A Useful Woman (23 page)

A determined pounding rang through the hall. Rosalind jumped and turned toward the door. One of the bailiffs spat on the floor. Her heart hammering, Rosalind went to see who this new person might be. On the stoop stood a man in black coat and cravat, and next to him, like an angel from heaven, stood Lady Blanchard, with Mrs. Kendricks right behind her.

“Now, none o' that!” cried the bailiff's least shaven and greasiest man. “We was here first.”

Lady Blanchard frowned. “Mr. Murrill.” She gestured to the black-coated man. “You will deal with
those
. Rosalind, my dear.” Lady Blanchard took both her hands and pressed them firmly. “You are not to worry. I'm here now and it will all be taken care of.”

Pride fled in an instant and it was all Rosalind could do to
keep from bursting into tears as Lady Blanchard sailed past the bailiff's men. “Your mother is upstairs, I assume? Excellent. We will go straight up.”

“She won't hear me,” said Rosalind as she hurried to catch up to her godmother. “I've tried to tell her what's happening, but she won't leave her room and she says she doesn't understand a word I say.”

“Let's see what we can do.”

What Lady Blanchard did was spend an hour pretending they were waiting for tea that wasn't going to come, ignoring the fact that the bailiffs downstairs, under Mr. Murrill's supervision, were carting away the furnishings and the carpets to which they were entitled. But in the end, Lady Blanchard had somehow managed to persuade Mother to come stay in the country with her, just for the week, until Sir Reginald came back.

“He is coming back,” Mother said firmly. “He will not abandon me. I have kept up his appearances for twenty years, I have kept his house, kept his name, kept his children. Everything has always been perfect, no matter what he has done. He
owes
me for my years!”

Lady Blanchard did not argue. She told Mrs. Kendricks to pack up Mother's dresses and whatever Charlotte had left behind. Her godmother then led Mother down to her carriage to take her out “for some air,” while Rosalind loaded her jewelry up into Mrs. Kendrick's bag, and the pocket under her skirt, so the housekeeper could storm out the back door, announcing loudly that she wouldn't stay in such a house a moment longer.

When Mother was installed into one of the guest rooms in the Blanchards' rambling country house, Rosalind went into Lady Blanchard's parlor to try to find the words to thank her. This was when she received her first lesson about Deportment When Abandoned.

“You may cry tonight, Rosalind,” Lady Blanchard told her. “As much as you want. Tomorrow, however, that is over. It is you who must look after yourself and your mother, and that is not a state that allows any show of weakness. Do you understand?”

Rosalind understood. She went back to her room and wept until past midnight with Mrs. Kendricks holding her close. After that, she never shed another tear over her circumstances, never spoke a word in anger. At least, not where anyone could see.

Rosalind smoothed her hair back from her brow.
Why am I thinking about this now?

But she knew. It was because of the relief in Lady Blanchard's face that accompanied the sorrow when she heard about the betting book. That should have seemed perfectly natural, of course. Anyone would be relieved that an unpleasant episode was over and life could continue on as normal.

But this was not the sole source of that relief, Rosalind was sure.

Men lie, Miss Thorne.
Mr. Harkness's words came back to Rosalind with stunning clarity. Rosalind clenched both fists.
I will not hear you, Mr. Harkness.

She could stop this right now, before it brought down any more unpleasantness. She had the perfect excuse. She could stand loyally beside those who had helped her, and never have it go any further. She could protect names and homes and family, by simply remaining still and silent. It was what was expected. It was the done thing. Nothing more, and nothing less.

It would simply mean keeping those same secrets that had made a ruin of her life. It would simply mean accepting that Lady Blanchard had perfectly good, personal reasons for lying when she told Rosalind she did not recall any words she spoke of Jasper Aimesworth's corpse.

Rosalind pulled the bell rope, then opened the writing desk.
Mrs. Kendricks arrived while she was signing her name to a fresh note:

Dear Mr. Harkness:

I have just received word from a normally reliable source that a wager regarding Almack's was found in the book at White's with Jasper Aimesworth's name attached. Have you been able to confirm this fact? It is important that I should know as soon as possible. I suspect some falsehood.

R. Thorne

“Mrs. Kendricks, I have a pair of letters that must go by hand. This one is to Mr. Harkness at Bow Street. The other is for Miss Aimesworth.” She paused. “It is imperative that Lady Edmund not know about it, or about any reply.”

She waited for Mrs. Kendricks to question her, but her servant just nodded. “You may leave it with me, miss. I believe it is my half day. I shall go visit my cousin Mrs. Neill.”

Rosalind smiled. “Yes, of course, I had forgotten your half day.”

She dipped her quill into the ink and began to write again.

Dear Honoria:

I may have made a significant error in judgment. I need you to come with me to search Jasper's rooms. Tell your mother you want to visit his grave . . .

Custom might refuse a woman the chance to attend a loved one's burial, but she was perfectly free to visit the grave after it
was covered over. And Mrs. Kendrick's gossiping inquiries among the Tamwell House servants had yielded one piece of information of primary importance: the location of Jasper's bachelor rooms.

. . . and when she refuses to let you go alone, allow yourself to be talked into taking me with you.

Let me know when. Mrs. Kendricks is waiting for your answer.

R.

Men lie
, said Mr. Harkness once again from her memory.

Men lie
, agreed Rosalind in the silence of her mind.
And they are not the only ones.

A Bachelor Establishment

Now, it is impossible that a man who composes any ethics at all, big or little should admire a thief . . .

—Thomas De Quincy,
On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts

The response Mrs. Kendricks had brought back from Bow Street and Mr. Harkness was brief, and completely unenlightening.

“The . . . officer says to thank you for your communication, and that you will hear from him shortly.”

Unfortunately this unsatisfactory message arrived on the heels of another that was much more urgent. It came from Honoria, and was delivered to Mrs. Kendricks's hands at the back door of Blanchard House by a rather greasy porter who tried to barter for an additional sixpence, even though Honoria had already paid him.

Honoria was as sparing in her words as Mr. Harkness. The note read:

Have convinced her. Come tomorrow, one o'clock.

H.A.

Rosalind folded the paper and bit her lip. She had hoped to have Mr. Harkness with them on this particular errand, but with what Devon had told her about the officer's inquiries, perhaps it was for the best. If Devon had told the truth and Mr. Harkness was tracing her father, the result could be a disaster the like of which she had never imagined.

Unless, of course, Devon was trying to frighten her into giving up her inquiries. Rosalind's cheeks burned at the thought. Mr. Harkness had said a number of things, but at least he had not suggested Rosalind should hide away from whatever storm was to come.

The night passed and morning came. Rosalind sat beside Lady Blanchard to help receive early callers, most of them ladies anxiously inquiring about the state of the Almack's voucher lists and trying to find out if the opening assembly would be held as scheduled. Lady Blanchard answered them all patiently and sent them away much relieved. Most of them, at any rate. Mrs. Fort—who'd wanted to know if any vouchers had unexpectedly gone wanting, and could “dear Lady Blanchard” assist her to any that might have been left by ladies having been summarily dropped from the lists—was sent away with a flea in her ear.

Fortunately for both Rosalind and Honoria, Lady Blanchard had a letter she wished Rosalind to deliver to Lady Edmund. She said it was merely “a request to call.”

“It's time we began our campaign,” Lady Blanchard told Rosalind. “She has to make her impressions before anything . . . more occurs.”

The receipt of Lady Blanchard's letter served to keep Lady Edmund's temper and her suspicions distracted while the two young women departed in a hired carriage, ostensibly to travel to the church yard and Jasper's grave. Her godmother had given Rosalind the perfect freedom to order the Blanchard carriage
whenever she wished. Rosalind, however, did not want to risk Preston reporting back to his employers about where she and Honoria had actually gone.

Although enough time had passed that Honoria could be considered out of the first stage of mourning for her brother, she donned her heaviest black dress and a veil that entirely covered her face. But the moment the carriage drew away from the Aimesworth front door, Honoria threw the veil back so she could lean forward.

“Did Casselmain tell you?” she demanded. “About the betting book?”

“He did,” Rosalind admitted.

“Jasper was hardly above foolish wagers,” Honoria was saying. “I remember once he told me he kept a book for friends at university over a course of black beetle races. Apparently some of the students kept a whole stable of the insects, and a stud book and I don't know what all. Beetles! Men!” It was impossible to tell which she thought less of at that moment. When she spoke again, her tone was much softer and less certain. “Was I wrong? Was it all really an accident?”

“I don't know yet. That's why I still very much want to see Jasper's rooms.” Devon may have confessed to making the bet, or at least knowing about its existence, but he was still hiding something important. In that, he was acting in common with Lord and Lady Blanchard, and now possibly Mr. Harkness.

Rosalind felt as if she held the shards of a stained glass window in her hands, and she was trying to piece it all together without cutting herself.

Not surprisingly, many of the
haut ton
's young bachelors kept their rooms in the vicinity of St. James's Street and its famous “club row.” The driver brought their carriage to a halt in front of a line of spruce, terraced houses. Honoria gave him an extra half
crown to wait and climbed down behind Rosalind, drawing her veil across her face as she did so. Together they picked their way across the slush-covered walk. The door of the house in front of them opened, as if in welcome, but it was only to expel a pair of staggering young blades in tight white breeches and high-collared coats. The pair leaned hard against each other, laughing over something. As they passed the women at the foot of the stairs, one of them turned to the other and mumbled some remark that brought on a new fit of hilarity.

Honoria and Rosalind gripped each other's arms and hurried inside.

Inside was no great improvement, for the house had an overused feeling about it. The cold and the damp had settled in, and neither the walls nor the stairs were as clean as they should have been. The entrance hall was cramped and bare, with whitewashed walls and plain matting on the floor. There was no porter or footman on duty to greet them and learn their business.

In truth, it was a surprisingly dreary place, and not at all what Rosalind would have expected for Jasper to choose as a residence. Perhaps he had friends here.

“It should be up the stairs,” said Honoria, and the pair of them began climbing.

The wooden stairs creaked badly beneath their half boots, and in the corridor below, a scarred door opened and a man with beady eyes peered up at them.

“If you're looking for Mr. Aimesworth, he ain't gonna be there,” he announced. “Ain't been there for weeks.”

Rosalind laid a hand on Honoria's wrist, signaling her to keep silent. “Can you say where might we find him?”

Like the building, the man was far from spotless. Grease stained his waistcoat and his shirtsleeves. His black cravat was barely tied and his collar gaped under his double chin. “You
might
try the churchyard. They do be sayin' he's gone and done a header in Almack's, over a girl or some such.” He turned his head and spat on the hallway matting. “Or maybe two such.”

“Mr. Aimesworth was my brother,” said Honoria icily. “We've come to see about clearing out his rooms.”

“Brother, is it?” The man, who was probably the landlord, narrowed his dark, glittering eyes. He also let those eyes travel up the pair of them from hems to bonnets, and then all the long way back down again. “Well, maybe that's so and maybe it ain't. Strikes me as funny you bein' his sister and not knowin' the rooms 'ave already been cleaned out.”

What?
The words hit hard enough to stagger Rosalind and Honoria both.

“When was this?” Honoria clutched at the stair railing. “By who?”

The landlord leaned his shoulder against the threshold. “By the family,” he drawled. “Which you would know naturally, you bein' 'is
sister
and all.” He looked her up and down again.

Which, for Honoria, was clearly the upper limit. She stormed down the stairs, leaving Rosalind to trail behind.

“Listen to me, you odious little man.” Honoria poked the landlord with one sharp, gloved finger. “I am Honoria Aimesworth and the upstairs rooms in this hovel belonged to my brother, Jasper, and our father,
Lord
Edmund Aimesworth.” This was not strictly true, but this did not seem to be the time to interrupt. “If you've allowed some thief to come in and make off with his possessions, I will see you in dock. I've no doubt you were well paid to open that door”—she jabbed her finger up toward the door in question—“with your keys!”

“Should I fetch the constables, Miss Aimesworth?” inquired Rosalind softly.

That finally wiped the grin off the landlord's round face.
“'Ere!” He squeaked. “There's no call for none a' that! 'Ow was I to know? Cove is dead, other cove shows up and says he's sent by the family, 'as the talk and all the names.”

“Did he have the keys?” asked Rosalind. The landlord didn't answer, a fact which Honoria was quick to notice.

“Then you did let him in! You let him in without keys or written permission to rob my brother!”

“I did no such thing! 'E 'ad a letter! With a seal and all.”

“What did it say?” asked Rosalind. Again, the man made no answer. “You didn't bother to actually read this letter, did you?”

“I didn't take no money from nobody,” the man growled. “Ain't my fault the family leaves the young gent's personals lying about to get nicked, 'specially when anybody an' 'is uncle knows the gent's dead.”

Honoria drew herself up to her loftiest height. “I am going to see my brother's rooms, and once I do, you had better hope I don't change my mind about sending my maid for the constables!”

“I didn't do nofink wrong!” bellowed the landlord.

“And who do you think they'll believe?” snapped Honoria. “You or me? Now, get out of my sight!”

The man growled like a sulky dog, and he eyed them both. He spat for good measure and muttered several rude words. He also shut himself back in his room.

Honoria grabbed her hems and stomped up the stairs. Rosalind followed closely, and glanced frequently over her shoulder, in case the landlord, or anyone else, decided to follow. Honoria's hand was shaking as she put the key in the lock.

Rosalind had been in many different sorts of rooms, both public and private, but never a bachelor's establishment. Although she knew it to be entirely ridiculous, it was not without a certain trepidation she entered these.

Jasper's rooms smelled of damp and dust, with no trace of the homey scents of candlewax or coal smoke left. The only light in the rooms was the gray, watery daylight that streamed through the windows, but it was more than enough to show them that the rooms had been stripped clean. Only the movable furniture remained: chairs, desks, the table in the dining room, the bed, and so forth. One lamp stood on the mantle, and a pair of silver candlesticks on the table in the dining room. But all the coverings had been stripped away, and the clothing emptied from closet and drawer.

“Who did this?” cried Honoria as she strode through the pillaged rooms.

Rosalind stayed in place, turning around slowly. This was wrong. Even the curtains from the bed and the windows had been taken. The dresser drawers gaped open. The floors were entirely without carpets. She stared at the bare room, and turned to stare again from a fresh angle. She thought of Mr. Harkness, and she wondered what he would see, from his stance as patrol officer.

“I'll have that landlord in dock, I swear I will!” Honoria shouted. “He probably works hand in glove with some foul pawnbroker!”

There. Honoria had said it, and now Rosalind understood.

“He probably does, but that's not who did this.”

“I don't understand you.” Honoria pulled her veil aside so Rosalind could see her angry glower.

“What sort of thief would take the bed curtains and leave silver candlesticks?” she said. “Did Jasper write letters?” Rosalind crossed quickly to the writing desk and lifted its lid. She also peered into the gaping drawers. There was one sheet of foolscap, and one broken quill. “A pawnshop wouldn't be interested in letters, or bills or any other correspondence, but somebody's emptied this desk. These rooms were cleared out to make it look like the
work of thieves, but I think someone was trying to find some incriminating notebook or letters.” She stood back and gestured toward the drawers, inviting Honoria to take a closer look if she so chose. Not that Honoria knew as much as she about what pawnbrokers would and would not buy. “And though that fellow downstairs knows Jasper's dead, he hasn't rented these rooms out again. That means someone has paid the rent at least until the end of the month.”
And he thinks they might come back
, but she decided to keep that to herself.

Honoria closed her mouth. She also turned to stare about the rooms, seeing them with fresh eyes, and with some small trace of fear beneath her anger.

“We need to conduct a thorough search,” Rosalind said firmly. “Something might have been left behind.”

Honoria nodded. Rosalind made sure the door was locked, in case the landlord should change his mind and come to try to chase them out, or call the constables himself. That done, she turned her attention back to the desk while Honoria disappeared into the boudoir. Rosalind ran her hands through all the pigeonholes and pulled out the side drawers, but there was nothing. Then, when she pulled out the center drawer, a grimy piece of yellow paper fluttered down.