The Strange Visitation at Wolffe Hall (Sherbrooke Brides 11.50)

At the Sherbrooke breakfast table the following morning, a kipper poised on her fork, Rosalind asked Ryder, “Sir, who was that dark gentleman who wanted to dance with me last night? The young one with long hair black as All Hallows’ Eve?”

Ryder was a fool to believe Nicholas Vail hadn’t made an impression on her though she hadn’t said a thing about him on their way home the previous evening. He said easily, “The young man is the Earl of Mountjoy, newly arrived on our shores, some say from faraway China.”

“China,” Rosalind said, stretching it out, as if savoring the feel of it on her tongue. “How vastly romantic that sounds.”

Grayson Sherbrooke grunted with disgust. “You girls--you’d say that riding in a tumbrel to the guillotine, shoulders squared, sounded romantic.”

Rosalind gave Grayson a big grin and made a chopping motion with her hand. “You obviously have no soul, Grayson.”

Grayson waved that away. “Everyone is speculating about him. I heard he’s in town to find himself an heiress. At least that means you’re safe, Rosalind.”

“Of course I’m safe. I’m in the same hole with the church mouse.”

“Regardless,” Ryder said, “he asked me if he could pay us a visit this morning.”

Rosalind sat forward in her chair, the nutty bun in her hand forgotten, eyes sparkling. “What? He wants to visit me?”

“Or Aunt Sophie,” Ryder said. “Who knows? Perhaps he was taken with Grayson, and wants to hear a good ghost story.” Ryder frowned. “Perhaps it was a mistake to tell him you were my ward.”

“But why, sir? Oh, I see. As part of the Sherbrooke family, ward or not, he must assume I’m exceedingly plump in the pocket.” Rosalind wasn’t about to tell Uncle Ryder or Grayson that she was more disappointed than warranted at this nasty bit of news.

“You’re only discreetly plump,” Ryder said.

Grayson said, “On the other hand, from what I have heard of the mysterious earl, he never acts until he knows exactly what he wants.”

Rosalind said, “You mean he wants me even though I’m not an heiress? That’s ridiculous, Grayson. Nobody would want me. Besides, he can’t have me.”

Grayson tapped his knife on the tablecloth. “I will be with you when he pays his visit this morning. We must know what he wants from you. If he’s come to the mistaken conclusion you are an heiress, I will dispel that notion immediately.”

Rosalind said, “He is very imposing.”

“Yes,” Ryder said, “he is. I sent a note to Horace Bingley--the Sherbrooke solicitor here in London--to tell us what he knows of the earl. We will see what he has to say about the young man’s character.”

Grayson said, “Excellent idea, Father, since no one really knows much about him. However, it does seem to be the consensus that he is a pauper and desperately needs to attach an heiress.”

Ryder nodded. “I’ve also heard that the old earl left his heir next to nothing that wasn’t nailed down in the entailment. He beggared his own son out of spite--the reason for this strange behavior no one seems to know. I will ask Horace to find out, if, that is, Nicholas Vail appeals to Rosalind.”

He had indeed appealed to her, Rosalind thought, but didn’t say that aloud. She didn’t want to alarm Uncle Ryder before he ‘d ensured Nicholas Vail wasn’t a bad man.

But she knew he wasn’t; she knew it to her bones.

*******************

It was the rare sort of English spring day--a blue sky so bright, a breeze so light and scented sweet with the blooming spring flowers, that it brought a tear to the jaded English eye. They discovered that the small artists’ fair meant to take place in one corner of Hyde Park had turned into an event.

Hundreds of people milled through Hyde Park to stop at the food and drink vendors and the artists’ stalls, or sit on the trampled grass to watch the jugglers and mimes come to share in the fun and prof

it. There was a good deal of laughter, some good-natured fisticuffs, perhaps a bit too much ale, and pickpockets who smiled happily as they adroitly worked through the crowds.

“There is more food here today than artists,” Nicholas said. Both he and Grayson held Rosalind by an arm, not about to let her get pulled away in the boisterous crowd.

“And drink,” Grayson said. Suddenly Grayson stopped still, stared off into the distance.

“Oh, I see,” Rosalind said and poked him in the arm. “Bookstalls, a whole line of them.”

Grayson was eyeing those bookstalls like a starved mongrel. Rosalind, seeing freedom within her grasp, stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Off you go. I’ll be perfectly safe with Lord Mountjoy. Go, Grayson. We will be just fine.”

Nicholas’s grin turned into his most responsible nod. “I swear to keep her safe.” After but a moment of indecision, Grayson was off like a comet.