The Spurned Viscountess by Shelley Munro Page B

difficult dinner.
    The moment the footman finished and moved on, Lady Augusta started again. “I found that witch’s cat wandering outside my chamber. Your red-haired maid chased it about for fifteen minutes, disturbing my rest. I want the beast gone.”
    Rosalind’s chin jerked up. “Hastings said I might keep it.” Lady Augusta’s frown didn’t diminish, and she thought she’d better try appeasement plus an apology. “I’m sorry the kitten disturbed you. I’ll make sure he stays in my chamber in future.”
    “See you do, or I’ll order one of my footmen to drown the filthy beast.”
    Rosalind sighed, knowing it was best to hold her tongue. She applied her attention to the delicate green soup.
    The minute the women left the gentlemen to their port and pipe smoking, Rosalind escaped to the garden. Lady Augusta saw her heading for the door, but Rosalind ignored her summons by pretending not to notice.
    Outside in the garden it was blissfully peaceful. Exactly what she needed in order to think about all that had happened this day. The graveled path crunched under her shoes while a light breeze whistled through the garden, rustling leaves in a pleasant musical sound. She passed the formal rose beds and kept walking until she reached a small pagoda overlooking the sea. At this time of night, all she could see was an inky blackness, but the swish of the waves was soothing. She sank onto a padded seat and let out a soft sigh.
    “Why did I know I would find you out here on your own?”
    Rosalind barely flinched at Hastings’s question. On an inner level, she’d known they would meet out here. It was becoming a ritual of sorts, meeting in the garden after dinner.
    “I was thinking about the day’s events,” she murmured, very aware of his scent, his closeness. “What did Matthew say?” In the soft light of the torches, Hastings’s face expressed surprise. “I know you talked to him.”
    Hastings hesitated then sat beside her. His thigh touched hers for an instant before he inched away. “Someone hit him on the head. He says he saw the man’s face but didn’t recognize him.”
    Rosalind nodded. That was exactly what she’d read when she’d touched his arm. He hadn’t lied. “Do you believe him?”
    “The man has a lump the size of a goose egg on the back of his head. It’s obvious he hit his head somehow. But he smelled like he’d bathed in whisky. He denies taking a drink. Why are you wearing that God-awful gown?” he asked, changing the subject with a suddenness that startled her.
    “Because someone stole every gown from my chamber while I slept.” Would he believe her?
    “I heard Lady Pascoe’s theory. Is she right?”
    “No, she’s not,” Rosalind snapped, incensed he would think such a thing.
    “Hmm.”
    Irritated, she leaped to her feet. “I wouldn’t do something like that.” Her cousin Miranda would, but the idea of Hastings thinking her capable of such childish schemes upset her. “There is something odd going on, Hastings. Today someone shot at me, Mary was tied up, Matthew was hit on the head, and someone tried to kill you. And when I woke up this evening, I discovered someone had removed every single gown from my dressing room.”
    Hastings shrugged. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable answer for everything that’s occurred. You interrupted men hunting. And I’m not convinced Matthew is telling the truth.”
    He didn’t believe that. Rosalind was convinced of it. If she were to read him, she was sure her theory would hold. She glanced at Hastings and found him staring out to sea. Using her sight was an obvious solution, but did she really want to know his thoughts? Did she want a reminder of how deeply he loved the woman he held inside his heart?
    Rosalind nibbled on her bottom lip. Who was the woman? Where was she now? Something awful must have happened to her, or else Hastings would never have married her. But what? Rosalind crept closer to Hastings as she worked up her