He had handed Kincaid the note, told him all that he knew, and then waited some more.
For the rest of the night and all the next day he hadn’t eaten, hadn’t slept, and hadn’t even drank. When Sarah was safely delivered, he held her in his arms and wept. Only the third time in his life that he’d cried. The first two due to overwhelming grief, this time out of sheer, unspeakable relief.
“What kind of connection?” he asked, baffled as to how his sister and his mistress–two women, it went without saying, that had never met–might be intertwined.
“You, Sterling.” Kincaid’s mouth flatted into a thin, grim line. “The connection is you.”
Chapter Seven
On the nightof the Marigold Ball, the weather was cool and clear. If one tilted their head, they could almost see the stars through the manmade fog that spewed from the massive textile factories lining the Thames. But from her seat on a stone bench at the far end of the field, the only thing Rosemary saw was the flash of Sir Reginald’s bushy tail as he vanished into the leafy branches of an oak.
“Sir Reginald!” she hissed with no small amount of alarm. “Sir Reginald, get down here thisinstant!”
Just a few minutes ago he had been fast asleep, curled in a ball inside the pocket she had secretly sewn into the waist of her burgundy ball gown. But the unexpected boom of a firework had caught them both unawares, and while Rosemary had jumped and then composed herself, Sir Reginald had panicked and bolted. Out of her pocket, along her arm, and straight up into a tree.
It wasn’t the first thing to have gone wrong this evening, but it was definitely the worst. As Rosemary had been preparing to leave, she had received a hastily written note from Evie filled with apologies. She and Weston, it appeared, would not be attending the Marigold Ball as planned. Neither would Lady Brynne or Lord Campbell, or Joanna and Kincaid, which meant that Rosemary would be left to face thetonalone.
Which was why, naturally, she’d brought Sir Reginald.
As her grandmother gossiped with a bevy of crotchety old patronesses bemoaning the direction High Society was taking (“have you heard, women actually want to participate inParliament, of all things?!”) and Lady Navessa made her rounds in search of the most eligible bachelor with which to bestow her marigold upon, Rosemary had taken her pet and retreated as far from the dance floor and white tents and paper lanterns as she possibly could.
She’d thought the little enclave she’d found, complete with a bench and trickling fountain to drown out the shrill laughter and vicious gossip flowing from the main courtyard, was the perfect place to while away the hours. Until a firework was accidentally discharged, and Sir Reginald abandoned her warm, cozy pocket for a precarious perch high overhead and far out of reach.
What was she to do now? She couldn’t leave him here! Not by himself, out in the dark, where there was no telling what predators lurked in the shadows waiting to sink their teeth into a tasty squirrel-sized snack. Oh, what a disaster tonight was shaping up to be! If only she’d kept him at home. If onlyshe’dstayed at home. But her grandmother had been quite insistent that she attend, as if the outcome of this Marigold Ball would be any different from the previous three. As if Rosemary weren’t going to do anything other than sit in the proverbial corner and read a book.
Which, given her current circumstances, shewishedshe was doing. Instead she was anxiously swinging her arms from side to side as she walked back and forth underneath the oak trying everything she could imagine to coax Sir Reginald down.
She offered him a lifetime supply of peanuts. Sleeping under the covers instead of in his box. A day spent in Hyde Park climbing whatever tree he wished. Just notthistree. Onthisnight. Atthisestate, the prestigious London residence of the current Duke and Duchess of Clemson. A couple renowned for being remarkable hosts…and excellent hunters.
During Rosemary’s first Marigold Ball it had started to rain halfway through, and all of the guests had been rushed out of the field and into the main ballroom by way of the side foyer. There’d been mass confusion and, in the melee, Rosemary had gotten turned around and somehow found herself in a wide, dark hallway…with dozens of black, glassy eyes staring at her.
When her eyes adjusted to the low lighting, she was appalled to find herself gazing at a plethora of stuffed animals. Where portraits ordinarily hung there were deer heads instead of all shapes and sizes. Ones with antlers and ones without. Ones with their mouth open and ones with their mouth closed. There was even a full-sized stag beside which stood a bear towering on its hind legs, massive brown jowls frozen in a fearsome snarl.
If the Duke of Clemson was capable of killing abear, what would he do to a tiny, defenseless squirrel?
Rosemary didn’t plan to find out.
“Sir Reginald!” Hands on her hips, she implored her pet to listen to reason. “Please come down. I know you’re frightened, but it’s really not safe up there. I know you believe it to be safe because you are a squirrel and it is a tree, but you’re not an ordinary squirrel, are you? You’re a tame squirrel, which is completely different.”
A quick chitter, a scrape of nails on bark, and then…nothing.
Stubborn creature.
“Fine.” On a huff of determined breath, Rosemary lifted her skirts and climbed up onto the bench. Eyeing the lowest branch, which appeared wide enough to sustain her, she tentatively stretched her fingers out and, much to her surprise, managed to grab it. “If you won’t come down, then I’ll come up.”
No sooner had her feet left the smooth, flat surface of the bench and she found herself suspended three feet above the ground with nothing but her quickly fading strength to prevent her from tumbling into the bushes than Rosemary realized her mistake. Namely, that she hadn’t an athletic bone in her body and while climbing a tree was a simple matter of defying gravity for a squirrel, it was a much more difficult task for a woman.
Particularly if that woman was wearing a bustle the approximate size of a small pony.
“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice drawled from behind her. “What have we here?”
Not him,was her first thought.
Anyone but him!
Her grandmother, Lady Navessa, the Duke of Clemson…anyone,anyonebut the one man who was guaranteed to gain the most amusement from her unfortunate predicament.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at Hawkridge?” she said through gritted teeth.
