The Regency Bestsellers Collection. Bronwyn Scott

miniature. “That’s Mama.”

      Alex took the pendant in her hand, holding it closer for examination. “How beautiful she was.”

      “Oh, yes. She was very beautiful. She was brilliant at singing and cards. And clever, too. She always knew just how to make you feel better, if you had a stomachache or cough.”

      “It would have been better if she hadn’t known,” Rosamund said.

      “Why would you say that?” Alex asked.

      “That’s how she caught her death. She was helping nurse the neighbor’s boy when he was ill with the putrid throat. He got better, but not before making her sick. She wasn’t so very clever after all.”

      “She was,” Daisy retorted angrily.

      “She ought to have never gone. Anyone could see what would come of it. It was stupid of her.”

      “Rosamund,” Alexandra said gently.

      Daisy jumped to her feet. “You can’t say that. Take it back.”

      “I shan’t take it back.” Rosamund tossed aside her book and stood. “It’s the truth. Mama was stupid and reckless. She cared more about mending the neighbor boy than she cared about staying alive for us.”

      “That isn’t so,” Daisy yelled through tears. “You’re mean and spiteful and I hate you.”

      “Well, I hate her.” Rosamund tore the necklace from Daisy’s hand and threw it across the room. It bounced off the wall and clattered to the floor. She stood there for a moment, breathing hard and staring at the wall. Obviously struggling not to cry.

      Alex approached her gingerly. “Rosamund.”

      “Don’t.” The girl flinched, recoiling from the touch. “Don’t touch me. Leave Daisy alone, as well. Don’t pretend to mother her. You’re leaving at the end of the summer. And when you’ve gone, we won’t miss you at all.”

      Rosamund ran from the room. Daisy had retreated to a corner, where she curled her knees to her chest, buried her head in her arms, and sobbed.

      Alex wanted to soothe them both, but she knew well from her own youth that the loss of parents couldn’t be healed with biscuits or hugs. The girls needed time, and they needed to know they were safe. Safe to rage or shout or cry, without being told to hush. With her, they needn’t pretend they weren’t hurting inside. If nothing else, she could give them that—for a few more weeks, at least.

      She found the locket and turned it back and forth in her hands. Thankfully, it appeared undamaged from its disastrous flight across the room. The hinge had been tweaked, but she was able to bend it back in place with a bit of gentle manipulation. After replacing the necklace in the French inlaid box, she returned it to the trunk at the foot of the bed. In digging for her treasure, Daisy had made quite a jumble of the playthings and blankets that filled the chest. Alex pulled it all out, planning to fold, sort, and organize the contents as she replaced them.

      When she reached the bottom of the trunk, however, she found a mysterious bundle, roughly the size of a teapot. It had been tightly wrapped in oilcloth and bound with a length of twine.

      Which was tied with a cat’s-paw knot.

      Alexandra ran her fingers over the twine, considering. Children needed privacy, just as adults did. Poking through the girls’ secrets could damage what fragile trust they’d built. She decided to replace the bundle beneath the other contents, close the trunk, and say nothing about it.

      And then she changed her mind.

      An anxious weight had settled in her stomach, heavy enough to pin her to the floor. She wouldn’t rest easy until she learned what was in the bundle.

      With a quick look over her shoulder, she picked apart the knot with her fingernail and carefully unfolded the oilcloth. What she found inside made her heart wrench.

      Everything two girls might need, should they wish to run away.

      Money, chiefly. Alex did a quick counting, and the total was above ten pounds. That was an impressive number of coins, no doubt pilfered one by one from Chase’s pockets and carefully hoarded over the months.

      Oh, Lord. Rosamund was always making quips about her “escape plan,” but Alex had believed her to be joking. The preparation reflected in this bundle was serious indeed.

      Aside from the purse, Alex found a tiny book of coaching timetables, maps of London and England, a flint and tinderbox, a pocket knife, a ball of twine, and a compass. The same compass that had gone missing a few weeks ago. Apparently, it hadn’t gone missing at all. It had joined the rest of Rosamund’s cache.

      Last, she found a simple sewing kit. Needle book, thread, and a small pair of shears. Her lips curved in a bittersweet smile. At least she’d convinced Rosamund of the value of needlework.

      Alex hastily remade the bundle, careful to replace the objects as she’d found them, and tied the twine with an identical knot. She reburied the packet at the bottom of the trunk and closed it.

      One thing was clear. She would have to redouble her efforts with Chase. She didn’t want to betray Rosamund’s fragile trust by telling him about the bundle, but there was more at stake here than he knew. Rosamund was capable and determined, and if she decided to take Daisy and run away, no headmistress would be stern enough to prevent them, nor quick enough to track them down. They had squirreled away enough money to take them anywhere in England. Possibly farther.

      If Chase wasn’t careful, sending the girls to school could mean losing them. Forever.

       Chapter Eighteen

      With a satisfying whack, Chase drove home the final nail.

       There.

      He pulled his shirt over his head and used it to mop his face before casting it aside. Then he stood back to admire his work.

      His gentleman’s retreat was, at long last, complete. Ready to be christened. By this point, he’d been presented with a myriad of options for its title: Cave of Carnality, Libertine Lair, Rake Room, Passion Palace.

      Lately, it had been the Self-Pleasure Sanctum. He’d shared it with no one but his hand since Alexandra Mountbatten arrived in this house. To be truthful, even on those occasions when he satisfied himself, she was still there—in spirit. In fantasy.

      It was as if the moment she’d strolled through that door, her dark hair neatly pinned and a weathered satchel in hand, she’d claimed the place. As he looked around at the products of several weeks’ labor, the space that was meant to have hosted a succession of meaningless encounters . . . it had meaning.

      There was the chair where she’d been sitting while she enumerated the many deficiencies in his character.

      There was the stretch of paneling he’d been hanging when he sliced his thumb and surprised her in the kitchen, and she’d given him the most stirring kiss of his life.

      There was the glassware rack he’d pieced together on a night when he’d been aching with want, lost in fantasies of tying her naked to a bedpost mast and licking her body from bow to stern.

      She was in every nook and niche of this room. He was having difficulty imagining sharing it with any other woman. If he didn’t act soon, the Den of Deviance would be boarded up before it had even opened for visitors.

       Alexandra, Alexandra. What the hell am I going to do with you?

      Nothing, of course. He couldn’t do anything with his tempting little governess, and that was his bloody problem.

      Someone rapped at the door. When he didn’t answer it directly, the rapping became pounding. Whoever was standing out on the street sounded equally as desperate as Chase