A Useful Woman (27 page)

In this at least, her luck was with her. The door lead to a woman's apartments, and a dressing room with a vanity table that still had its cosmetics, brushes, combs, and little scissors for
trimming nails and curls, all neatly laid out. The casement window opened over the back garden, so Rosalind decided to take the risk and part the curtains a fraction of an inch to let in more light before turning her attention to the room. An unwound clock on the mantle stood silent sentry to her frantic search, but that did not matter. The maddened beating of her heart counted off the seconds as she riffled through the table and the jewel cabinet (still well filled with precious ornaments), and nightstands and dressers. Boxes and bags.

I've been here too long. There are too many places to search. It is impossible. Someone will be coming back any moment now. There can't be anything here.

The door in the room's right-hand wall opened to reveal a closet filled with tasteful clothing, neatly stored. Rosalind rummaged among the dresses and gowns. She dug through the shelves among the linens, in the drawers among the stockings.

I will be caught. I must stop. I don't even really know what I'm looking for. Surely there's nothing here to find . . .

Except there was. A black iron strongbox waited back among the glove boxes, stuffed hastily toward the rear of the shelves. It was abominably heavy, but Rosalind heaved it off the shelves and out onto the dressing table where she had better light.

Rosalind did not permit herself any further hesitation. She pulled Jasper's keys out from her reticule and selected the smallest one. She took a deep breath. She fit the key into the lock, and as with the door, it turned easily.

The lock snapped open and Rosalind lifted the lid.

Inside waited a tray of coins—guineas and sovereigns, crowns and half crowns, all glinted in the faint daylight. Rosalind lifted the tray out. It was astoundingly heavy, but the real astonishment was yet to come. The space beneath that tray was filled with banknotes.

“Dear Lord,” whispered Rosalind. Slowly, she lifted out the banknotes, piling them to the side on the table. There were hundreds of pounds' worth, possibly thousands, rolls of notes tied with string, piles of notes clipped together, and others just lying loose.

Underneath the banknotes waited still other notes, these scrawled in a variety of hands, but all of similar purpose. They read:

Ignatius Shotwell promises to pay the bearer the sum of 200 pounds upon presentation of this note.

Or:

Albert Crane promises to pay 500 pounds to bearer.

Or simply:

I.O.U. 1,000 pounds. Bradford Fish

They were promissory notes, the sort gentlemen laid down for debts of honor. Thousands more pounds. A lifetime's worth of money and the promise of money, all in this one box.

Rosalind put the promissory notes back, and then the banknotes, and then the tray of coins. She closed the lid and locked it. She pressed both hands down on top of the box, hard, as if she thought it might fly away from her.

She imagined walking out of the house with this box and vanishing as thoroughly as her father and Charlotte. She'd never have to answer to anyone again. She'd never have to worry about appearances, about what she owed to whom. She could load her bag with jewelry, pack a case with dresses. She would never have
to see Devon again or confront the tearing confusion inside her, or know what her godmother had or had not done.

She could never come back, of course, but she'd never have to want to.

I will have to apologize to Honoria. I should have been more understanding.

She understood what had been done, and now she had a fair idea how it had unfolded, and what Jasper's role in the business must have been.

The question now became, who owned this room? Rosalind found herself wondering if Mr. Whelks might know that as well.

Dismissed

Forget the waste of time and anxiety, which this office will occasion you, the impertinence you will have to swallow, the rudeness you will have to commit . . . accept the appointment.

—Marianne Spencer Stanhope Hudson,
Almack's

In the end, Rosalind was not caught out. She returned the strongbox and its contents to their hiding place, closed the draperies completely, got into the waiting hack carriage, and sat in silence, trying to sort out all she knew, and all she still did not know.

The conclusions were such as to leave her colder even than the damp March afternoon. That there had been forgery and fraud connected with Almack's was plain. That a great deal of money had been made from those forgeries was equally plain.

But who had run the scheme? And had Jasper been a participant, or had he simply discovered what was being done?

The drive across town from Thurlough Square to Blanchard House proved excruciating. An overturned carriage blocked one street and a broken cart another, forcing the man to turn down a maze of crowded streets and alleys. Rosalind was cold and hungry and overwhelmed with all that she'd learned and what
she still suspected. She wanted desperately to retreat to her own room for a time, to gather her wits and her nerves.

But that did not seem to be a luxury she would be permitted, as the parlor maid informed her while she helped Rosalind off with her coat and bonnet.

“Lady Blanchard has been asking for you, Miss Thorne. She says you are to go to her at once.”

Rosalind ran both hands across her hair to smooth it and suppressed a weary shiver. “Of course,” she said. “Is she in her rooms?”

Upon receiving an affirmative, Rosalind climbed the stairs and turned into the corridor that led to the family wing. She knocked at Lady Blanchard's door and, schooling her expression into an acceptable attitude of calm, she pushed the door open.

“Rosalind!” Lady Blanchard started to her feet from her seat by her fire. “Where have you been?”

“I told you I was going with Honoria to visit Jasper's grave, Lady Blanchard.” Rosalind had repeated the covering excuse to her godmother before she left. She felt some small guilt at the lie, but she had no wish to cause additional worry or disagreement by revealing the truth. “Has something happened?”

“Is that her?” roared a voice from out in the corridor. Lady Blanchard gripped Rosalind's hands hard, but had no time to speak before Lord Blanchard strode into the room, his face flushed and his shaggy hair standing on end.

“Morgan!” Lady Blanchard cried. “We agreed I should—”

Lord Blanchard cut her off with an abrupt gesture. “Miss Thorne, I brought you into this house on sufferance. My wife needed a companion, and you needed shelter from this disaster. I had thought you would display at least some modicum of gratitude!”

Rosalind looked to Lady Blanchard, but saw nothing except
a reflection of her own distress. “I don't understand, Lord Blanchard. I—”

“This!” Blanchard held up his fist to display a crumbled piece of paper. “Is a most impertinent note from that jumped-up fellow John Townsend, telling me I needn't worry anymore about the Aimesworth matter, it has all been laid to rest.”

“But that should be good news—”

“
And
how it would be best if I hinted to Miss Thorne that she was in danger of making a public display of herself!” He snarled. “Those are his very words,
a public display!
”

Rosalind blanched. Of course John Townsend, who was welcome in all the great houses, had heard about her. Of course he had taken note of her standing with Lord Casselmain and Mr. Harkness on the steps of his station. And of course he had written to the man he knew to be keeping her under his roof.

Had she not gone to Thurlough Square, Rosalind might have beaten his letter home, and had a response ready. She might have even have thought to tell Lord and Lady Blanchard herself and show the thing in a better light. As it was, she must bow her head humbly. “I apologize, Lord Blanchard. I was only trying to help bring an end to the inquiry.”

“Oh yes, quite. I'm certain you had your reasons,” sneered Lord Blanchard. “But I have a reputation to protect, Miss Thorne, even if you do not, and I will not permit you to expose me and my wife to speculation and ridicule! Do I make myself clear?”

Rosalind lifted her chin. This was too far, even for the man in front of her. She waited for Lady Blanchard to speak, to defend Rosalind, or at least herself. But Lady Blanchard said nothing, and her silence squeezed so tightly, Rosalind felt sure one of them must be crushed by it.

“I understand you, Lord Blanchard,” she told him.
I understand you are afraid.

As she leveled her gaze against him, the blood slowly drained from Lord Blanchard's face. His gaze slid over her shoulder to his wife. Rosalind wished she could turn her head to see Lady Blanchard's face now, but she did not let her eyes so much as flicker from the man in front of her.

What is it that frightens you, Lord Blanchard? It cannot possibly be me.

Lord Blanchard thrust his jaw forward, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned on his heel and marched away. Rosalind forced her spine to stay straight. Her heart was pounding. For a moment she thought she would be quite sick. Not from Lord Blanchard's storm, but from Lady Blanchard's continued silence.

That silence which she must now turn and face. She met her godmother's gaze as determinedly and calmly as she had Lord Blanchard's. What she saw there shook her to her core. Because Lord Blanchard was not the only one who was afraid, or furious.

“Really, Rosalind!” snapped Lady Blanchard as she sat down, her hands clasped on her lap. “You of all people should have known better than to make a scene! I have always been able to trust to your discretion. Always!”

Is it my lack of discretion that worries you now?
Rosalind felt her heart tremble.
Or your own?
“I promise you, Lady Blanchard, I did nothing untoward. I went to speak with Mr. Harkness to make sure he knew the truth about the betting book and—”

“And of course this means you and Miss Aimesworth were nowhere near her brother's grave today,” said Lady Blanchard coldly. “I am truly disappointed that you would lie to me.”

Rosalind made no answer.

“May I ask where you did go?”

Rosalind considered another lie, but as difficult as it was, she knew she needed to see this moment through to its end. “I went with Honoria to find Mr. Aimesworth's bachelor rooms.”

“
What?
” cried Lady Blanchard. “How could you conceive of such an indecent sojourn?”

“There is a time when disaster must be faced head on. You taught me that,” Rosalind reminded her. “We hoped to find some definitive clue as to what he was doing in Almack's when he died.”

It was a long moment before Lady Blanchard was able to find voice enough to speak again. “What . . . what did you find?”

“We found nothing. The rooms had been stripped bare.”

“Oh.” Two pink spots appeared on Lady Blanchard's cheeks. Rosalind could not tell whether this was anger, or hope. “Of course, the Aimesworths—”

Now it was Rosalind's turn to interrupt. “The Aimesworths had not done it. Honoria was with me, you will recall, and she knew nothing of the matter. This was done by someone else.”

“Oh. How terrible,” Lady Blanchard murmured. “That he should die and his rooms be robbed . . .”

Rosalind found her patience at an abrupt and complete end. “Lady Blanchard,” she said. “Is Jasper Aimesworth your son?”

“What?”

“Is—was—he your son by Lord Edmund?”

“How could you even think such a thing!” Which was the expected and appropriate answer, and Rosalind found herself deeply disappointed to hear it.

“Because it fits the facts,” she answered.
And it is perhaps the lesser of the two possibilities.
“You have been unduly affected by Jasper's death since we found him. You have been visiting Tamwell House during their time of mourning without telling me, and this was after you said you wanted me to help you bring Lady Edmund into wider acceptance in society.” She ticked off the points on her fingertips. “Lady Edmund must have some hold over you; otherwise you'd never consider her for the post of lady
patroness let alone actively assist her. If Jasper was a bastard, she would have to be party to the secret. As Lord Edmund had no other heir, he might very well have chosen to acknowledge your baby as his own when Lord Blanchard would not. Even if Lord Edmund refused to tell his wife who Jasper's mother was, she would have years to find out, and she would very much want to find out.” Rosalind paused a moment to make sure all this had sunk into her godmother's mind. “It also explains your anger at Almack's exclusivity and the lady patronesses' hypocrisies, as well as your impending retreat from London. We both know that a man may have as many outside children as he chooses, but for a lady it is different.”

“Yes. I see.” Lady Blanchard pressed her hand against her forehead. “But no. I can swear to you that Jasper Aimesworth was not my son by Lord Edmund, or anyone else.”

Which only led to another question. Rosalind's hands gripped each other.
You don't have to ask this
, murmured a cowardly voice in her mind.
You don't have to find out yet if she'll tell another lie.

But Rosalind did ask. “Then why did Lord Blanchard tamper with the betting book to deflect speculation from the death?”

“Rosalind!”

Rosalind steeled herself against the shock and the betrayal in her godmother's exclamation. From the first, she had hoped to take care of them both by bringing this matter to an eventual close, but now she saw how time was running short. Lord Blanchard's outrage showed her that. The longer she spun this thing out, the more she put herself at risk for idle speculation and that speculation would have long, cold consequences.

The forgery would have to have been done by somebody connected to the death. Devon hadn't done it. If Jasper did it, he would have had to take Devon into his confidence. That left
Lord Blanchard as the next most likely person. After all, he'd put the idea of a bet into Rosalind's head, and he'd been the one to tell Devon of the record in White's book.

Lady Blanchard looked at her for a very long time. Rosalind watched regret and calculation chase each other behind her godmother's eyes and the pain of it shook her to her core. In the end, however, it was Lady Blanchard who looked away first.

“The truth is . . .” Lady Blanchard stammered. “The truth is that Morgan is in debt.”

Rosalind said nothing.

“He told me about it before he told me about the posting. It is not on his own account,” her godmother went on. “He agreed to back some friends in a stock-buying scheme. He signed several promissory notes for them, but the scheme collapsed and the notes are still there. It's not . . . an amount that can be brushed off.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Now that he's taken the Konigsberg post, his creditors are pressing hard for the money. At least they were. Someone, I don't know who yet, has bought the notes, and is holding them over our heads. Morgan says . . . he says this person intends to use them as evidence of corruption in the foreign office if he doesn't pay and with interest.”

“I see,” said Rosalind slowly. “That means that all this time, you've been making inquiries to try to discover the blackmailer, and it's led you to the Almack's patronesses?”

“One of their husbands, I think,” said Lady Blanchard. “That's why I need Lady Edmund, you see. Between her and you, I have an unquestionable reason to be making all sorts of calls and asking all sorts of questions. I should have told you,” she said, “but I was afraid you might have felt it necessary to tell Honoria, or you might have inadvertently let it slip, and Honoria has no discretion whatsoever.”

“I see,” Rosalind said again.

It might be true. Rosalind remembered her own idea that Lord Blanchard had received his posting so that he might be quietly gotten out of London. Such debts would be reason enough for him to be sent away. But Mrs. Nottingham would surely have heard about any such scandal, and she would have at least hinted about it to Rosalind.

Which left the question of where this lie came from and why was it told? Was it told by Lord Blanchard to fool Lady Blanchard? Or was it being made up at this moment by Lady Blanchard to fool Rosalind?

Lady Blanchard's smile was weak and apparently filled with awareness of the irony of this moment. “As I believe I told you before, Rosalind, in society, two people can keep a secret when one of them is dead.”

“Even when one of them is me,” Rosalind finished, and Lady Blanchard nodded. A cold shudder ran down Rosalind's spine.
Oh, Godmother, I am so sorry it's come to this.