One Perfect Rose Read Online Free

zero. Then, if he still lived, he would begin counting up because every day after that would be a bonus.
    With doom’s own clock ticking in the back of his head, he had wandered north from Ashburton Abbey through the Marches, the ancient borderlands where the Welsh and English had skirmished for centuries. When he crossed the old Roman road that ran west into Wales along the southern coast, he had reined in his horse and considered going to visit his brother. Michael had been a soldier, and had more than his share of firsthand knowledge of how to face inevitable death.
    But Stephen was not yet ready to reveal his grim news to his brother. Perhaps it was because he was the elder. Though they’d become friends in the last year and a half, he did not want to go to Michael as a fearful supplicant. Which proved, he supposed, that he might have renounced arrogance but pride was still very much a part of him.
    His pace leisurely, he had continued north into Herefordshire, then angled east, enjoying the scents and sights of late summer. It had been interesting to book rooms at inns for himself, to negotiate the cost of a bed or a meal. As a gentleman he was always treated politely, but without the awed deference that was usual. He enjoyed the change. Being a duke could be a flat bore sometimes.
    But his journey was a lonely one. He’d always been detached from the turbulent, often childish emotions that controlled most of humankind. Now he felt sometimes that he was already a ghost, watching the activities of mortal men but not participating. It was time to turn his horse for home and become the duke again. He must fulfill his responsibilities: update his will, notify those who had a right to know of his condition, decide what actions he wanted accomplished before the estate passed to his brother.
    He must also visit his elder sister, Claudia. In recent years they had not been close, but he would like to see her again before he died. Perhaps they might find common ground before it was too late.
    Storm clouds were gathering as he rode into the small town of Fletchfield. Since there was no good reason to continue riding and get soaked, he scanned the facades of the two inns on opposite sides of the high street, choosing the Red Lion because of its flower-filled window boxes.
    Stephen engaged a room and was about to go upstairs when he noticed a playbill posted on the wall. The “Renowned Fitzgerald Theater Troupe” was going to present Shakespeare’s The Tempest; or, The Enchanted Island that very evening. Stephen had always enjoyed the theater, and the tale of the magician duke who lived in island exile with his young daughter was a particular favorite. Heaven only knew what a cast of fourth-rate actors would do to the play, though.
    Glancing at the innkeeper, he asked, “Is this company any good?”
    â€œWell, I don’t know what a gentleman such as yourself would think,” the innkeeper said cautiously, “but we like ’em. They come through every summer. Always put on a rousing good show. Action, excitement.” He grinned. “And some very attractive ladies givin’ a glimpse of their ankles, and sometimes a bit more.”
    It didn’t sound like great art, but it would be a diversion. After Stephen had rested and dined, he went out to the high street. The air was heavy with August heat, but a distant rumble of thunder gave promise of cooling rain.
    The temporary playhouse on the outskirts of town was easy to find, since a good part of the population of Fletchfield was going in the same direction. A few glanced curiously at the stranger, but most were too excited by the prospect of the play.
    Outside the barn where the performance was to be held, fifty or sixty people were milling about while a foxy little man with a cockney accent sold tickets. A shilling bought a wooden disk stamped with an F that would be collected when the doors opened. No nonsense about box seats versus