Page 4 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
But what poison might her father have worked by then?
Closing her eyes, she fought back her own tears. Her mother had enough for them both. Better that she find strength.
It was fortunate that her mother had managed to smuggle away her jewels. It was the sale of those, Rosamund guessed, that would provide the wherewithal to feed and house them.
But, what would happen when the money ran out?
All the places of fashion would be expensive. How long might their funds last? And what if there were no suitors?
Even if she found someone she could bear to call husband, would he take her with no dowry?
There had to be another solution.
Surely there must be some families of standing in this part of Dorset? If only they could gain an introduction, who knew where that might lead…
She’d a feeling that a country gentleman would suit her better than a town dandy. What had Miss Everly told her about the young man digging beneath the cliffs with his little trowel?
Something about him belonging to an abbey.
She’d not heard of monks being given time off for those sorts of useless pursuits.
Perhaps he wasn’t a monk then.
One thing she did know; the Miss Everlys had spoken of him as "a person of interest".
She might ask them to elaborate, but some part of her shied away from the crassness of appearing to pursue a random man upon the beach.
Better to take matters into her own hands.
She’d observed the location he favoured. Tomorrow, she’d seek him out and introduce herself. Pretend she was collecting shells and ask his opinion on them.
He was bound to know their names. He looked the sort.
Leastways, she’d think of something to get his attention. And then she’d find out what this abbey business was about.
Rosamund set her jaw. It was demeaning and shameful, but if he’d any sort of connection worth claiming, she’d find a way to ingratiate herself.
The prospect filled her with dread. Nevertheless, the wolf was at the door—or it soon would be. She had her mother to look after, as well as herself, not to mention her little Pom Pom.
Her instinct told her that London was not the answer.
Instead, she would see what the environs of Osmington had to offer.
Rising, she fetched the sherry bottle and poured the last into their glasses.
“Stop crying, Ma. I have a plan…”
Chapter 2
Osmington Beach
Takingthe breakfast chipolata from her pocket, Rosamund lobbed it skyward. Pom Pom cocked his little head, looking from Rosamund to where the meaty morsel had come to rest on a ledge, some twenty feet above. Rosamund peered upward.
Her throwing arm, as it turned out, was rather better than she’d thought.
“Off you go.” Clucking her tongue, Rosamund made encouraging noises.
Weren’t dogs supposed to fetch by instinct?
