A Useful Woman (31 page)

“Who?” asked Mr. Harkness. “And why?”

“Mr. Whelks,” she said. “I think Mr. Whelks found out about the forgeries, and was planning to tell Lady Jersey. I think Lady Blanchard was going to try to put him off, perhaps buy him off, but she didn't tell Jasper about it. Mr. Whelks never arrived to meet her. Jasper caught up with him in Almack's, thinking to kill him before he could reveal the secret.”

“How would Aimesworth know Whelks had found out about the forgeries, much less care?” He stopped. “Because Lady Blanchard told him. Because Aimesworth and Lady Blanchard were colluding.”

“Jasper came to kill Mr. Whelks, but in the struggle, Mr. Whelks killed Jasper instead. Perhaps it was an accident. Mr. Whelks knew he would be blamed for the death, and for allowing the forgeries to happen in the first place . . .”

“So he has been covering up the evidence,” Mr. Harkness finished for her.

“He cleared out Jasper's bachelor rooms to make sure there was no ticket or letter, or anything else left to give the game away. And to try to find out which patroness was working with him.”

“Which makes Whelks our key to this matter.”

“If I'm right,” Rosalind reminded him.

Harkness rubbed his chin. “I think you are, or at least, you are very close to right. Close enough that I'd better talk to Whelks before word gets out that you and I have spoken. I don't suppose he did us both the very great favor of coming to this little supper party?”

“No, I'm afraid not.”

“Well then, I must bid you good night and go find him.”

“I can't tell you his address but—”

Mr. Harkness held up his hand. “You must allow for the fact that I have some small skills of my own, Miss Thorne. I have already had some communication with Mr. Whelks and I do know where he lives.”

Rosalind felt herself blush. “Oh. Of course you do.”

He smiled, but only briefly. “Miss Thorne,” he said seriously. “It might be best if you went home at once. If our person, or persons, feel matters are coming to a head, they could become desperate.”

“You may rest assured, Mr. Harkness, that as soon as you are gone, I have every intention of succumbing to a sick headache.”

“Very wise,” he said solemnly. “I will leave you now.” He
bowed once more but he did not move. He was watching her, much the way she had watched him when she first entered the room, taking note of the play of light and shadow, and something more. Rosalind knew she should turn away, should back away from that look, but she did not want to. She wanted reassurance, she wanted companionship. She wanted anything that might ease the cold and loneliness that filled her.

“You deserve better, you know,” Mr. Harkness said softly. “A woman such as you should not be condemned to a life of polite artifice and deciding what fatuous man sits next to what prattling woman at dinner.”

Her heart constricted. The pain of it reminded her she should not be here. This was the one situation, above all others, that she had been trained since birth to avoid, and yet she had walked right in, with her eyes open. She herself had locked the door so they would not be disturbed.

“I thank you for your good opinion,” she murmured. “But what else am I to do?” She spread her hands. “I am shaped for one thing and one thing only—to marry a gentleman and run his house. If I had other choices, they were long since taken from me.”

“That is not true,” he said. “I will not let that be true.”

He was moving toward her. The shadows covered his eyes like black silk. She wanted to kiss him. She had not wanted to kiss a man in a very long time and the impulse shocked her. She told herself it was not genuine desire. It was curiosity, perhaps. It was the feeling of already having passed all the boundaries. It was this desperate, terrible loneliness and the sense that all of her world had been torn away from her. Perhaps it was even some mad wish for revenge on Devon for agreeing to Honoria's marriage scheme instead of continuing to wait until she found her way to him.

That was the truth.

No, it wasn't.

It has to be.

“I cannot,” she whispered as Mr. Harkness stopped in front of her. “It is impossible. Even if I wanted to.”

“No. Only if you wanted to.” He touched her cheek. “I am so far out of bounds, you should turn me out and complain to the magistrates.”

“I should.” She was trembling. His touch was reminding her how long she had been entirely alone. “I would, except I know you're going to stop now.”

She watched his mouth and the play of the muscles of his face as he struggled to master himself. But he did lower his hand from her cheek, and he did step back. He folded his hands behind himself and she suspected he tightened those hands into fists.

“Please accept my apologies, Miss Thorne. I will let you know what I find.”

He bowed, and he moved to the door. Even in his too-large shoes, he was absolutely silent. He paused, listening, before he undid the lock and slipped into the corridor.

Rosalind gripped the back of the nearest chair and held on until she was certain she would not stagger. Only then did she blow out the candles, and listen at the door for herself, and leave as she came; entirely alone.

She was so tired, it felt like a hundred years must have passed since she'd entered Mr. Nottingham's study. But the great case clock at the top of the stairs told her it had not even been half an hour. Rosalind leaned heavily on the polished banister as she descended. She needed to find a parlor maid to fetch Mrs. Kendricks. She needed to be gone from here. Perhaps she would not even return to Blanchard House. Perhaps it would be wisest to go straight to Little Russell Street. It would not be comfortable, but better that than—

Rosalind's thoughts broke off, sharply and suddenly, because
Honoria was shouldering her way through the gathering, rudely and quite alone.

Honoria grabbed her arm and dragged Rosalind into the shadow of the staircase. Rosalind's throat seized shut, even before the other girl spoke.

“Rosalind, I think there's trouble.”

“What?” Rosalind croaked. “Why?”

“Lady Blanchard saw you go into Mr. Nottingham's study.” Honoria dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. “And she saw that runner come out.”

Rosalind's heart slammed against her ribs and she looked wildly around the room. “Where is she now?”

“She's gone, Rosalind. And Lord Blanchard went with her.”

The Final Race

To expose the vices of fashionable life, in their original and proudest sphere . . .

—Marianne Spencer Stanhope Hudson, quoting from the
Edinburgh Review

Rosalind did not stop to think. She turned on her heels and bolted, straight through the salons and the entrance halls, out the door past astonished footmen and onto the steps of the Nottinghams' house. Cold engulfed her as she stared in desperation at the cluster of carriages, at the drivers and link boys warming their hands by the bonfires that had been lit on the cobbles, at the few persons hurrying past.

Lord Blanchard was not among them. Lady Blanchard was not among them. Neither was Mr. Harkness.

I have to stop her. I have to stop
them! thought Rosalind frantically. From doing what, though? What did she really suspect? It didn't matter. There was no good to come from them vanishing so suddenly.

She ran back into the house, and up to an astonished footman who was keeping the door. “Did the Blanchards take their carriage?” she demanded.

“They did, miss . . .” he stammered.

“And they were together?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Rosalind!” Devon was pushing his way through the crowd, with Honoria right behind him. The crowd was staring, shifting and murmuring like members of a theater audience, trying to get a good look at the players.

I've finally done it
, she thought with a kind of grim hilarity.
I'm making a scene.

“I need a carriage,” she said, not caring who answered, as long as somebody did. “I need to get to Blanchard House.”

“I am at your service,” said Devon at once.

“You came with us,” Honoria reminded him. “I'll send for Michelson . . .”

But Devon was looking over her shoulder as Lady Edmund approached, slowly, like a storm cloud in her black and gray gown.

“Honoria?” she inquired icily. “Is something the matter?”

Honoria groaned and stomped her slippered foot. Rosalind felt her own temper overflow. There was no time for this. There was no time for anything.

“Honoria, go tell Mrs. Kendricks I'm leaving.” She did not watch if she obeyed or not. Instead, she turned to Devon. “Lord Casselmain, find me a conveyance of some sort.” Devon bowed. He also grabbed the nearest footman by the arm and dragged the poor man to one side. Rosalind left him to it. She stepped up so closely to Lady Edmund that she was nearly standing on her black hems. She leaned close, speaking in cool confidence. “Lady Edmund, you will let us go, and you will let us go quietly, or I will tell my reporter friends that you were involved in a scheme to sell false tickets to Almack's.”

Lady Edmund smiled, brittle and sharp. But she was not surprised. “No one would believe you,” she breathed.

“That hardly matters, does it? Your name will be salted throughout the
Chronicle
for weeks on end, and connected with your son's death. It will sell so many papers, they'll keep it on the front page for months.”

Lady Edmund's eyes narrowed and there was poison in them. “You are as ludicrous as your mother was. Neither of you understand anything of the world.” She looked past Rosalind to Devon, who had at some point released his captive footman and come up behind them. “You should disassociate yourself from her, Lord Casselmain, before she can utter her threats against you.”

“Miss Thorne does not make threats,” answered Devon evenly.

“Promises, yes, but not threats,” remarked a new voice. Mr. Faulks slid easily and casually through the staring crowd and stepped up beside Lord Casselmain. “Miss Thorne,” he said by way of greeting. “I see your woman is coming, with your things.” He pointed his stick toward the stairs. He was right, Honoria was racing down, with Mrs. Kendricks beside her, and Rosalind's wraps trailing in her arms. “Are you leaving? Do you require an escort?”

“What's happening?” demanded someone among the guests.

“Don't know,” someone else answered. “Ten pounds says it's nothing good.”

“I'll take that!” cried another, drunker voice.

“You have finished yourself, Honoria,” grated Lady Edmund.

“Oh good,” her daughter answered with a great sigh. “It will save me the trouble of having to divorce Casselmain.”

For a moment, Rosalind thought Lady Edmund was going to faint dead away. But there was no time to feel the irony or the justice of Honoria finally having found a way to shatter her mother's cold perfections. Devon was at their side again. “I have the carriage, it's being brought 'round.”

“Quickly,” said Rosalind, to Honoria and Devon, and Mr. Faulks, Mrs. Kendricks, and the world at large. “We may already be too late to stop them.”

“Why do we have to stop them?” asked Honoria.

“One of them might be Jasper's murderer,” answered Rosalind. “And may God have mercy on our souls.”

*   *   *

London at night was hardly the place Harkness would have chosen for a horse race, but it was what he had. He leaned low over the gelding's neck, riding crop in hand, eyes fastened on the shifting dark. The wind whipped the tumult of voices, hoofbeats, carriages, and carts into a hurricane of sound around his ears. The horse did not like being run half-blind through the chaotic streets, and was coming near to panic. It took every ounce of Harkness's skill to hold the beast in check and on its course. How long had it been since he'd bolted from the Nottinghams'? He could not tell. He could not slow down for even a moment. Every instinct he possessed told him time was up.

He'd been seen. Like a raw recruit on his first patrol, he'd let himself be spotted in that damned party, as he'd never been spotted on the roads or in the woods. He'd taken the servants' stairs out of the private study, but instead of going straight out the back, as he should have done, like a fool, he'd slipped back into the salons to find Mr. Faulks. He'd wanted the man to keep an eye on Miss Thorne, and the rest of the gathering, in case something of note happened.

And it had. Lord Blanchard had seen him, and nearly dropped his whiskey glass.

Harkness drew back hard on the reins. The horse slowed and stopped, dancing uneasily under him. He patted the gelding's neck, trying both to calm his mount and to get his bearings.
London in the daytime was a maze of twisting streets and alleys with no rhyme or reason. London at night was ten times worse, with the ashy dark, the torches, and the traffic as the fashionables and their satellites made their way through its shadows.

This neighborhood was relatively quiet. The houses were low, and many were wood or old half-timber dwellings. No one had bothered with setting up streetlamps here yet, or sidewalks. The air smelled of smoke and horses and people's dinners.

On the corner slouched a group of porters, passing an earthenware jug back and forth between them. Harkness swung himself off the horse and dug in his waistcoat pocket for a shilling, which he tossed to the nearest man.

“There's another in it for you if you and the horse are still here when I get out. This is Bow Street business,” he added, grateful that his great coat and the dark would hide his ill-fitting clothing.

The ruffian bit the coin, and touched his hat. Harkness prayed he wouldn't figure a horse in hand was worth more than the promise of another small coin. He turned and strode down the street, peering at the houses, until he found the right one.

It still seemed too fantastical to be true. Could a man really be murdered over tickets to a dance? Harkness hammered on the plain door.
He could if there was enough money involved.
And from Miss Thorne's description of what she found in the strongbox, there was more than enough.

Miss Thorne. He'd almost kissed her. And unless he was very much mistaken, she'd almost kissed him. How in the hell had he let that come about?

He would think about that later. Right now, there were footsteps sounding inside the house. A moment later the door opened, and Mr. Whelks, a flickering candle in hand, stooped to peer beneath the threshold at him.

“Who in the h—” But he didn't finish. He didn't need to.
Harkness saw recognition dawning, terrible and slow across the man's face.

“Principal Officer Adam Harkness of the Bow Street Police Office.” Harkness pulled his white staff of office out of his great coat pocket and touched the man on the shoulder. “Here for a word with you, Mr. Thorvald Whelks.”

*   *   *

“But they are not here, Miss Thorne,” stammered the footman at Blanchard House. “They have not been here.”

“What! That's not possible!” Rosalind raced up the stairs, stumbling over her own hems before she remembered to grab them out of the way.

“Breaking your neck is not going to help anyone,” called Honoria behind her. Rosalind murmured a few words that would have gotten her expelled from school, and kept climbing. Her ball gown had never felt so heavy or awkward. Her breath was coming in tiny gasps and spots danced in front of her eyes. In the entrance hall below, the door slammed open again. Devon must have roused the grooms to deal with the carriage and horses. She didn't look back. Let them all follow as they would.

Lord and Lady Blanchard were in on the scheme together. That must be it. He had ambition. She had the social connections necessary to become a patroness. They'd realized Rosalind had found them out and so they ran. They'd meant to run in any case. There were no debts. It was to avoid the forgery scandal that Lord Blanchard had taken the Konigsberg post. That was why Rosalind had been so sure Lady Blanchard never meant to come back.

Lady Blanchard had invited her to stay to help cover their retreat, because she knew Rosalind to be loyal, and beholden. Rosalind would be willing and able to help her cover up any last-minute disasters.

Like Jasper's death.

Except that couldn't be it. Because Lord Blanchard was the one who'd created their covering story. He'd done it by forging the bet in White's book, and enlisting Devon in his lie. Because Lord Blanchard
had
been planning to come back.

Rosalind barged straight into Lady Blanchard's apartment and stared about her. The rooms were empty. Not even Lacey was there. The fire was lit, and all looked in order for the mistress's return. If Lady Blanchard had been here to grab a few things so she could fly away, there would be disarray.

Unless she had her bags packed.
Rosalind ran to the boudoir, ducking into the dressing room and the closet. But all was in place. No case, no dress, no jewel box was gone from its accustomed place.

“Rosalind,” said Devon from behind the door. “They've not been here. I've looked in Lord Blanchard's room.”

“They must be,” she said, turning in place, hardly seeing anything for the current of thoughts running through her mind. “They must be planning to leave tonight. They—”

Unless she'd been a fool.

Unless she wanted so much to believe in the goodness of Lady Blanchard, who had saved her, that she had not been willing to look at the final possibility.

Rosalind's heart was in her mouth. If she must make this accusation, she would be certain. Being right would be cold comfort in the hard days to come, but it might very well be all the comfort she had. Not to mention her only defense when this affair exploded through society like a cannon shell.

Rosalind moved back out into the dressing room. She was aware that Devon and Honoria had backed away from her. She ignored them and instead opened the jewel cabinet.

I could still be very wrong. I've been wrong about any number of things.

The third drawer held the hair combs.

They were laid out in tidy rows on the royal blue velvet. Gold, silver, tortoiseshell, etched with grand designs or set with sparkling stones. In the center of the second row was one made of silver. It was lovely, but not particularly ornate. An everyday accent to a lady's toilette, set with garnets and seed pearls. Rosalind lifted it out.

“Oh, Godmother,” she breathed.

Because the gems were set in such a way as to form a pair of ornate curves. But when Rosalind turned the comb sideways, the curves turned into two stylized versions of the letter
J
. It could, of course, be
J
for Jane, Lady Blanchard's Christian name.

Or they could be
J
and
J
for Jane and Jasper.

That was why Lady Blanchard had been so shocked when Rosalind had suggested Jasper was her son. He was most emphatically not her son. There had always been two possibilities to explain why Lady Blanchard had been so stricken by Jasper's death. This was the second, the most obvious, and the one Rosalind had so badly not wanted to believe that she went chasing down every other path before she could make herself open this drawer.

Jasper Aimesworth's mysterious woman was Lady Blanchard. Did Lord Blanchard find out before or after the scheme of forging the tickets started? Did he drag his wife into it, or had she dragged him?