Wizard's Daughter (Sherbrooke Brides 10)

"On his own since the age of twelve—that would either toughen a boy or he wouldn't survive."

Ryder nodded. "So he left after his grandfather's death, yet you tell me Tysen's curate spoke of there being no body to bury. Damnation, Douglas." Ryder slammed his fist into his palm, winced. "And there is this ancient book Grayson found in a bookstall in Hyde Park, written by a man whose idiot name is Sarimund. It's titled the Rules of the Pale and it's in code. Unbreakable code, I think you'll agree.

"And let me tell you what scares me to my toes: Rosalind can read it, quickly, no problem at all. Blessed hell, how the devil can one explain that? I most certainly can't. There's something going on here and the children know more about it all

than I do. I hate that."

"Calm yourself, Ryder, we'll find out all we need to know, and quickly. I should like to see this book as well. Code, you say? Unbreakable? Except our Rosalind is able to decipher it?"

Ryder nodded. "This isn't good, Douglas. You know it isn't."

14

I've got to tell him, got to, got to, blessed hell, I've got no choice. Rosalind hated it, but it had to be done. Where was Nicholas? Why must he be late this afternoon of all after­noons? She couldn't lose her resolve. That would be com­pletely dishonorable. But what if he looked at her like an unwanted snail in the garden, stomped her, and walked away?

No, surely he won't stomp me, but maybe he'll give me one of those dangerous cold looks and walk away. It doesn't matter. I've got to tell him, no choice.

Willicombe opened the door and said in his brilliant voice, "Lord Mountjoy, Miss Rosalind."

Nicholas cocked a dark eyebrow at the back of Willi-combe's shiny bald head and smiled over at her. Rosalind jumped to her feet. She saw Willicombe wasn't happy about leaving them alone. She wished he knew, wished everyone knew that she and Nicholas were engaged. That would re­move the bilious look from his face. Well, maybe not.

Willicombe eyed first one, then the other. He cleared his throat. "Miss Rosalind, shall I inquire if Mrs. Sherbrooke is available to, er, come and converse with the two of you? Per-haps guide your conversational gambits to a proper elevated plane?"

"Oh, no, Willicombe. We will be unchaperoned for a mere matter of two minutes, no more. His lordship is a gen­tleman of stern moral resolve. He was born on an elevated plane. I don't know if I was born elevated, but I was cer­tainly raised that way. Don't worry yourself."

Willicombe still wasn't happy and so he gave them only a small bow, this time not bestowing upon them the full glory of his bald head.

As soon as the drawing room doors closed, Rosalind grabbed Nicholas's hand and pulled him toward the bow windows. "Nicholas, you are late."

"Not more than a minute or two. What is this? What is wrong, Rosalind ?"

She dropped his hand and began to wring hers, and looked down at her feet.

He stared at those wringing hands, an eyebrow winging upward. "What is this? You are obviously upset. Tell me what is wrong, Rosalind ."

"My name. It is my name that is wrong."

"Your name? Yes, well, La Fontaine is on the unusual side. But as you told me, your namesake was a name to be respected. Rosalind de La Fontaine. I like your name, Rosalind , it suits you. What of it?"

"You don't know who I am, Nicholas, you really don't. You don't know why Ryder Sherbrooke is my guardian. You don't know anything about me."

"Well, no, it hadn't really occurred to me. We've been rather occupied since we met. But you will feel free to tell me when it pleases you."

"You look very handsome today, Nicholas. I like the buck­skins and your riding jacket. Very smart."

"Thank you. I'm listening."

"Well, the thing is—" She stopped dead, then shook her head and paced to the far end of the drawing room, then back to him. "All right, I'll just spit it out. I hear ghosts," she said, coming to a stop right in front of him. "I know ghosts, I've lived with them for ten years. I've never seen them but I've heard them murmuring from shadowed corners or, most often, in my dreams."

"All right, for ten years you've heard ghosts. Tell me about this."

"I will spit it out, I will. I have heard ghosts since—well, since Uncle Ryder found me nearly beaten to death in an al­ley near the docks in Eastbourne."

He grew very still. How could this be? "I don't under­stand," he said slowly. "You were nearly beaten to death? You were only a young child. What is this, Rosalind?"

"They believed I was around eight years old. They even let me select a month and a day for my birthday and of course I picked the very next day after they told me. Uncle Ryder took me to Brandon House—it's where he brings children who have been abandoned or beaten or sold, chil­dren in awful situations—he raises them and loves them and educates them, and gives them hope. He told me the physi­cians weren't sure I would live, but I did. But, you see, when I finally regained my wits, I had no idea who I was. I still don't. My memory never came back. Just the ghosts lurking in the back of my mind, and they've never come forward, never told me who I am."

He studied her pale face. "You still don't know who you are?"