A Rose At Midnight. Jacqueline Navin

whiskey in his fist, drinking steadily until David came in.

      His brother said nothing. He took the other chair, sharing the silence until Magnus spoke.

      “Find her for me, David. Find me a wife.”

       Chapter One

      Rutherford, Cambridgeshire, England 1847

      With back ramrod straight and chin raised to give her courage, Caroline Wembly lifted the heavy knocker and let it fall with a resounding knell. She cast a look over her shoulder in time to see the coach and four being led away, leaving her alone in the semicircular driveway of the grand manor of Hawking Park. Turning back to the massive door, she hitched a trembling breath and waited.

      Not wanting to seem gauche in front of the coachman, she had tried to appear unimpressed by the stylishness of the phaeton in which she had just ridden. Likewise, her first glimpse of the enormous house had drawn no comment from her, nor did any of the other trappings of the Earl of Rutherford’s fabulous wealth. Still, she could not deny utter shock when she noticed the knocker she had just made good use of was not brass, as she had first assumed, but gold.

      The massive portal swung inward, and a tall serious chap with a thick topping of salt-and-pepper hair stood in front of her.

      “Miss Wembly?” he inquired.

      She inclined her head. The man stepped backward, a sign she was to enter.

      Complying, she found herself in a large circular foyer that dazzled with light from the leaded panes of countless windows. “I am Arthur,” the man said in his clipped, precise tone. “The master is expecting you. Follow me, please.” Dutifully, Caroline trailed after the majordomo, down the long, vaulted hallway. Silent except for the click of her heeled slippers on the marble floor, they proceeded past a row of arched embrasures housing a series of exquisite sculptures, alabaster nymphs whose writhing naked forms skated perilously close to the edges of decency. She was shocked by the sensuous bodies, and had to keep her gaze averted until they passed through a groaning set of mahogany doors and into a palatial salon. Arthur indicated a chair, and Caroline seated herself.

      “The master shall be in momentarily,” he stated. He backed out of the room, closing the door without producing the slightest sound.

      Blowing out her held breath, Caroline Wembly deflated, bowing her head and almost doubling over. Gloved hands dug into the brocade upholstery at her side, finding no purchase in the stiff cushion. Throwing back her head, she breathed deeply to steady her nerves as she looked about her.

      Never had she been to a place such as this! As if her present mission were not harrowing enough, finding herself amidst all this mind-numbing grandeur nearly reduced her to a quivering mass of anxiety.

      Praying the earl would not be arriving too quickly, she rushed to a gilded mirror to check her appearance. The crisp swish of her skirts seemed to echo in the cavernous room. A critical perusal in the silvered glass reassured her all was in order. She ran her hands down the clean line of her gown, frowned, then adjusted her bosom so a generous swelling of each breast loomed over the top. It was, of course, unthinkable to be showing one’s bosom at this time of day, but Caroline was determined to exploit all of her assets to the best advantage.

      After all, she mused as she adjusted a blond curl at her temple, if one is going to act the whore, one should look the part.

      Her eyes caught their own reflection then. Blue orbs, so deep in color they had been called violet by more than one admirer, appeared overlarge, dominating her tense, pinched features. Good Lord, this would never do! She looked petrified. The image staring back at her from the glass was of a pale-faced, round-eyed waif frightened out of her wits.

      No matter if it were true by half, the Earl of Rutherford would not want an awestruck ninny. It was worry over James, written in her face, making her appear less than her twenty-two years. Grimacing, she narrowed her eyes and firmly turned her thoughts to her father—that wretch! It was he who was most to blame for her having to come here and prostrate herself in a most humiliating fashion in front of a stranger. As the bitterness congealed inside her chest, she watched her wan face harden. Her soft mouth set, her eyes turned cold.

      Satisfied, she shifted her attention to her gown. This was the one detail where she was the least sure of herself. She had purchased it only last week from Mrs. Rensacker’s shop in London. It had stood on the rack with the other abandoned garments which had been ordered by frivolous patrons and never collected. The material was a deep blue silk, a shade which provided a striking foil for her unusual eye color, and offset the paleness of her cornsilk-colored hair. Caroline and her mother had labored around the clock to rework the castoff into some semblance of style and fit for her slender form. However, neither she nor her mother were clever with a needle, and the niggling fear that she would split a seam was distracting. Even with this concern, the dress was lovely, truly worth every penny.

      A pang of conscience at the cost hit her hard. She had spent nearly all of the proceeds from her greatgrandmother’s brooch. The sadness at the loss of such a precious keepsake was overshadowed by the thought of the amount of money she had invested in this insane scheme, money they could ill afford. Reminding herself it was all for James, she pushed the regret aside. No cost was too high for him.

      She gave herself a last long look, deciding that she had, after all, turned out satisfactorily.

      From behind her she detected a sound: someone—a male someone—clearing his throat. She whirled.and found herself staring at a darkly clad form of a man.

      He had her pinned by a pair of iridescent green eyes that seemed to glow with an inner mischief. From the cut of his clothing and the haughty expression, Caroline concluded he could be none other than Magnus Eddington, Earl of Rutherford, himself!

      But this could not be the earl. This man was not what she had expected.

      In fact, he was amazingly robust for a dying man, younger than she had anticipated—perhaps a score and ten. Caroline guessed he might stand a head taller than the average male, and thus herself, for she could meet most men on eye level. The crisply starched lawn of his shirt and loosely tied cravat seemed a gratuitous semblance of civility encasing a massive chest and shoulders as broad as the mighty Atlas. A carefully tailored morning coat stretched snugly across the breadth of these assets, showing them to advantage then tapering to accentuate a narrower waist and hips. Oh yes, a man in excellent physical health to be sure. Caroline was certain she must be mistaken.

      “My lord?” she asked. Her voice sounded high and unnatural in her own ears. Goodness, she had suffered a shock.

      He bowed slightly, almost mockingly. “Magnus Eddington, at your service, Miss Wembly.”

      This was the earl! His face was fascinating, for there was hardness in the cut of his jaw and the contemptuous curl of his nostrils, yet the strange green eyes, held as they were in frames of sooty lashes, looked haunted and the sensuous curve of his mouth belied a soft, sensitive aspect as if twin natures were at war within him, each claiming different features. A peculiar observation, as was the certainty of mystery, of something withheld, behind the aristocratic bearing and devastatingly handsome face.

      That was another surprise. Her mental image of the earl had been of a frail, sickly man prone to vanity, for she had heard rumors of his amorous conquests and questionable reputation. A popinjay, perhaps; what used to be called a “fop” in her grandmother’s day. The man before her was the quintessential opposite of such a dandy, for he exuded an air of unrefined masculinity that seemed to steal across the room and entwine itself around her, choking away her courage.

      And he had seen her preening like a court peacock! Ignoring the shame flooding through her, she pulled herself up into a rigid posture and met his gaze head-on. It was an old reflex; just when she felt the most vulnerable did she become the most reckless.

      “Miss Wembly,” he said again as he strode