Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) (34 page)

She met his eyes, then whispered back, “The stair has three short flights. You’ll step out”—she looked up at the ceiling—“virtually directly above. There’s a corridor that runs above the one we’re standing in, forward and back through the house. If you go forward”—with her hands she directed—“the first rooms you come to are maids’ rooms and nurses’ quarters. The last four rooms, two on either side, are the children’s bedrooms—William and Alice had the two closest to the schoolroom. That’s the room at the end of the corridor—it runs along the front of that floor.”

Thomas nodded. “Start talking. Tell them you’re coming to look for them—keep talking and move to the front of the house.” He pointed ahead. “Pretend to search the bedrooms at the front on this floor.”

Her face clouded. “What are—”

He gripped her hand, squeezed hard. “We don’t have time. They’re upstairs, and it’s too silent up there. I’m going up, but I need you to distract them, to make them think we’re searching down here.”

She stared at him for a second, then she stepped close, framed his face, and kissed him.

Briefly.

Pulling back, she looked into his eyes. “Be careful.”

Releasing him, she whirled, and started along the corridor. Raising her voice, she called, “We’re starting to search for you along here. Pippin? Where are you? Are you hiding in Mama’s room?”

Thomas limped to the archway, cast a last look over his shoulder, and heard Rose continuing on. Then he gripped his cane and started up as fast as he silently could. As fast as he dared.

It still took too long, but, eventually, he paused on the top step. Rose was still calling out now and then, marking her progress through the lower rooms. At her next pause, Thomas listened—and detected an odd, sliding, scraping sound, then muted voices reached him.

From the direction of the schoolroom.

Stepping out from the cover of the stairwell, his cane held off the thinly carpeted floor, he made his way swiftly but silently toward the schoolroom door.

It stood half open; beyond, the room was bright, full of light. Presumably, the dormer windows had no curtains.

The voices were nearer, had grown clearer; although Thomas couldn’t yet make out any words, he identified Homer’s boyish tones, then on a rush of relief, he heard Pippin’s piping squeak—immediately drowned by a deeper, darker, seductively lethal male voice.

Roger, Homer, and Pippin were together somewhere beyond the door.

Cloaked in the shadows thrown by the door, Thomas scanned what he could see of the room but saw no one and nothing of note. Putting out a hand, very carefully, he eased the door further open.

One part of his mind gave mute thanks that the door didn’t squeak; the rest rapidly absorbed and analyzed what his eyes were seeing.

One of the dormer windows stood open, the long casement pushed wide. Roger had taken—forced—both Homer and Pippin out onto the roof. At pistol-point.

A few feet from the open window, the blackguard held Pippin loosely against him; the little girl wasn’t struggling because Roger was holding a pistol in his right hand, with the end of the barrel tucked under Pippin’s chin. The girl was terrified.

No doubt using the threat against Pippin for leverage, Roger had forced Homer to climb out onto the roof first. Standing heartbreakingly straight and tall, his fists clenched at his sides, his chin tipped defiantly, the boy was further away from the window, a good five paces from his would-be murderer. Who was holding a gun on his little sister.

The section of roof on which they were standing was a flat expanse no more than two feet wide that ran between the parapet and the steep upslope in which the windows were set.

Conner was standing too close to the house to notice the action occurring two stories above. Thomas glanced toward where Phelps waited with the carriage and realized a tree blocked the coachman’s view.

Roger’s attention was fixed on Homer, and Homer was staring back at him. “Just remember,” Roger murmured, “if either of you raise your voice, much less think to scream to your sister or the others for help, I’ll almost certainly startle and pull the trigger . . . and you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

After a moment of fraught silence, Roger smiled. “Excellent. So, now, here’s what you’re going to do.” He continued in the same low, murmurous, almost mesmerizing voice to direct all to his liking . . .

Thomas teetered on the brink of rushing forward.

He caught himself.

Dragging in a huge breath, his gaze locked on the scene playing out before him, he ruthlessly quashed the emotions geysering through him, clamoring for immediate, impulsive actions, and reached deep, deeper, and found and hauled forth his old persona.

Deliberately wrapped it like an old and well-worn cloak about him.

Malcolm Sinclair had never felt emotion. Had never had to contend with its distraction.

Malcolm Sinclair was who he needed to be to rescue Homer and Pippin.

His vision cleared, sharpened.

Everything, he immediately saw, hinged on how close he could get to the open window without Roger seeing him or either of the children noticing him and reacting.

Leaning his cane against the door frame, he glided forward. One step. Two. His need to limp was still there, but he ignored it—blocked out the pain not limping sent shooting through him.

He didn’t matter. Homer and Pippin did.

“I won’t!” Fists clenched hard, Homer flung the words, quiet but implacable, at Roger. “We thought you were kind—we liked you. But you’re a
monster
.” Homer jerked his chin at Pippin. “Let her go!”

Roger smiled, all charm and deadly calm. “I’ll let her go after you jump—you have my word.”

“Your
word
?” For a nine-year-old, Homer managed to infuse an incredible amount of scorn into the phrase. “What is that worth? I know you won’t let her go—you’ll throw her off after me or she’ll tell everyone what you did.”

Roger’s smile changed, taunting and openly evil. “Very well. In that case, how about I throw her off first?”

Homer’s face blanched.

Malcolm reached the open dormer.

Homer saw him—his gaze locked on him and his expression changed.

Roger noticed and glanced at the window.

He panicked and swung around, lifting the pistol from beneath Pippin’s chin.

Malcolm didn’t look at the pistol. He looked at Pippin, trapped the girl’s gaze. “Pippin—
drop
!”

Her eyes widened.

Then she did.

Roger tried to grab her suddenly boneless little body, but she slid through his hold.

Swearing, he glanced at Malcolm. Lips lifting in a snarl, Roger gave up on Pippin, who scrambled and scuttled to Homer. The boy grabbed her and bundled her behind him.

Roger held Malcolm’s gaze for a split second, then straightened, turned, and leveled his pistol on Homer.

No thought was required.

Malcolm grabbed both sides of the window frame, hauled himself up, and launched himself at Roger Percival.

He slammed into the man. Hands locking on Percival’s arm, Malcolm forced the pistol barrel up and back.

They wrestled. Percival cursed. Malcolm tightened his grip and forced Percival’s arm higher.

The pistol discharged harmlessly into the sky.

Percival roared. With his free hand, he pushed Malcolm away.

Pushed himself backward.

The top of the low parapet caught Percival across the backs of his knees.

Eyes flaring wide, arms flailing, Percival started falling backward.

Unsupported, unbalanced, Malcolm staggered forward.

In utter desperation, Percival lashed out—and caught the side of Malcolm’s coat.

Then he fell.

And took Malcolm with him.

H
e was falling.

Again.

And as it had on the first occasion, time slowed.

But, this time, instead of myriad flashes of his life, his senses replayed that time before, the deafening thunder of the water, the icy chill as the tumult soaked him. Most especially he remembered the savage terror that had ripped through him, body and soul, as he’d plummeted toward the jagged black rocks . . .

That picture faded.

This time, there was only peace.

A sense of finality.

Of completeness.

Of end.

A scream pierced the enveloping silence.

Rose. His Rose.

His loving Rose.

His route to peace—his salvation.

Something struck his ribs; a sharp crack sounded.

He couldn’t see. His vision had dimmed.

His body tumbled; pain shot through him.

Overtook him.

He landed with a thud.

On soft, dark earth instead of jagged rocks.

It didn’t matter—he was done.

Closing his eyes, he let Fate have him.

S
tanding on the semicircular balcony at the front of the house, tears clouding her vision, her heart in her throat, Rose blew and blew on the whistle.

Chapter

16

H
e heard murmurs, whispers, but couldn’t tell who spoke, nor what they said.

Perhaps it was St. Peter deciding where he should go? Up, or down? But he didn’t believe in God—so perhaps it was the Fates, deciding his.

Either way, he’d done all he could. His life was over.

He drifted. Pain had no purchase here, on this plane where nothing existed.

But
he
was here, wasn’t he? He was real . . . or was he?

The questions were too hard, the mists shrouding him too dense to penetrate.

He let go, stopped wondering, and simply drifted.

H
e came to his senses and realized that they, and his wits, were once more his to command.

Of his body, he was not yet sure.

Before testing the latter, he let his senses expand, let them tell him what they might.

He was . . . lying in a bed, with plump pillows beneath his head, with covers, warm and soft, tucked about him.

Not what he’d expected.

It took effort to lift his lashes, but, eventually, he managed it. Blinked.

Rose sat in a chair by the bed, head bent, busily sewing.

He’d seen the sight so often in the kitchen at the manor that for several seconds he didn’t dare believe this was anything more than a memory . . .

Then, as if sensing his regard, Rose looked up—and met his eyes.

“Thank God,” she breathed as joy suffused her face. A smile brimming with love and gratitude lit her countenance.

Laying aside her sewing, she rose and drew near.

Placing her hand over his where it lay on the counterpane, she held his wondering gaze. “I love you.”

Her smile didn’t dim; her gaze remained steady and sure.

He was alive.

Emotions battered him, left his wits giddy, reeling, intoxicated with welling happiness. He studied her face, drank in her beloved features, soaked up the emotions he could see in her eyes. He let his lips curve wryly. “Not the monastery again, then.”

The words came out in a raspy rumble. His tongue felt thick, his throat dry.

Rose laughed, all but delirious with relief and happiness. Lifting a tumbler of water from the bedside table, she held it for him and urged him to sip.

Once he had, she asked, “How do you feel?”

He frowned, transparently taking stock.

Setting the glass down, she sat on the bed beside him, taking one of his hands between hers—unable not to touch him, to hold onto him now he was back.

After a moment, he raised his gaze and met hers. “I’m not sure. I was certain I would die.”

There was a question in the last sentence, one she answered. “No—according to the doctor, you were never in any danger of dying. You hit the tree as you fell, several times, and that slowed your fall, and also turned you so that you landed fully in the garden bed, rather than on the gravel or across the bed’s stone edge. You’ve broken several ribs, but they’re set and are healing, and the doctor believes you wrenched your already damaged hip and weak leg, and you suffered a bad wound across your back where you hit a large branch, but”—she paused to draw breath—“in time, the doctor believes that all you’ll have to show from the incident is a scar across your back.”

She watched him trying to assimilate that. “The doctor said that in a roundabout way your previous injuries protected you this time—he said your joints and muscles have grown unusually strong, having been forced to compensate for your earlier injuries. They held up better under the stress than an uninjured man’s would have.”

That seemed to help.

Then he turned his hand and grasped hers, and refocused on her eyes. “Homer and Pippin—William and Alice. How are they faring?”

She grinned and returned the pressure of his fingers. “Better than anyone else. They were as shocked as all we adults were, but as soon as they heard of the doctor’s verdict about you . . .” With her free hand, she gestured. “Their shock turned to excitement, and they’ve been busy telling everyone who’ll listen about their thrilling escape from Roger’s villainous clutches. He now features as ‘that very bad man.’ ”

“From the mouths of babes—he
was
a very bad man.” Thomas—he realized he was, indeed, Thomas again—remembered Roger’s voice on the roof. Heard again the cadence, recalled the darkness dripping from every syllable, and suppressed a shudder. Glancing up, he met Rose’s eyes. “I’ve met evil men before, several, of various different stripes. Roger was neither the highest nor the lowest in standing and scope. But he was the worst.”

He shifted in the bed, then asked, “What happened to him?”

“He’s in hospital, under guard, but not expected to live.”

There was, he noted, not a shred of gentleness, of compassion, in her voice; Roger was dead to her, regardless.

He couldn’t find any fault with that.

Letting his head sink back on the pillows, he looked around, taking in the furniture and trappings of a regular bedroom. Beyond the window, the sky showed blue, the leafy canopies of trees ruffling beneath the hand of a playful breeze. “Where are we?”

He looked back at Rose in time to see her smile.

“In Barnaby and Penelope’s house. They insisted that we all stay here until you’ve recovered enough for us to think of what we wish to do next, of where we want to go.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, then quietly said, “Us?”

She nodded decisively. “Us.” Her tone was determined. Her eyes narrowed fractionally, as if daring him to argue.

Us.
His gaze locked with hers, he hesitated—struggled to define the logical way forward, to shape words to give it reality—but, in the end, he bowed to the moment, to the overwhelming emotional compulsion welling within, and said nothing.

He wasn’t sure . . . what should be. What could be.

He knew he needed to think things through, but . . . heaving a sigh, he realized he was still too weak.

His lids grew heavy and drifted down. He started to fight, to try to stay with her, but then he felt her hand stroke over the back of his, then she shifted forward and he felt her lips brush his forehead.

“Sleep,” she whispered. “We’ll be here when you awake.”

Reassured at some primitive level, he let go, and did.

M
ore than a week passed before Thomas could manage the stairs. The day after he proved he could brave them, Penelope organized a dinner party.

“Come along.” Her arm looped through his, Rose steadied him as he paused at the head of the stairs. “Everyone’s waiting in the drawing room.”

It took another five minutes of careful, step-by-step negotiation, but, at last, he gained the tiles of the front hall and straightened.

Rose smiled encouragingly. Arm in arm, they turned toward the door that Mostyn, beaming, stood ready to open.

As they approached, Thomas still nursing his mending ribs and leaning heavily on his cane, Mostyn obliged and sent the door swinging wide, and they walked into a celebration.

The others were all there—Barnaby and Penelope, Stokes and Griselda, Montague and Violet, and Richard Percival—the people Thomas had come to know over the last weeks, those he’d worked alongside to save William, Alice, and Rose.

The children were there, too, not just William and Alice, who were gradually learning to respond to their real names, but also Barnaby and Penelope’s son, Oliver, and Stokes and Griselda’s Megan, rambunctious toddlers both, and it was now more apparent that Violet and Montague were expecting a child, albeit several months from now.

All the adults were on their feet, watching Thomas, glasses in their hands and huge smiles on their faces.

He halted, bemused. He’d assumed this was to be an ordinary dinner party; he hadn’t imagined . . .

Barnaby raised his glass. “To our own conquering hero.”

“To our conquering hero!” the others echoed, raising their glasses to Thomas, then drinking his health.

He blinked rapidly. He was, indeed, Thomas again, with his inconvenient emotions and their consequent distractions.

Someone pressed a glass into his hand.

He looked at Rose and saw she already had a glass and was sipping, drinking to him with the others.

He met her eyes, saw them brimming with happiness, and hesitated—and looked inward, as he so often had to, for guidance. As Thomas, thanks to her, he knew what to do.

Raising his head, he lifted his glass to the others and said, “Thank you.” He paused, then added, “I couldn’t have saved the children without the support and help of you all.”

Everyone grinned, laughed, inclined their heads in acknowledgment, then all turned and found their seats and sat so they could talk and share the latest news.

Limping forward to the small sofa that had, apparently, been reserved for him and Rose, Thomas carefully sat, then eased back. Rose sat beside him. He glanced at her and felt gladness—a sense of gratitude, of simple joy at being alive—well and flow through him.

The talk, unsurprisingly, had turned to those critical moments at Seddington House.

Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope, and Montague and Violet, and Richard Percival, in various positions along and across the street, had all had a clear view of the action on the roof.

“But we couldn’t see you,” Richard explained. “Not until you flung yourself at Roger.”

“We didn’t know what to do,” Violet said. “Whether to scream at Phelps and Conner to look—”

“Or to run inside ourselves.” Stokes shook his head. “It was a horrible few minutes.”

“Minutes the likes of which I never want to live through again.” The iron-willed declaration came from Penelope.

Griselda’s brows rose, as if she couldn’t believe her ears.

Penelope saw, and raised a shoulder. “Well, not if I can avoid it.”

Griselda laughed. Barnaby caught his wife’s eyes and smiled.

They adjourned to the dining room and the conversations rolled on.

Penelope had seated Richard Percival, the odd man at the table, alongside Thomas. Richard seized a moment between courses to capture Thomas’s attention. “I’ve spoken with Rose, and William, too, of course. Given that summer’s approaching and the schools will soon close, we thought, if you’re agreeable, that it would be best for William if we could leave him in your care, to continue his studies under your guidance, at least for the next few months. We have plenty of time to assess schools and decide which one will best suit him, and, of course, he will need to start to get to know the estate, to spend more time there.”

Thomas hadn’t thought . . .

Richard tried to read Thomas’s suddenly impassive expression but couldn’t. More tentatively, Richard said, “We realize, of course, that it’s an imposition, and if you don’t feel inclined to take on the responsibility, I’m happy to arrange for Rose and the children to live in Seddington House. We can hire tutors, and—”

“No.” The word spilled from Thomas’s lips, driven purely by emotion. By reaction. But he didn’t yet know what was to happen. He glanced across the table at Stokes; engaged in an earnest discussion with Montague, Stokes appeared oblivious of, and had certainly given no sign of remembering, their arrangement, but Thomas couldn’t believe Stokes had forgotten it. “It might be best,” Thomas quietly said, bringing his gaze back to Richard’s face, “if we left things as they are for the moment. Until I have time to sort out how matters stand.”

Richard’s gaze moved past Thomas to Rose, sitting on Thomas’s other side. With a smile, Richard nodded. “Yes, of course. As I said, we have several months before any decisions regarding William’s personal life need to be made.”

And Thomas’s relationship with Rose was another issue that hung in the balance. A balance that, as far as he knew, was firmly weighted against.

Eager to deflect any further comments on such issues, he asked, “What about Marmaduke? He’s still William’s co-guardian, I take it?”

Richard nodded. “However, when it comes to it, Marmaduke has never had any interest in running the estate, and neither Foley nor I imagine he’ll show any more engagement over the details of William’s personal life now William has reappeared—and, incidentally, Foley has notified the courts of that fact, that William is hale and whole and very much alive.”

Richard paused, then went on, “As for Marmaduke himself, he’s in a sorry state. At the moment, he’s keeping vigil by Roger’s bed. On learning what Roger has been up to, Marmaduke was stunned, shocked—indeed, beyond horrified. He found it hard to accept, at first, but now he knows it’s the truth and he’s a shattered man. I seriously doubt we, or William, need fear any further interference from that quarter.”

Thomas glanced across the table to where William sat, with Alice beside him; both children were thrilled to be dining with the adults. “What of society?” Thomas asked. “How much does the ton know?”

Richard had followed his gaze and understood why he was asking; the ton had a habit of looking askance at the family of blackguards like Roger. “We’ve endeavored to keep the matter as quiet as possible, and, thanks largely to the Adairs, we’ve succeeded well enough. Many do know, of course—that was unavoidable—but all of those are of the ilk to appreciate the need for discretion.”