Read Online 100. A Rose In Jeopardy by Barbara Cartland - Free Book Online

countryside with trees and bushes all around instead of the bricks and stones of London.
    It was simply impossible for him to sink back into the restful sleep that was the only cure for a headache such as the one that was threatening to split his skull open.
    Why had he thought it such a good idea to come to the country?
    Reluctantly, Algernon opened his tired eyes and sat up, clutching his forehead in his hands.
    Now he noticed that the same useless servant who had opened up the curtains and who clearly did not know about his preference for late rising had left a tray of tea and toast on the small table beside his bed.
    Tea. Perhaps that would help to clear his throbbing head. He reached for the teapot, but it was quite cold.
    He must have slept very late indeed this morning. Lord Brockley, who never seemed to suffer quite so badly from the after-effects of over-indulgence in brandy, would be waiting for him.
    Algernon gave another groan and heaved his legs over the side of the bed.
    There was a full jug of water on the washstand and he staggered over to it and poured himself a glass.
    Then, feeling just a little better, he went over to the window to draw the curtains against the frightful glare and to shut out the awful noise the birds were making.
    Outside a soft breeze was stirring the tops of the tall trees that surrounded the gardens below his window.
    He was just about the tug the heavy curtain closed, when something caught his eye – a flash of gold, moving among the flowers.
    It was the pretty girl who had sat opposite him at dinner last night, the little angel who he could swear had brought him luck in the dice game at the inn.
    She was down there in the Rose Garden, a basket over her arm, cutting blooms.
    She moved so prettily in her violet-coloured dress and he saw that her long golden curls reached almost to her slender waist.
    He noticed the sunlight gleaming on her curls and remembered how the soft candlelight last night had shone on them, making a pale halo around her sweet young face.
    She had been so shy and quiet all through dinner, as if she did not want to attract any attention to herself.
    Algernon normally preferred lively and flirtatious girls, like the delicious dark-haired creature, who had been engaged to Lord Brockley’s son – nothing reticent about her at all!
    But there was indeed something about the shyness and reserve of this girl, Rosella, that was very enticing.
    As he watched her reach up to cut a white rose from a tall branch, he suddenly thought how delightful it would be to slip his arm around her waist and draw her to him.
    And the touch of one of her soft little hands on his forehead would completely cure his headache.
    He had no memory of being helped from the dining room last night and almost carried up the stairs by Rosella and Mrs. Dawkins.
    Nor did he recall the expression of revulsion on Rosella’s pretty face as she looked down at him where he lay on his bedroom carpet.
    For he was never able to remember anything that happened to him when he had taken too much brandy.
    There was a loud rap at his bedroom door and then it flew open.
    “Get up!” Lord Brockley growled as he strode over the carpet. “Luncheon will be served in a few moments.”
    He scowled at Algernon still in his nightshirt.
    “What have you been doing all morning? I want to place a bet on the big race this afternoon and I should like your opinion on the runners.”
    “I’m almost up, Carlton. I was just admiring the wonderful view of the gardens.”
    Lord Brockley came to join him at the window.
    “Ah! I might have guessed,” he said.
    And, as he too looked down on Rosella, making her way through the Rose Garden, a thoughtful expression came over his face.
     

CHAPTER FIVE
    “Thomas – wait,” Rosella called out, as she saw the gardener’s boy hurrying down the drive through the misty summer rain.
    “My Lady?”
    Thomas stopped in his tracks and turned to face her, raindrops clinging to his