A Useful Woman (28 page)

There was a knock at the door and Lacey let herself in. “I'm sorry to disturb you, Lady Blanchard, but a letter has come from Lady Jersey.”

“What?” Lady Blanchard blinked heavily, as if just awakening from her sleep. “Oh. Leave it on my desk.”

“I'm afraid the man is waiting for a reply. I've put him in the Rose Salon.”

“Go, Godmother.” Rosalind mustered a smile. “I am tired and I think I should go lie down before it's time to change for Mrs. Nottingham's.”
Then you won't have to come up with any more lies, and I won't have to hear them.

Lady Blanchard rubbed her brow. “Oh, very well. I will go.” Lady Blanchard gave Rosalind one more worried glance and hurried from the room.

Lacey glared at Rosalind as an unwelcome intruder in these
rooms. Rosalind lifted her chin and made to leave. Then, a sudden thought stopped her and she turned.

“Lacey? The man Lady Jersey sent with the message. Is it Mr. Whelks by any chance?”

For a heartbeat, she thought Lacey might refuse to answer, but the maid did finally relent. “I believe it is, miss.”

“Thank you.”

Rosalind stepped into the corridor, but she did not turn toward her own rooms. She moved in the opposite direction, toward the central stair. Even if Lady Blanchard gave only a spoken reply to whatever letter Lady Jersey sent, Rosalind should still be able to catch Mr. Whelks before he left and . . .

“Miss Thorne.”

Lord Blanchard's voice cut harshly across Rosalind's thoughts, and turned her around before she had a chance to think. He stepped from the shadows of the side corridor. He hadn't smoothed his hair down, and he looked wild and entirely disdainful, of her and the rest of the world as well.

“Lord Blanchard,” said Rosalind a little breathlessly. “Will you excuse me? Mr. Whelks is here and I was hoping to have a word—”

Lord Blanchard paced past her until he blocked her way to the stairs. “You may have your word with Mr. Whelks another time.” He folded his hands behind him. “Right now you will hear what I have to say.”

“But, sir . . .” Rosalind's eyes darted left and right, as if she was seeking escape. Perhaps she was.

Lord Blanchard shook his head slowly, decidedly. “I did not believe I would ever be saying these words to you again, Miss Thorne, but your actions leave me no choice. I have had time to think the matter over, and I believe it would be better for all of us if you packed yourself up and left this house.”

He was as coldly serious as she had ever seen him. There was not even one iota of the regret he had expressed last time, when her father had come and made his threats.

“Yes, of course, sir,” said Rosalind, because there was no other answer she could make. Perhaps, though, she could buy herself a moment of time. “Will tomorrow be soon enough?”

Her godfather nodded once, and Rosalind made her curtsy and turned. She walked away, back to her rooms, fully conscious that Lord Blanchard watched her every step of the way. So conscious was she of this, that it took a long time for another sad fact to surface in her mind. She had asked Lady Blanchard why her husband altered White's betting book.

Lady Blanchard had never answered.

A Consequential Gathering

This beautiful England is always the same—an endless chain of perfections which appeal to the reason, but leave the imagination untouched.

—Countess Dorothea Lieven, from a letter to her brother Alexander

The Nottinghams' London residence stood a mere two streets from St. James's Square. It was a tall, broad stone house that Rosalind always imagined to be peering keenly over its neighbors toward the seats of power.

Mr. and Mrs. Nottingham made an excellent team, both sharing an ambition to rise to political and social prominence, but both having the patience for the long work this must necessarily involve. Mrs. Nottingham had chosen the elegant, and—most important—not too ostentatious, house for them. Unlike Lord Edmund, she had the foresight to hire a fashionable builder to make her improvements (consulting, upon Rosalind's advice, with another prominent hostess before making her final choice). The result was an interior with proportionate and comfortable rooms that could display the Nottinghams' taste and prosperity without appearing grandiose.

“Lord Blanchard, Lady Blanchard.” Mrs. Nottingham made
her curtsy as they entered the oak-paneled entrance hall. “And Miss Thorne. How very good of you to come.”

Rosalind and her godparents made their courtesies and smiled and murmured the polite greetings. The carriage ride had passed entirely in silence. Lady Blanchard had not so much as looked at her husband, and Lord Blanchard had not taken his eyes off Rosalind. It was as if he feared that if he looked away, she might forget her promise to quit the premises and beg Lady Blanchard to let her stay on for good.

He would be most surprised if he knew what she did mean to say to Lady Blanchard as soon as she found a moment.

“How lovely everything looks, Mrs. Nottingham,” said Rosalind to their hostess. “Has the Countess Lieven arrived yet?”

“The countess?” murmured Lady Blanchard. “I didn't realize Her Grace would be here this evening,”

Mrs. Nottingham smiled in triumph. “She's one of Miss Thorne's acquisitions for me. Rosalind has been such a tremendous help. I cannot think what I would have done without her.”

Lady Blanchard smiled politely, but without feeling. “As I have always said. Now, Morgan, I believe I see Mr. Howell over there. I think you said you wished for a word?” Lord Blanchard grunted his assent, but turned another hard glare toward Rosalind. Fortunately, Mrs. Nottingham did not seem to notice.

“You'll be all right, Rosalind?” asked Lady Blanchard.

“Yes, of course. I see my friend Emma just there.” She didn't, but it didn't matter. Her answer made it possible for Lady Blanchard to take her husband off and leave Rosalind, for the moment, to her own devices.

As Lord and Lady Blanchard moved through the crowd, Rosalind began a slow drift through the knots of party-goers that ended with her standing by the wall where she could better take in the scene around her.

The Nottinghams' house did not sport anything so grand as a ballroom, but it had several airy salons, which had been opened to the party. Brightly dressed men and women strolled about looking at the pictures and the
objets d'art
that the younger Mr. Nottingham had brought back from his trip to the Continent. The collection included several paintings by his own hand, which were being admired and discussed. Sanderson Faulks did not seem to be among the assembly yet, and Rosalind wondered if he meant to keep his promise to attend.

The succession of salons ended at a blue-painted music conservatory, where a trio of musicians played a sprightly country melody. A small set of young couples had assembled there, laughing gaily with—and at—each other as they stepped up and down the line.

Normally when Rosalind attended a party she'd helped to arrange, she looked about her with proprietary interest. She noted who spoke with whom and who needed a partner, or simply some attention, and dropped the occasional hint to the hostess. But as she looked about her now, all she felt was an uncertain dread. When would Countess Lieven arrive? It was imperative they speak. The countess might be able to help her arrange a meeting with Mr. Whelks. It had to be soon. Once word got about that she had been thrown out of Blanchard House, again, she would be welcome nowhere at all.

She must find out what was driving Lady Blanchard to lie so repeatedly and outrageously. She must know how to help and protect her godmother. She would not break faith with the woman who had saved her when no one else would, not until all possible choice had been removed.

“There you are, Rosalind.”

It was Honoria, and Devon with her. They all made their bows, and Rosalind was conscious of an unforgivable flush rising
in her cheeks, as frustration mixed with the memory of last seeing Devon on the steps of the policing station, and of all that Honoria had told her afterward. Devon glanced away.

“How very good to see you, Lord Casselmain, Miss Aimesworth,” she murmured. “Is Miss Casselmain here as well?”

“Louisa had another engagement,” Devon answered.

“Clever girl that she is,” added Honoria. “This is going to be a very long night.” She looked to Devon as she said it.

Honoria had begun the process her mother had described as “decorously stepping down” her mourning. Instead of unrelieved black, Honoria's gown was a charcoal gray bombazine, trimmed in pale gray ribbons. It actually looked rather well on her. Devon dressed in white silk breeches and black coat as befitted his station and the evening and looked thoroughly unhappy. Rosalind wondered what Honoria had said to him.

Behind them, the country dance finished, and the couples applauded. The man at the pianoforte sketched out the time, and the others struck up a smooth waltz.

“Oh, good,” sighed Honoria. “Casselmain, waltz with Miss Thorne, would you? I can't dance and may as well sit down. There will be a thousand dowagers all oozing with condolences, and I want to get it over with.”

They both stared at her and Honoria stared right back. Then, without ceremony or further comments, she set off determinedly for the gilt chairs by the drapes that covered the conservatory's French doors and kept out the drafts.

“She really is extraordinary,” murmured Rosalind.

“She takes a great deal of getting used to,” agreed Devon. “But one comes to appreciate her unique qualities.” They both watched Honoria set herself down on the chair and glower at them. “I think we'd better dance.”

“I think we'd better.”

Devon's left hand, warm and strong, closed about hers, while his other hand rested politely against her back. It stunned her how familiar it felt. It had been years since they'd held hands like this, but her skin had not forgotten him.

If she closed her eyes, she could be in the Almack's ballroom again. It had been two in the morning then. She'd been flushed and exhausted and exultant. He'd smiled wide when he bowed.

I was going to give up on you
, she'd told him then as he led her onto the floor.

But you never should
, he had answered.
I was just waiting for the right moment.

She snapped back to the present, and the feel of Devon's hand on the small of her back. They found the time, and they moved. She'd never been a proficient dancer, and had had little opportunity to practice of late. Devon, though . . . Devon moved lightly, smoothly. He had grown into this as he had all other aspects of his life.

He watched her eyes, and her face, and Rosalind knew she was coloring.

“Beautiful,” Devon murmured.

“I beg your pardon?” she said, trying to muster some trace of indignation.

“You,” he said. “You're so beautiful.”

“Please don't. It does no good for either of us.”
Not with you lying to me. To us.

He turned them, and he turned them again. “I know. But it's still true.”

“Not that it matters.” Rosalind tried to smile, and she failed.

“It matters to me. It matters to me that you're beautiful and sad, and I can't get close to you.”

“You're close to me now,” she answered tartly, because pique
was better than resignation. “In fact, I need to ask you to loosen your grip.”

Now it was Devon who blushed. “I'm sorry,” he murmured, and he did loosen his hold on her hand. “I keep thinking if I can just be near you, I'll remember what to say. I'll remember how to be.”

“How have you forgotten?”

“By being a fool, Rosalind. By making one too many mistakes I can't undo.”

Rosalind glanced past his shoulder, trying to make up her mind. He turned them. The room was a blur. They were alone in the middle of the world. No one could hear them, or would hear them over the sound of the music. For this brief moment, they could say anything to each other. She had so much to say and so much to do. She did not have the luxury of trying to make peace with Devon and their impossible situation. That would come later, if it came at all.

“Honoria told me about why you decided to marry her.” Devon bit his lip, but made no answer. “Why on earth would you agree to such a plan?”

“Because we were friends as children,” he said. “As you know.”

“That's not enough, Devon. Not for something like this.”

He sighed and glanced over her shoulder, steering them carefully about the small floor. “I agreed so she would not be tempted to do something worse.”

Rosalind immediately wanted to protest that Honoria would never do such a thing, but she kept her mouth closed. Honoria would. She looked at Devon again, and saw the determination in him, and the sadness.

“It was still wrong.”

“You wouldn't say that if . . .”

“If what? If I knew? Then
tell
me what's happened, Devon.” She spat the words from between her teeth. “You keep saying how much you care, but you won't talk to me!”

“What happened was I waited,” he said. “After I found out about your father, I waited. I told myself that when the scandal and the shock died away, I could ask you to marry me. But then your mother died, and I told myself I would have to wait until you'd mourned her, and then I could make my proposal. I wrote to her,” he added abruptly. “I asked after you. I asked her to tender you my regards, and to call on me if you needed anything.”

Rosalind's heart thumped. “She never told me.”

“I wondered. I know she had a nervous condition.”

She lost her mind.
But they had enough to deal with between them without adding that.

“Then my brother died, and it broke my father, and he died as well, and there I was, with an estate that had been gutted and encumbered with thousands of pounds of debt.” He looked at his feet. He looked past her shoulder. He turned them again. “And I was saddled with a title I didn't want because I knew you would see it as widening the gulf between us. As a second son, you might have been able to find enough room in your social principles to accept me, but as Lord Casselmain?” He shook his head. “It would be absolutely wrong.”

Rosalind's face burned, but her hand, even cradled as it was by the warmth of Devon's hand, was ice cold.

“I was so angry. I hated everything—my place, my family, all of it. And then comes Honoria with her outrageous suggestion, and it seemed like this was something I could do, someone I could help. And once that was over . . . perhaps enough time would have finally passed that I could find a way to talk with you again.” He glanced at his feet. “Or perhaps by then you would have found yourself married and I could at last manage to grieve and go on.”

Devon's words beat against her mind and her heart in time to the rhythm of the waltz.
All this time, I did not see any of this.
She, who prided herself on her ability to understand the way the people of the world fit together, she had missed this entirely.

And the worst of it was, Devon had been exactly right about what her feelings and her reasoning were, and how absolutely she would have refused him.

It changed everything. It changed nothing. She could not give way to the longing inside her. She could not, heaven help her, let herself trust him, not yet, no matter how much she wanted to. They were still who they were and where they were, and he had done all he could to keep her from finding answers about what had happened to Jasper in Almack's.

The music slowed and swelled, signaling that the end of the dance was approaching. Their moment's respite from the prying eyes and listening ears was almost done.

“Devon,” breathed Rosalind. “I need the answer to one question and I need you to give me your word of honor you will tell the truth.”

“Rosalind . . .”

“Devon, please.” She squeezed his arm urgently.

“All right. You have my word.”

“Did you actually write the bet into the book? Or did you just agree to go along with the story of it?”