Wizards Daughter

'But your name-La Fontaine.'

'I selected the name myself when I was ten years old because I liked Jean de La Fontaine's fables, as simple as that. I'm more of a fiction than his fables are-at least his fables have a moral. I don't have anything. I don't know who I am. At first Uncle Ryder and Uncle Douglas tried to find out about me, but they could discover nothing. Then they decided that whoever had tried to kill me could still be out there, and still want me dead. If someone hated me enough to try to kill me, then I must be worth very little. Or worth nothing at all.'

Nicholas had never considered anything like this, never. It didn't matter. He hated that her eyes were sheened with tears, hated her pallor. He pulled her against him and kissed her, gently, as if she'd only just been beaten and he didn't want to hurt her more. 'I'm so very sorry, Rosalind.'

She pushed away from him. 'No, no, you don't yet understand, Nicholas.'

'I understand someone tried to murder a child but you survived thanks to Ryder Sherbrooke. I will be grateful to him for the remainder of my life.'

'Yes, yes, of course, but that isn't it, Nicholas. Don't you see?' She drew in a deep breath. 'You are the seventh Earl of Mountjoy-an earl, Nicholas, a peer of the realm. You have an impressive lineage, whereas, well, to say it plainly, I am nobody. I am very sorry I did not tell you immediately when you asked me to marry you, but the truth is, I simply didn't think about it. I wanted to kiss you too much and it all happened so very quickly and we've been tossed into the Rules of the Pale, trying to figure out what it all means, and I simply didn't think about it until I was lying in bed last night and it hit me in the nose. I cannot do this to you. I cannot marry you, Nicholas. Actually, it's you who cannot marry me.'

Nicholas turned from her and walked to the bow windows. He pulled back the drapery and looked out onto the spring-ripening gardens across the street. There were daffodils swaying in a light breeze, their yellow vivid against the well-scythed green grass. He turned slowly to face her. 'This is unacceptable, Rosalind.'

She felt clouted to her soul. She wanted to burst into tears, but she didn't. When she'd realized at the advanced age of eight that her brain was perfectly blank, she'd wept until she was ill, and learned tears were good for exactly nothing. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I'm very sorry I didn't tell you immediately. I allowed you to gain lust and fondness for me.'

'Lust and fondness,' he repeated, a dark brow arched. 'You put that nicely. You misunderstand me. I find it unacceptable that someone tried to murder you-a child.'

'That is because you are noble. But I survived. Listen, Nicholas, I could be a butcher's daughter, a pickpocket, a match girl. I could be a perfect nobody.'

'No, you're not a nobody. Otherwise why would someone try to kill you, an eight-year-old child?'

'My Uncle Ryder and Uncle Douglas agree with you. They believe I must be the daughter of someone important, someone who made powerful enemies. It's true I was wearing very nice clothes when Uncle Ryder found me. Ripped and torn nearly off me, of course. And this.' Rosalind unfastened a gold chain from around her neck. Hanging from the chain was a small heart locket. She handed it to him.

Nicholas held it in his palm. It was warm and smooth. He felt the small latch and opened the locket. Both sides were empty. He checked the thickness of the gold. No, there wasn't hidden space.

'It was empty when Ryder found you?'

She nodded. 'Perhaps there were two pictures, one of my mother or father, and one of me. Perhaps, but I don't know. Were the pictures removed because someone might recognize them?' She shrugged. 'But it doesn't matter, Nicholas. No one has any idea at all of who I am or who my parents are-or were-or if they're English or Italian. Uncle Ryder believes I'm possibly hath, since when I began speaking, I spoke both Italian and English. Uncle Ryder also believes my parents must be dead' or they would have searched the earth for me. Of course that is what he would do if Grayson disappeared. It's a damnable thing, Nicholas, but I am a blank page.'

'No, you're not at all blank. You have an ability that none of us have-you can easily read the Rules of the Pale. This is a gift, so perhaps you come from parents with a similar gift. You've accepted this gift of yours without question. I would say this gift is only one of many.'

One of many? Hmm. 'So much has happened so quickly. I haven't even wondered why I can read that blasted book.' She gave him a pathetic attempt at a smile. 'I will ask the ghosts when I next hear them. They come to me less often now. It's odd, but I miss them. It's like they're my only link to my lost past. And now they're giving up on me.'

'Ghosts,' he repeated. 'Ghosts around you.'

'You don't think me mad, do you?'

He looked distracted. He drummed his fingertips on the mantelpiece. 'Mad? Oh, no. My grandfather, I believe he was intimately acquainted with ghosts, and he wasn't mad, believe me.' He shrugged. 'To be honest, I suppose I assumed you were of my class. Say we discover you aren't, Rosalind. What does that mean in the long course of events? Not much of anything. My own father was a weak man, manipulated by my stepmother, but vicious as only a weak man can be. Whoever you are doesn't matter to me. You 'reRosalind de La Fontaine. You will shortly be mine, Rosalind Vail, the Countess of Mountjoy.'

'You cannot be so noble, Nicholas, so elevated in your spirit, you cannot-'

'Hush. That's quite enough. Let's be sensible here. You would like to know who you really are. I am acquainted with many different sorts of people from all over the world. I will have your portrait painted, perhaps a dozen miniatures, and I will have them sent out. We will discover who your parents were, Rosalind. Or, perhaps, one morning you will wake up next to me, and smile, and you will remember. I quite understand why your Uncle Ryder and Uncle Douglas stopped the search. But you will not worry about anyone ever hurting you again. I will protect you with my life.'

Rosalind turned and ran out of the drawing room.

15

'Rosalind!'

'My lord, Miss Rosalind scampered out of the house. Are you responsible for this, my lord? Did you insult that sweet young pullet?' Willicombe, all puffed up, actually barred Nicholas's way.

'The pullet has nothing but air between her pretty ears. She ran out for no reason at all.' Nicholas lifted Willicombe beneath his armpits, set him down to one side, and ran after her through the open front door. He paused when he saw a flash of her blue skirt swing around the corner.

He heard a yell and a shout. He came around the corner at a dead run to see her on her backside on the sidewalk, skirts billowed about her. Beside her sat a heavy matron, flushed to her eyebrows, hat askew, a lovely ruffled petticoat fluffed up about her knees, parcels scattered around her, her mouth open to yell again.

Nicholas quickly helped the woman to her feet, not an easy task, and gathered her parcels for her.

Chins wobbled as she shook her fist at Rosalind. 'I am

Mrs. Pratt, sir, and I am the wife of Deacon Pratt of Pear Tree Lane. This young lady, sir, came flying out at me, fair to sending me to my maker, and it's Deacon Pratt who wants that pleasure. Lucky it was that my precious pork knivers didn't scatter themselves on the dirty ground. If she's your wife, sir, you need to clout her good.'

'Yes, she is my wife, but she doesn't deserve a clout in this instance, ma'am, since it is my fault she was running and had the dreadful misfortune to hit you.'

Mrs. Pratt crossed ample arms over her equally ample bosom and tapped her puce-colored boots. 'Is that so? And what did you do, sir, to make this sweet young lady flee from you?'

'Well, I must be honest here, Mrs. Pratt. You deserve honesty. The fact is she isn't yet my wife. The second fact is that I asked her to marry me but she doesn't feel she's good enough for me, which is absurd. All right, I admit that if you look at her now, ma'am, sitting there rubbing her rear parts, looking as though she wants to burst into tears and scream at me at the same time, perhaps you'd agree with her. But standing upright or waltzing, an enchanting smile on her face, she's very fine indeed and will do me proud. And when she marries me, I will surely keep her from running over respectable ladies out doing their shopping.'

'I've never eaten a pork kniver,' Rosalind said.