopped, Cathmore took charge, sending Logan and Nelly along, and reaching a gloved hand up to Rosalyn.
She hesitated. Now that the thing was upon her, her heart quaked.
“Come along, Miss Crompton,” Cathmore said. “You’ll be warmer inside.”
She gave him her hand. Warmth coursed through her now, and with it, confidence. Her own, she thought, but then she saw Cathmore’s grin, and knew this heat was one more of his sensual powers. He dropped her hand, and swept her off the step as easily as lifting a child. Before she could even think to be outraged, his right hand gripped hers, his mantle-draped left arm secured her shoulder, and they were gliding across the icy yard to the open inn door.
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