The Rosebud Burglar (a Victorian Romance) Read online

  The Rosebud Burglar © 2011 by Shana McGuinn.

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  The author’s website is coming soon to www.shanamcguinn.com.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  The Rosebud Burglar

  by

  Shana McGuinn

  Through the narrow window cut high into the stone wall, Raine heard the creaking sounds made by the wheels of the wagon drawing the scaffold. The first traces of a bleak dawn stole into her cell, bringing with them a new noise: the relentless reports of nails being pounded into timber. The gallows were being erected for her.

  The last frail filament of hope that Garrett would come to her had broken during the night, like the ancient cobweb whose threads still clung to a corner of her cell. It was too late. He would never know the truth now.

  She slipped out of her long cotton nightdress and got ready as best she could, wistfully remembering a time when the idea of dressing herself would have been unthinkable. There were no maidservants about today to pull tight the staylaces of her corset, nor to help her into her half dozen petticoats.

  Her mother had visited, tearful and helpless, bringing her a dress—one of the few fine gowns left from the old days, when her father was still alive. How Raine had taken her exquisite wardrobe for granted! She donned the garment now. It was a morning gown of blush rose silk, trimmed with champagne coloured flounces that were pinked and stamped at the edges. Its tight sleeves were bedecked with elaborate passementerie cording, its collar made of broderie anglaise, the finest Swiss cutwork embroidery. The gown’s bretelle-shaped bodice hinted at the contours of her breasts, then curved sleekly downward to her waist.

  Garrett’s absence, his unspoken condemnation, wounded her more deeply than had the taunts of strangers in the courtroom. “Murderess!” they cried, their voices ringing with a special delight at seeing the daughter of an earl brought down so low. “Harlot!”

  Aunt Eugenia stayed away, of course, not that she could ever place enough distance between herself and the shame Raine had brought down upon the Grenville family name. And Elspeth wouldn’t even learn of Raine’s fate—by letter—until well afterwards. Justice was swift. Raine would not have to live with her regrets for very long.

  Using a small looking glass—another gift from her mother—she arranged her luxurious, coal-black hair, then gazed for a long moment into the disconsolate blue eyes that stared back at her from the glass.

  She could hear shuffling sounds, voices. A crowd was gathering outside. Would Garrett’s be among the faces watching as she climbed the steps to the scaffold?

  Her hands shaking, she secured on her head a garland of ribbons, then pulled on a pair of lambskin gloves and wrapped her shoulders in a soft cashmere shawl patterned, ironically, in acorns—the symbol for longevity.

  If they expected her to appear before them in sackcloth and ashes, they were badly mistaken. Whatever she had done, she was a lady. She would dress as one.

  The single candle in her cell was now spent, but its tremulous flame was not missed. Dawn flooded the narrow chamber. With her preparations complete and nothing more to do, she was seized by fear. Her trembling legs threatened to give way, but before she could sit on the hard cot she heard a new sound: a key turning in the iron door of her cell.

  She took a deep breath and tried to hold her head high.

  It was time for her hanging.

  Chapter One

  Seldington Manor

  Summer, 1853

  Raine waited until the gardeners had gone round the west wing of the manor before emerging from the little used, ivy-choked postern that opened onto the walled garden.

  Not that mere underservants would dare comment. She had them too well in hand for that. After all, she had not reached the age of 18 without learning to manage the servants. But Raine was well aware that they talked amongst themselves. Word would pass to the coachman and the gamekeeper. The indoor staff would be all atwitter over it next, with the footmen eager to share the news, over dinner in the servants’ hall, with the kitchen maids. It would travel in whispered blatherskite through the larder and the scullery, stopping in at the pantry before being borne upstairs by housemaids as they carried pails of steaming water for the guests’ baths.

  Once on the upper floors, it would reach the ever-alert ears of Esmé, her mother’s ladies’ maid. Irrepressibly French, with rather too much gaiety (Raine thought) to be a proper maid, Esmé would be sure to inform her mistress of Raine’s latest transgressions.

  “Madame,” she would say, while pinning an apple-scented pomade in Glynis Grenville’s hair, or perfuming her bath water with lavender. “She was riding a bicycle! And where zee servants could see her!”

  Raine could imagine Esmé’s horrified tone, her cupid’s-bow lips pursed in feigned sympathy for Glynis. Esmé’s slender, freckled hand would be poised over the small silver chest containing smelling salts that sat conveniently on Lady Grenville’s marble-topped dressing table.

  Well, Esmé wouldn’t get the opportunity to carry tales this time. Raine had laid her plans far too carefully for that.

  Passing quickly through the garden, Raine barely took notice of its abundant beauty. A lush bed of purple Monkshood mingled with vibrant orange tiger lilies and lent a dramatic splash of color to the languid afternoon, as did a thick cluster of dianthus, its deep crimson blooms rising skyward above a nest of crisp white Foxgloves.

  It had been a clever performance on her part. She’d complained of dyspepsia—had even swallowed a draught of horrid grey calomel lotion, to make it convincing. At this moment, as far as anyone knew, Raine was resting in her bedchamber.

  There it was, just where she’d seen it yesterday: a bicycle, leaning against one of the stone outbuildings. It probably belonged to a servant, or to one of her father’s tenant farmers.

  She eyed the odd contraption cautiously. It seemed simple enough. There were two wooden wheels fitted with iron tyres and fixed to treadles, with other bits and gadgets that she couldn’t identify comprising the rest of the machinery. The curved wooden backbone accommodated a seat that looked absurdly high. Now that might present a problem.

  Awkwardly, she pulled the bicycle upright and began pushing it forward, so that she could get out of view of the mansion before mounting it. Several times her long skirts threatened to tangle themselves in the silly thing’s tyres. “I’d every right to tell a lie,” she muttered defensively to herself. “One more minute spent in dull chitchat with mother’s guests would have driven me quite mad.”

  These leisurely sojourns at her family’s country estate wouldn’t be so intolerable if every weekend didn’t bring a new flush of guests, a doz
en or so at a time, along with their maids and valets and innumerable pieces of baggage. These acquaintances were mildly amusing when she encountered them at the Ascot races or some gala in London, but they were another matter altogether when perched on the carved and gilt Louis XIV sofa in the drawing room, expecting to be entertained.

  She looked anxiously over her shoulder while putting distance between herself and the mansion. Splendid! There was no one in sight.

  The gentlemen, of course, were away on a day hunt. How she envied them, galloping over the upland hills, splashing through shallow brooks, stopping in a field for a picnic lunch of lamb cutlets and asparagus.

  The ladies had to content themselves with carriage rides, strolling through the garden and endless, stultifyingly polite conversation. Her poor, obedient sister Elspeth was probably playing the pianoforte right now—commanded to do so by Aunt Eugenia. Elspeth was not a particularly gifted musician, but like most young ladies of their acquaintance, she had had sufficient instruction to be able to acquit herself adequately on the most popular pieces, when compelled to do so. Raine usually avoided such public performances by pleading a sore finger. She did not feel self-conscious about playing the pianoforte. She simply had no interest in it.

  Raine crested a rise and glanced backward, to satisfy herself that she could not be seen from the many lattice windows cut into the imposingly solid walls of Seldington Manor. She paused in the shade of a laurel tree. A lapwing perched among its glossy leaves suddenly took fight, startling her.

  It was time to attempt the thing, but another glance at the bicycle did little to allay her concerns about the attainability of the seat. It seemed impossibly high. Still, operating a bicycle couldn’t be as difficult as all of that. She’d seen men riding them in the streets of London, dozens of times. Hadn’t she arms and legs, just as they had?

  There was, however, the matter of her skirts. They were quite full, buoyed to a bell shape by the petticoats beneath them. In a striking shade of vermillion, marked by a small, elegant tartan pattern, the fabric was identical to that of the tight basqued bodice trimmed in a russet fringe that opened over her lace-edged chemisette. It was a fine outfit for playing cribbage or taking tea, but she realized, ruefully, that the form-fitting ivory undersleeves topped by sculptured pagoda sleeves would make moving her arms difficult.

  Raine attempted to climb astride the bicycle but her skirts interfered. She thought hard for a moment, casting a quick look around to make sure she was unobserved. Then, awkwardly, she hoisted the mass of skirts and petticoats up into her arms and twisted it all together, securing the ends at her waist with a cord yanked free from her velvet bonnet. It didn’t make a very pretty picture, but at least her legs could move freely.

  It was fortunate that there was no one about to see her. As if riding a bicycle weren’t scandalous enough, she was now exposing a great deal of slim, stockinged leg.

  This time, with great difficulty, she managed to clamber onto the exasperatingly high seat. After a moment’s hesitation, she thrust forward. Her feet, clad in low-heeled kid boots, had trouble finding the foot rests. Lurching ahead, the bicycle carried her straight toward a gooseberry bush. She leaned heavily to one side and barely avoided the thorny collision, but the ungrateful bicycle decided to flop down for a rest—right on top of her!

  Raine was blisteringly angry now. There must be some way to keep the obstinate contraption upright. She disentangled herself from it, stood up and refastened her skirts. Loosened from their pins, strands of her silky, coal black hair spilled down the back of her head. One check felt smudged with dirt. She realized that she must look a sight.

  She righted the bicycle as well. Unlike her, it looked none the worse for wear. “You beastly thing!” she scolded it. “I mean to make you behave.”

  Raine could see that this enterprise would be much easier on a flat roadway made hard and smooth by horses’ hooves, but she daren’t risk being seen. With renewed determination, she positioned herself once more on the seat. As frustrating as this was, it was still preferable to the alternatives: painting decorative fire screens with the simpering Farquar sisters, or listening to Lady Kenton ramble on about her latest enthusiasm, spiritualism. A séance to summon up spirits of the dead might be rather amusing, but Raine did not wish to hear about one second hand.

  “And off we go!” she shouted, to give herself confidence.

  The bicycle did indeed go, down a bracken-dotted slope that Raine hadn’t reckoned on being her route. It picked up speed and seemed to take on a ferocious life all its own. She gripped the steering bar in panic, struggling to keep her balance while being bounced mercilessly up and down as the bicycle careened over bumps and through ragged clumps of wildflowers. She glimpsed a pair of frightened rabbits darting out of her way.

  How to stop the thing? There must be some way to bring it to a halt!

  She and the bicycle zoomed down the slope like some great flapping bat. In terror, she saw what awaited them at the bottom. A grove of beech trees loomed there like grey-barked sentries. She was about to encounter them at great speed, incurring, no doubt, great pain.

  With a desperate effort, Raine turned the bicycle off to one side, coming so close to the outermost tree that a wayward branch slapped her on the arm. The sharp turn took her straight through a tall patch of marsh marigolds and deposited both her and the bicycle unceremoniously into a pond.

  Her skirts, freed from the confining bonnet cord, ballooned around her, resting wetly on the surface of the shallow pond like some giant tartan plaid water lily. She’d lost her bonnet halfway down the hill. Her boots and her backside were mired in the pond’s muddy bottom. As she struggled to find her footing and stand, a dragonfly flitted maddeningly near her face.

  Just then she heard the laughter. Deep-throated and hearty, its masculine timber and genuine mirth might have been pleasing under other circumstances.

  She stood up quickly. Her damp skirts hung limp and disheveled from her waist. The stockings under them were thoroughly soaked. Her hair was in complete disarray, a sodden mass that hung untidily over her shoulders.

  The man who stood a few yards from the edge of the pond seemed to be enjoying her predicament. Raine mustered what dignity she could and fixed him with a haughty stare. His attire told her all she need know about his status. He wore a long, linen shirt tucked into plain black trousers, along with top boots. No gloves. No waistcoat. He was not a gentleman. He must be one of her father’s many tenant farmers.

  “How dare you!” she lashed out at him, in a tone she knew from experience was stern enough to send most servants cowering. “How dare you snicker at me! I shall have my father evict you for that, you scoundrel.”

  He stopped laughing and drew closer to the edge of the pond. A tall, solidly-built man who moved with an easy grace, he was younger than she’d first thought, not yet having reached his thirtieth year.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss. Oye meant no offense.”

  The apology was delivered in the sort of broad, country accent as might be found in these parts, but Raine thought she detected insincerity in the tone. Was he mocking her? His generously formed mouth looked as if it were trying to suppress a smile.

  She straightened her slender shoulders and moved purposefully through the water, her skirts dragging behind her. Tiny pond skaters skimmed the surface of the water. In a few more steps, she’d be free of this mess—

  Just then, her boot caught on a tangle of submerged greenery. Thrown off balance, she sat down hard with a small splash.

  Raine glared up at her observer as if he’d caused the mishap. “Give me your hand, and help me out of this beastly pond.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  He kept his eyes downcast submissively, yet she was certain he was being insolent. Was it possible that this dullard not know who she was?

  “I am the daughter of Edward Grenville, the Earl of Grenville.” She waited for an appropriate reaction, got none at all. “You may address me as Lady G
renville.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” He waded into the pool, his boots quickly engulfed by water, and seized her wrist in one of his large hands. In a single fluid motion, he lifted her to her feet and swung her up into his arms. Before Raine could even catch her breath, she was being carried from the pond.

  At close range, she was surprised to find him rather attractive, albeit in an unpolished, roughhewn sort of way. There was a sultry, catlike confidence in the amused curve of his mouth, the firm set of his features. His straight nose was oddly aristocratic, she thought, and his jaw seemed…stubborn. The eyes that had witnessed her fall from grace were an impenetrable brown, as was his thick hair, although the sunlight found copper glints in it.

  The local dairy maids probably found him irresistible. For some reason, the thought of him taking his pleasure with them in hay-strewn barn lofts annoyed her intensely.

  They’d reached solid ground. “Put me down,” she commanded.

  “Yes, m’lady.” He released her.

  She fell to the ground in a soggy heap. Enraged, she got to her feet. “I should have you whipped for your insolence.”

  “Oye was just doin’ loike ye told me, warn’t I, m’lady?”

  Although he obviously needed a lesson in how to behave toward his betters, she stifled the sharp retort that was forming on her lips. Telling her father about this incident would bring more trouble on her than on this maddening man. The sooner she could be away from him, the better.

  “Now fetch my bicycle.”

  He walked back into the pond and retrieved it. She noticed with surprise that his trousers appeared to be of fine broadcloth, instead of the coarse linsey-woolsey that most farmers wore, but decided they were likely someone’s castoffs.