A Stolen Rose by Amy Corwin

Author:Amy Corwin
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2015-09-30T21:00:00+00:00

It seemed as if he had just fallen asleep when Thompson opened the draperies to let in the brilliant May sunshine. “I hope you had a good night, my lord,” Thompson said as he placed a tray of breakfast coffee and a small basket of sweet buns on the low table near the fire. “Shall I light a fire?”

Wraysbury threw off the covers. Even though there was a thick oriental rug covering the floor, a draft swirled around his ankles when he slid his bare feet to the floor. “Yes. Is our host up yet?”

“Oh, yes. It is nearly ten. Mr. Archer has been up for several hours,” Thompson replied. Despite his bland expression, he gave the impression that Wraysbury was developing unspeakably slothful habits by staying abed so late in the day. “I beg your pardon, my lord, for this somewhat light breakfast. However, I have brought you what I could reserve when they cleared away breakfast. I regret it could not be more sustaining.”

“I am sure it will be fine. Where is Mr. Archer now?” Wraysbury pulled on his brocade robe as Thompson knelt by the fire and worked fussily to light it.

“He retreated to his library, I believe. Although he may have already left for his daily ride by now.” Again, his downcast eyes and expressionless face could not hide his gentle air of reproach.

“I will ring if I need you, Thompson. Thank you,” Wraysbury dismissed him and ate a hurried breakfast before descending to the library.

He knocked briefly and entered, closing the door firmly behind him. “Good morning, Frederick.”

“Are you ready for our ride?” Frederick stopped writing and glanced up at the large clock in the corner. “A few minutes early, but it appears to be a good day for a canter. Just let me finish this letter. A nuisance, but it must be done.”

“Frederick, I hope you will not accuse me of interfering—”

“No, not at all,” Frederick interrupted, his quill pen held in mid-air halfway between the letter and the inkwell.

“I would like to know what you meant by stealing that rose bush out of Comstock’s garden.”

Frederick’s initial, uncomfortably guilty look was quickly hidden behind a laugh. “Steal? Are you accusing me of theft?”

“In a word, yes.”

The firm answer appeared to surprise Frederick. He dipped his pen in the ink, started to write, and then swore as the ink sputtered over the page in front of him due to his unsteady hand. He threw the pen down, pulled out a handkerchief, and glared at Wraysbury as he wiped off his hands.

“That is a damnable thing to say. I suppose that chit put you up to it.”

“Miss Comstock had nothing to do with it, although you would do well to send a note to her uncle and aunt asking after her health. She suffered a terrible accident last night in a valiant attempt to move that rose back to where it belongs.”

“It is her own fault, then.” Frederick snorted derisively and leaned back, resting his folded hands on his stomach.

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