The Spurned Viscountess by Shelley Munro Page A

footman, weighing his words.
    “Why do you smell like the bottom of a whisky barrel?” the red-haired maid asked.
    Lucien bit back amusement. All he needed to do was stand and glower. The maid would ask the questions.
    “Hush, Mary. Can’t you see Matthew is in no condition for your questions? We need a wagon or cart to transport him to the castle.”
    “A cart?” Lucien said.
    His wife drew herself up. “Can’t you see he has a headache? Matthew is in no condition to walk.”
    Very well. Lucien’s eyes narrowed at his wife’s tone. He would organize a cart for the footman, but he had every intention of interrogating the man back at the castle.

Chapter Seven
    Rosalind hurried down the dimly lit passageway, painfully aware she was very late for dinner. She glanced down at her puce-colored gown and the cream lace ruffles Mary had added at the last moment in an effort to improve the style. Not that she’d had much choice with the gown. Unbelievably, someone had entered her chamber whilst she was asleep and stolen every single item of clothing from her dressing room. The idea of someone watching her during an afternoon nap made her equally uncomfortable and angry. Yes, angry! Uneasiness assailed her every time she spent time in her chamber. It was like the weight of a stare constantly at her back, but now her apprehension was ten times worse. Someone had violated her privacy.
    The chime of a clock made her hasten with an inelegant burst of speed. When she turned the corner, she paused to take a deep breath before sailing into the dining room with a pleasant smile fixed to her face.
    “I’m sorry I’m so late,” she apologized. Bother, she hadn’t known they were having dinner guests. Why hadn’t someone told her? Mary hadn’t known either or she would have informed her.
    The gentlemen stood, and Rosalind headed for the lone unoccupied seat. Of course, it was next to Lady Augusta.
    Hastings stepped around the table and pulled out the chair for her. Rosalind couldn’t help but notice the quick, cursory inspection he gave her gown. Inclining her head in thanks, she slid into her chair while Hastings returned to his seat at the far end of the table. Every muscle in her body tensed when Lady Sophia engaged Hastings in conversation, even though she avoided looking at his flawed face. He leaned closer, and one of Lady Sophia’s delicate white hands fluttered out to touch him on the arm. Rosalind gritted her teeth. Why did that woman insist on flirting with her husband?
    “What on earth are you wearing?” Lady Augusta asked.
    “Looks like one of her maid’s gowns,” Lady Pascoe said.
    Two bright red patches on her cheeks highlighted Lady Augusta’s anger. “Are you trying to make the St. Clare family look as if they require funds from the poor-box? That’s what the neighbors will think when they see the state of your gown.” She spoke in an undertone but still managed to stress her displeasure.
    Rosalind inhaled sharply, struggling to hold back the angry words fighting for release. She picked up the glass of wine one of the footmen poured for her. “Someone stole my clothes.”
    “Stole…Idiotic girl. Why would anyone want to steal your clothes? They are hardly the latest London fashions.”
    “I have no idea.” Rosalind’s hand tightened around her wineglass until her knuckles showed white.
    Lady Pascoe guffawed loud enough to turn heads. “Stole your clothes,” she screeched. “That’s the best story I’ve heard in weeks! Hastings wouldn’t buy you new ones, eh?” Chortling loudly, she slapped one hand on the wooden tabletop. “Congratulations! He’s going to have to buy you some now.”
    “Elizabeth.” Lady Augusta’s displeasure cut her friend off mid-cackle. “This is a family matter. I do not wish the entire village to hear.”
    “Soup, my lady?”
    Rosalind nodded at the footman. He deftly served the turtle soup, allowing her a few moments of peace. This was going to be another