One Perfect Rose by Mary Jo Putney Page A

abbey, swearing under his breath. His blasted patient could be anywhere in Britain. God only knew what might be happening to him. His overall health was probably still fairly good, but that might change at any time.
    Blackmer reached his home and went into his study, pacing restlessly as he considered what the devil he should do. Obviously Ashburton’s staff was reluctant to take any action that might displease their master, but someone must do something, and only Blackmer understood the ramifications of the duke’s absence.
    Ashburton’s brother in Wales was the logical person to write—in fact, there was a fair chance that the duke was visiting there, seeking comfort and preparing his heir to succeed to the title and estates. Blackmer had only the slightest acquaintance with Lord Michael Kenyon—just enough to know that he was a hard and dangerous man, and notifying him would unleash unpredictable forces. Lord Michael might rejoice in the prospect of inheriting. Or he might become furious and blame the messenger, in this case the duke’s physician. He might…the possibilities were numerous and alarming.
    Yet what other choice was there? The physician swore again. Then he sat down and composed a letter to Lord Michael Kenyon, choosing his words with painstaking care.

Chapter 8
    Rosalind scanned the dozen or so people milling about the small theater until she caught Stephen’s eye. “Could you give me a hand with these sets, Stephen?”
    â€œOf course.” He joined Rosalind, then lifted a false-framed window from the floor. “Where would you like it?”
    â€œHere, please. Right where Aloysius is sleeping. He has a genius for choosing the spot where he’ll be most in the way.”
    While Stephen persuaded the wolfhound to move, Rosalind watched with a private smile. She had once heard an Arab proverb that if the nose of a camel entered a tent, the rest of the camel would soon follow. While it was unfair to compare Stephen’s aristocratic nose with that of a camel, he had certainly slid into the tent very deftly in the past week, the tent in this case being the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe. He’d helped with the hard physical work of moving sets and scenery, driven a wagon when they traveled, played small walk-on parts, and tutored Brian in Latin when Thomas was too busy.
    Since his head injury had healed, she guessed that he stayed simply because he was having a good time. Certainly his spirits seemed much lighter than when he had first joined them.
    She thought, often and wistfully, of that lovely, heart-pounding kiss they had shared. But they had tacitly avoided being alone again. Instead, they gravitated together when part of a group, talking of anything and everything while studiously ignoring the intense physical awareness that pulsed between them.
    As he placed the last set piece where she indicated, she wondered how much longer he would stay. But she did not ask. She had a superstitious fear that if the subject was brought into the open, he might feel obligated to return to his normal life. That day would surely come, and soon. But she would not encourage it to happen.
    Stephen turned to her, “Is anything else needed, Madame Stage Manager?”
    She surveyed their surroundings, mentally ticking off every aspect of the seating, lighting, and sets. “All seems in order. This is one of the easier theaters to prepare.”
    He ruffled Aloysius’s ears. “What is tonight’s play?”
    â€œ Isabella; or, The Fatal Marriage . It’s a wildly emotional tragedy of innocence betrayed and cruel death.” Rosalind chuckled. “One of my mother’s best roles—she chews up the scenery and spits it out, leaving every woman in the audience wailing with grief. The first time I saw her play Isabella was right here in Whitcombe. I was four or five, and I ran screaming onto the stage when she did the death scene because I drought it