A Useful Woman (21 page)

Rosalind knew she should return to her room to receive her own items from Mrs. Kendricks, but she remained where she was. “Lady Blanchard, two weeks ago Lord Blanchard said he would check the betting book at White's, to see if Jasper had made a wager about being able to get into Almack's, but he has not yet told me anything about it. I was hoping he'd mentioned something to you.”

“No. In fact, I'd rather forgotten the whole thing.” Lady
Blanchard turned to let Lacey drape her white shawl over her shoulders. “Perhaps you should forget about it as well. We've so much to accomplish, the two of us. However difficult . . .” She stopped, and began again. “However difficult it may
seem
at times, we must keep our minds focused on the task at hand, mustn't we? And that task includes not being late for Lady Jersey.”

What could Rosalind do but agree?

The Concerns of a Confidential Secretary

This other basket, marked “Almack's Rejected,” of course contains all the applications which are not successful, from which a list is to be made.

—Marianne Spencer Stanhope Hudson,
Almack's

As it happened, Lady Jersey was not in the least bit pleased. Rosalind and Lady Blanchard had barely been ushered into Lady Jersey's crimson morning room when she surged to her feet and pushed a copy of the
London Chronicle
into Rosalind's hands.

“There, Miss Thorne!” snapped Lady Jersey. “Do you see that? Nothing about the gambling or foolishness of young men, which you promised us! Not one word explaining that Mr. Aimesworth's death was due to his own carelessness! Nothing but more dreadful calumnies about murderous reprobates and Bow Street runners and their watchdogs and I know not what else!”

While Mrs. Drummond-Burrell and Lady Sefton watched from their seats on the mahogany and gilt chairs rumored to have been recently “acquired” from one of the former empress's
palaces in Paris, Rosalind folded the paper and laid it on the painted tea table.

“If you will forgive me, Lady Jersey,” she said, “I do think that we are making progress, and the sort of progress you hoped for.”

“The girl has lost her mind!” Lady Jersey cried. “This past week one could not keep from reading about the thing!”

“I've stopped taking the papers,” said Mrs. Drummond-Burrell with a delicate shudder. “I cannot bear it.”

Lady Sefton's mouth tightened, an expression speaking volumes about what she thought of such delicacy of feeling.

“That was last week, during the funeral, when it could hardly be avoided,” Rosalind reminded them all. “Now, with this article, we see the tide has turned. Today, the paper expends much more ink on the history of the patronesses and the reputation of Almack's than they do on any other recent occurrences.”

“But every last article on the subject mentions Aimesworth's death and the runners' interference!”

“Mentions the death, yes, but does not speculate on it,” said Rosalind firmly. “The speculation is all saved for Lady Blanchard's likely successor. This will only increase as the season approaches.”

Alice and George explained that Major Alway was a shrewd player at the newspaper game. Expert at doling out the news in the fashion most calculated to induce suspense, he had held back the announcement of a lady patroness's departure until the last drop of interest had been wrung from Jasper's funeral. Alice confidently predicted the name of the departing patroness would be revealed on Thursday. The pedigrees and biographies of potential replacements would appear the following Sunday, with the rumors of dark horse candidates and probable favorites to follow in succeeding weeks. All of this would be interspersed
with articles decrying the “marriage mart” and the shame of allowing such a small group of ladies to exercise so much power over social London. Rosalind expected the other papers to follow suit. Unless, of course, it seemed one of the other papers was getting ahead in the race. Then all of the major's careful play would collapse into a rush to be first out with what he had.

Lady Jersey sniffed.

“I suspect you of being a very clever woman, Miss Thorne,” she announced. “That is not a becoming attribute in a person such as yourself.”

“So I have been informed. My mother did her best to correct the fault when I was younger, but it has sadly persisted.”

Lady Jersey glowered at Rosalind, probably trying to work out whether she was joking. Rosalind bit the inside of her cheek and reminded herself that she was also facing a very clever woman, and a very powerful one.

“We have less than a month before our first assembly. The voucher lists have not even been sent out and I am
besieged
with letters.” Lady Jersey waved toward her writing desk, which was indeed piled with correspondence. “Even Mr. Whelks can't keep up with it all. Every subscriber is asking what is happening.”

Which was Rosalind's cue, and her opportunity. “Perhaps I could offer some assistance on this point? If you would permit me, I could update your visiting book and make certain your calling cards are in order, which will free Mr. Whelks for the more important work with the voucher lists.”

“Thank you, Miss Thorne,” said Lady Jersey. “So helpful and obliging.” Apparently her recent remark questioning Rosalind's mental capacity was to be forgiven and forgotten. “If you'd just go and knock on Mr. Whelks's office door and tell him we need the secondary list. I feel that with the continuing”—she made
sure Rosalind felt the full force of her glare—“gossip, we may need to make some changes to the calls for today.”

“Certainly, Lady Jersey.”

Rosalind left the room, carefully keeping her expression to one of polite neutrality. It was only once she was in the corridor that she pressed her hand over her mouth to muffle her heartfelt sigh of exasperation.

*   *   *

The office set aside for Mr. Whelks's labors was beside the Jerseys' great, and largely unused, library. Normally, a woman who had an unmarried man in her employ, let alone in her house, would be subject to endless ribald commentary. But because of Lady Jersey's power and standing, the wagging tongues remained largely mute—not in the least because no one wished to be summarily struck off the Almack's lists.

“Come,” was the brisk answer to Rosalind's knock, and she entered softly, leaving the door open behind her.

The room was well carpeted, but otherwise as bare as a monk's cell, if monks' cells were ever supplied with cabinets for correspondence. Mr. Whelks hunched over a writing desk by the window, papers stacked about him in the tidiest, tallest piles Rosalind had ever seen. He finished the letter he labored over, blotted it, and set it aside on yet another stack. Someone's hopes for triumph were doubtlessly laid down on that page. Mr. Whelks carefully crossed off one line of a list, and closed the desk. Only then did he stand to make his bow.

“Good afternoon, Miss Thorne,” he said solemnly. “How may I be of assistance?”

“Lady Jersey has asked for the secondary voucher lists, Mr. Whelks. In light of the continued talk surrounding Mr.
Aimesworth, she feels some adjustments may need to be made to the lady patronesses' visiting lists.” According to the rules of Almack's, no one could receive a voucher who had not been visited, and approved, by a patroness. No one who had been struck from those visiting lists could hope to receive a voucher.

A small spasm flickered across Mr. Whelks's impassive features. Doubtlessly he was thinking of the vouchers he'd already written out and stacked so neatly, and how he would be the one responsible for reworking and redistributing the lists, and the cards, and the tickets, before the week was out. Two weeks was the absolute limit for sending out the vouchers. Mrs. Nottingham and her friends were only the beginning of a small regiment of ladies, not to mention a large army of London dressmakers, who were on pins and needles to see who would be the final recipients.

Mr. Whelks, however, was too much the consummate servant to make any remark on this. “You may tell her ladyship I will bring the lists at once.”

Because, of course, those confidential writings could not be given into an outsider's hands. Mr. Whelks would never violate his patroness's trust in even such a small fashion.

Which was exactly the point in his character Rosalind was counting on.

“Mr. Whelks, there is a matter I very much hoped to take up with you. Quietly.”

Mr. Whelks favored her with an assessing look that would have done his mistress proud. In answer, Rosalind assumed an attitude which, she hoped, radiated both meekness and humility.

“I know that Lady Jersey depends on you absolutely, so I feel I may trust you.” She glanced up and thought she saw his expression soften, at least a little. Encouraged, she went on. “You know that sometimes great ladies, because of the constant demands on
their time and attention, can overlook those matters that lie closest to them. At such times, it's up to their most loyal friends to help them, without . . . disturbing them.”

“Your feelings do you credit, Miss Thorne, and yes, there have been times . . .” He sighed. “Well, that is neither here nor there.”

Rosalind nodded in perfect sympathy and agreement. “It has been my heavy responsibility to help a few ladies who are less prudent than Lady Jersey through some unfortunate times. I must tell you, Mr. Whelks, we are entering the most delicate phase when it comes to managing a public affair of any sort. The unwelcome attention is waning, but it still might be brought back by any new revelation, and the gossips and the papers will be on the hunt for just that.” She met his gaze now and spoke as one social veteran to another. “It is up to us to make sure nothing new arises between now and the first assembly that we do not know about.”

“I understand you perfectly, Miss Thorne.” Mr. Whelks glanced over his shoulder at his desk and made his decision. “I think I can assure you that should any . . . trifling matter arise that Lady Jersey herself perhaps should not be troubled with, you may expect a letter from me.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Whelks. I knew that I could count on you.”

He bowed. “And thank you, Miss Thorne. It is always a privilege to work with a person of discretion and sense.”

Rosalind took her leave rather more hopeful than when she had entered. With this little conversation, she now had an excuse to enter into regular communication with Mr. Whelks. She could work to loosen his hold on the information he carried, some of which was bound to be useful, if not now, then during the stormy season which was soon to come.

“Ah, Miss Thorne!”

Rosalind's head jerked up. She had been so lost in her own thoughts, she had failed to see the footman coming up the stairs, let alone the grand lady in a forest green morning dress following him.

Countess Lieven smiled brightly down at Rosalind.

“Your Grace.” Rosalind remembered her manners and made her curtsy.

“I thought I might catch up with you here.” The Russian countess glided up to her. “I've just come from Blanchard House, you know. You will find my card there for you when you return.”

“I . . . Your Grace, that is most kind of you. I was hardly expecting—”

Countess Lieven waved her hand. “I understand Mrs. Nottingham is giving a little party to lighten up the little season.”

“That she is, Your Grace.”

“As she is your particular friend, I was wondering if you might hint at her that Lieven and I would adore being included. If you think she might still have room. It is such a bore to have to rearrange the table at the last minute!”

It took all of Rosalind's self-control to keep her jaw from dropping open. The countess beamed, and waited.

“I am certain Mrs. Nottingham would be delighted to include you and His Grace, the count. I will mention it to her.” In fact, she would write the instant she was free from her tasks here.

The countess nodded. “Wonderful. I will expect your letter shortly. Or perhaps you will do me the favor of a call? Yes? That is also wonderful.” With this she breezed past Rosalind, straight to the morning room and the other patronesses.

Rosalind stared after the departing countess. It was inconceivable that Dorothea Lieven should actually require Rosalind's help
to gain any invitation. London had gone mad for all things Russian. This, added to her place among the patronesses, made the Countess Lieven one of society's most powerful and sought-after ladies. This meant only one thing. Either the countess had something she wished to say, or something she wished to hear.

And she wanted it to be well out of Lady Jersey's way. Rosalind paused. And possibly Lady Blanchard's.

The Danger of Appearances

L'Angleterre est une nation de boutiquiers.
[England is a nation of shopkeepers.]

—Napoleon Bonaparte

Bond Street was full to the brim with traffic, both in the streets and on the walks. There was scarcely a fortnight left before Easter week, and the all-important start of the season. The lady patronesses might not have finalized their lists yet, but there were plenty of others who had and now the fashionables were in a frenzy to complete their wardrobes.

As a result, the warehouse of Messrs. Taylor & Greene was at least as full as the streets outside. Women and men from every district of London moved between the counters, examining the samples of ribbons and patterned silk that the clerks held out for them. Once a selection was made and the price agreed upon, boys in aprons and shirtsleeves climbed ladders to bring down the bolts from their cubbyholes. The cloth was measured, cut, and wrapped in brown paper and white string while the clerk wrote out the receipt. In other quarters of the vast, sweltering building, the same scene was played out for those acquiring new lace, or for leather for gloves and boots, or for reels of thread for embroidery, beadwork, and tassels.

As it transpired, this trip had taken on a new significance for Rosalind. When they returned to Blanchard House from visiting Lady Jersey, her godmother had an additional piece of news.

“When you go shopping with Louisa Winterbourne, you must be sure to find yourself some good silk. I've gained Sarah's permission to give you one of my tickets for the opening assembly at Almack's.”

“I . . . but . . .”
That's not possible. I'm little better than a servant. My family is a disgrace. I can write invitations, but I cannot attend as an equal!

Lady Blanchard surely understood all the shocked words Rosalind could not speak aloud. She also waved them all away. “With all that has happened, do you think I could make it through that night without you? No. You will be there, and you must have something to stand up in that will pass muster with Sarah and the others. I have already made an appointment with Madame Giroux. Once you have your silk selected, she has promised a dress will be ready in time.”

Rosalind advanced a few arguments, but it was a losing battle and she knew it by the determined set of her godmother's jaw. Her only choice was to swallow pride and worry, and accept. So it was that Rosalind now stood beside Louisa Winterbourne and her aunt, Mrs. Showell, at the counter with a senior clerk hurrying toward them.

“Ah, Miss Thorne!” Marcus Greene was the son of the Mr. Horace Greene, as well as head clerk. The gleam in his eye said clearly he remembered how many wealthy women Rosalind had steered toward this very spot. “How delightful to see you again! What can I do for you? Something for the young lady perhaps?” He turned his ingratiating smile on Louisa.

Louisa Winterbourne had been blessed with the family's
black hair; pale, clear skin; and bright gray eyes, although rather less of the family fortune. She was sponsored at school and at her first season by a range of female relatives who saw in her fresh beauty and the indulgence of the new duke a chance for a very good match, perhaps even a brilliant one. Louisa herself was one of those girls who seemed born for the game of society and sailed cheerfully through it all.

“Definitely something for Miss Winterbourne,” said Rosalind, and was rewarded as the light of recognition sparked in the clerk's face. “And something for me as well. I hear tales of a stunning emerald green brocade you have just acquired.”

She gave Marcus a moment to recover himself, and forgave him for his surprise that she should be asking for such fabric on her own behalf. “Ah, now that silk is in very limited supply and only for our most select and valued customers . . . but as it's you, Miss Thorne, I'll see what can be done.”

With this faint protest, a sample of the emerald green was brought out, as well as a shimmering rose and a delicate blue far more suited to Louisa's complexion and age. All the cloths were closely inspected and haggled over. Marcus put up an excellent fight, but found himself faced with three formidable opponents, as well as the prospect of dressing not only an up-and-coming young lady connected to the Duke of Winterbourne, but someone on visiting terms with the lady patronesses. He accepted his loss gracefully and gave the order to his clerks so the silk could be measured, cut, and wrapped.

So it went with the laces and the ribbons, the Italian glass beads, and the silver bangles. It had been so long since Rosalind had been able to shop without counting each farthing in her mind, she felt a strange fear come over her with each acceptance, as if she were conducting some sort of illicit liaison right out in
public. She told herself this was foolish, but the sensation would not be banished.

Nor was this her only reason to feel uneasy. As she moved between the counters with Louisa and her aunt, Rosalind glanced over her shoulder toward the edges of the crowd. Devon waited patiently near the entrance, his hands folded on his walking stick. Occasionally, she saw him engaging in casual conversation with other gentlemen who had brought their sisters and daughters to shop. At other moments he was quite alone, and watching her.

“Don't worry,” murmured Louisa in knowing tones as she signed a receipt for some Belgian lace. “I've the matter in hand.”

Rosalind raised an eyebrow at this, but offered no reply.

At last Aunt Showell snapped her book shut and tucked it into her black, beaded reticule. “That completes my list, Louisa,” she said as the three of them made their way back to where Devon waited. “Are you ready to go? My feet ache, and I'm sure Casselmain has other things to do than squiring all of us about!”

Devon made some remark of polite denial, but Louisa turned one mischievous, Winterbourne-gray eye toward Rosalind. “Oh, but Aunt Showell, you do remember we are also invited to Mrs. Graves's theater party? I must still have something new for that and I've entirely changed my mind about the blue silk. Let's look again, shall we? Mrs. Graves is so very proper and you have the best eye for color . . .”

Still chattering, Louisa threaded her arm through her aunt's and pulled the older woman toward the nearest counter, leaving Rosalind standing beside Lord Casselmain, quite alone and unremarked on the edge of the jostling crowd.

Rosalind narrowed her eyes at Devon, who had the decency to look down at his hands and shift his stick uneasily.

“Goodness,” murmured Rosalind. “One might almost suspect Miss Louisa of wanting to give us a moment in private.”

Devon smiled. “You are not the only one who can arrange social matters, Miss Thorne.”

“Did you buy her off with this trip?”

He chuckled uncertainly. “There was no need. Louisa likes you, and me, and she was perfectly willing to oblige when I asked her.”

She doesn't want you to marry Honoria.
Rosalind saw it in his face, or at least she thought she did. She must be careful of reading too much into Devon's expression.

One new dress and one shopping venture did not mean all was as it once was, or that the years since could be undone.

“Miss Thorne, I have something to ask you,” said Lord Casselmain quietly. “Are you still . . . working on that matter Honoria talked to you about?”

This, of course, was the real reason that had dragged him out shopping on this raw, gray day. Rosalind was hard pressed not to blush with embarrassment at her sentimental thoughts. “Yes, I am. I have not yet discovered a satisfactory answer, however.”

Devon stared out across the crowd. He located Louisa at the counter, and watched as she sent Marcus Greene after yet another bolt of cloth, this one a sprigged muslin. Apparently deciding she was at a safe enough distance, he said, “If I asked you to stop, for Honoria's sake and your own, what would you do?”

“I would wonder who you'd been talking to.”

“As it happens, I've been talking to Lord Blanchard.”

“Lord Blanchard?”
He'll talk to you, but not to me?
She closed her mouth firmly around the question. Of course he would. Lord Casselmain was a man of rank and understanding. She was the unwelcome and awkward spinster friend of his skittish wife, who might prove untrustworthy. Again.

Devon still wasn't looking at her. She could not tell if he was
simply keeping an eye out for Louisa's return, or avoiding her gaze. “Blanchard's quite upset. The papers are saying this Watchdog Harkness has got it into his head that Jasper was murdered.” Now Devon did turn to face her. “You don't seem surprised.”

“Why would I be? It is, as you point out, in the papers, and it was always one of the possibilities.”

“But Lord Blanchard said he told you about the bet.”

“He said he thought there must be a bet, but he never told me that he found anything more about it. In truth, he's barely spoken two words to me since I came to the house.”

Uncertainty flickered behind Devon's eyes, but it was quickly gone. “Rosalind . . . has this man, Harkness, bothered you?”

“He has not.”

“But he has spoken to you? Did he tell you his ridiculous idea of a murder? Did you contradict it?”

“It should not be a surprise that he came to speak with me. I was there at the time, as were you,” she reminded him tartly. “I imagine he'd like to speak with you as well, if you would agree.”

Devon made a strangled sound deep in his throat. “Rosalind, you can't speak with this man anymore.”

“Can't I?” Rosalind let her own gaze stray across the colorful crowd. Louisa had laid out some white ribbon against the sprigged fabric. “My voice seems to be working perfectly well.”

“Damn . . . Rosalind, I am serious!” Devon struggled to maintain his hushed tones. “Listen, this Harkness is the youngest man ever promoted to—what was it—principal officer? He might be trying to impress his superiors, don't you see?”

“I'm afraid I don't, no.”

“Now you're being deliberately obtuse,” snapped Devon. “Rosalind, the man is trying to stir up trouble where there is none in order to keep his name in the papers and to justify his standing!”

Rosalind thought about the man who'd sat in her parlor, with his lively eyes and his charming smile. She thought about how easily Adam Harkness drew her out and engaged her assistance with his inquiries. Not that he'd had to work very hard. She had plenty of her own reasons for wanting to appear cooperative. With the Bow Street officer willing to talk with her, she stood a much better chance of getting the answers Honoria wanted, and of gauging whether any danger was, in fact, approaching Lady Blanchard.

Unless, of course, Adam Harkness wasn't telling her the truth.

“George Littlefield knows him,” she said, to Devon and to herself. “And says he's an honest man.” George did not, however, say that the accusations of bribery and collusion with criminals had ever been disproven.

“Honest men need to keep their masters happy as much as the dishonest do. You of all people know that.”

“If you have something to say, Lord Casselmain, you will do me the favor of saying it straight out.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Thorne. I'm losing the habit of plain speech. I am concerned about you, and so is Lord Blanchard. You say he hasn't talked to you. There's reason for that. He wasn't sure you'd listen to him, but thought I might . . . be able to convince you to be careful. If the man asks to talk with you again, you must refuse him absolutely.”

“Lord Casselmain, I do not see that it is any of your business who I agree to speak with.”
I am not under your protection or promise. We are barely friends anymore!

Devon flushed scarlet and he leaned in far closer than he should have. “Of course it's my business!” he whispered angrily. “Rosalind, Harkness has been asking about your father!”

“What?”

“Blanchard told me. It's one of the reasons your godfather came to me in the first place. Apparently Harkness has got it into his head that since you were the one person in Almack's who knew all the others, including Jasper, you must have had something to do with the affair.”

Rosalind closed her mouth.

“Blanchard says Harkness has found out about your father, and his debts, and is trying to trace him, and Charlotte as well.”

She'd wondered why she'd heard nothing more from Mr. Harkness, or from Mr. Faulks since that day in her parlor at Little Russell Street. That could well be the reason. The room spun sharply. Rosalind pressed her hand to her mouth and forced herself to take deep breaths. “But they have—Father has—nothing to do with this.”

“I know that, and so do you, but Harkness is putting together a story, do you understand?” Devon dropped his voice lower, forcing her to lean close enough to feel the heat of him against her cheeks. “Listen to me, Rosalind. I've had to deal with the courts since I inherited, trying to sort out the mess Hugh left behind. I've seen too well how they work. A clever lawyer will stand up and he'll tell a story to the bench. If the story's simple enough, and if he's enough of an orator and has enough law books in front of him, he'll be believed, whether that story's true or not.” He reached out one hand and touched her, or at least the cuff of her sleeve. She knew she ought to pull away, but she did not. “You have never shied away from facts, Rosalind,” Devon went on. “You need to take a hard look at your own right now. You're a debtor's daughter, who herself is short of money. You were in Almack's when you shouldn't have been at the same time a crime was committed. We're all vulnerable to scandal, Rosalind, but you're the one person who was there who has no protector.”