A Useful Woman (14 page)

“Because people talk to you. Because you're one of us.” Rosalind tilted her chin up and Honoria had the decency to pause at least a little. “You've done such a careful job of guarding your gentility. People talk about ‘poor Rosalind,' but they still see you as somebody who's got to be sheltered by the bosom of the ton.”

“How very kind of them,” Rosalind murmured.

“You are in and out of everybody's house. You talk to everyone about everything they can't be bothered with. There must
be some sign, some reason why Jasper was in Almack's in the first place.”

And why Devon was there to help find his corpse. Do you even know Devon was there? Did he tell you?
This, too, suddenly seemed a very important question.

“I should think any sign would be here.” Rosalind gestured toward the house. “Have you looked in his papers? His appointment books? Talked to his friends?”

“Oh, yes. All those single gentlemen. I, the unmarried girl, just called on them at their rooms and asked indelicate questions about my brother.”

“But that's what you're asking me to do.”

“I'm asking you to exercise those vaunted talents of organization and finesse for something beyond a ball or a triumphant season! Whatever you think of me, Rosalind Thorne, leaving Jasper to the grave is cruel and it is unjust!” She paused and added. “I'll pay you, if that's what you want. I have quite a bit of my own money.”

Rosalind's first instinct was to fling the offer back in Honoria's face. But she bit back her retort. Honoria was asking for help, in the extremes of her grief. But what she was asking, and what she was offering . . . there was no rule, no social guide to follow for how to accept, or even demur. Yes, Rosalind had meant to find out what had happened to help Lady Blanchard through her troubles, but what Honoria was asking was fundamentally different. She was asking for the means to start a public prosecution. For that, there was no correct answer except to refuse and to pretend this conversation had never happened. Or rather, that would have been the correct answer except for one small detail: Honoria was right. On some fundamental level, it was unacceptable to leave the question of Jasper's death unanswered.

“I'll do what I can, making no promise beyond that,” said
Rosalind slowly. And then, because it was Honoria she spoke to, she added, “If I fail, which I almost certainly will, you must swear to believe that I have done my utmost.”

Honoria nodded once. “Very well. How will you begin?”

Rosalind swallowed. She felt the enormity of the situation looming over her but forced herself to set that aside. It was a task. A complex task, to be sure, but all that meant was that she must take each piece in its turn.

Fortunately, the first piece was already at hand. “Mr. Willis found a ring of keys dropped in the musicians' gallery.” She pulled them out of her bag. “Are these Jasper's?”

Honoria took the ring and peered closely at it. “Yes,” she said. “I recognize the fob and the seal.”

“What are they for?”

Rosalind seldom thought of Honoria as careful, but she was being careful now. She turned the keys over one at a time, examining each closely. “This is the front door of the house.” She touched one. “One of the others might be to his rooms. He has—had—bachelor rooms.” Most young gentlemen did, even those who still officially lived with their parents.

“Where are his rooms?”

Honoria shook her head. “I don't know. He moved while we were out of the country, and I hadn't had any reason to ask for the new address. Ridiculous, isn't it? Not to know where my brother's living?”

Or for him to have avoided telling you.
The thought startled Rosalind, but it could not be dismissed.

She touched the smaller key where it lay on Honoria's palm. “Is there a strong box or anything of the kind in his room here?”

Honoria shook her head. “I've had no chance to look. They've been busy in there with . . . with his body. I could look once he's moved to the parlor.”

“I think you should.” That would account for three of the keys, but there was a fourth, and it also looked to be for a door. Rosalind touched it. “What of this one?”

Honoria shook her head. “I don't know it.”

“May I keep these?”

“If you think it will help.”

“I don't know, but perhaps.” Rosalind returned them to her bag. “If there was a matter of honor or business behind this, there might be papers or letters left behind.”

“Jasper was burning papers,” Honoria reminded her.

“Perhaps he missed some.” Rosalind paused, staring at nothing, just watching her own thoughts as they turned back to the smoldering ashes that had been left behind when Father fled. “Has that grate been swept yet?”

Honoria sat up straighter. “I don't know. The house has been in such an uproar, it might have been missed. We should check.”

Both women rose to their feet and hurried out into the corridor.

“Honoria! What are you doing?” Both young women winced and turned.

Of course it was Lady Edmund, directly behind them.

The Understanding Between Them

As it is impossible to hammer any thing out of it for moral purposes, let us treat it aesthetically, and see if it will turn to account that way. Such is the logic of a sensible man, and what follows?

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

Of course Mother chose now to make her appearance. Honoria swallowed the scream that threatened to burst out of her. It was, after all, exactly the wrong moment.

“I didn't realize you were here, Miss Thorne.” Mother's gaze darted back and forth between her and Rosalind, searching for reasons and faults.

Honoria watched Rosalind draw herself up and a dreadful moment of doubt shivered through her. If she'd made a mistake in judging the fallen Miss Thorne's essential character, she'd pay the price for months, possibly years.

But thankfully, Rosalind seemed willing to make do with those comfortable and appropriate platitudes she was so expert at. “I came to offer my condolences, Lady Edmund,” she said. “I did not like to disturb you, as you were much engaged.”

“That was most kind. Thank you.” Not that there was any
feeling in Mother's reply. She wasn't even looking at Rosalind. She was watching Honoria. “I've just been told that Lord Casselmain has arrived, Honoria. Perhaps you could go down to him while I have a word with Miss Thorne?”

“Oh, very well.” Honoria didn't take any leave of Rosalind. It might have looked odd to show extra consideration, especially taking into account her previously stated opinions of the other girl. Mother had already scented that something was wrong. If she got her teeth into the matter, it was all over.

Honoria swept down the corridor. A glance behind assured her that Mother and Rosalind were already out of sight. She ducked into the green sitting room and rang the bell.

“Tell Lord Casselmain he's to meet me in the conservatory card room,” she directed the girl who answered. Then she hurried out again, down the east stairs and into the conservatory.

Honoria slammed the door's bolt home, startling little Mr. Shelly at his potting bench. “Oh, Miss Aimesworth, I wasn't expecting anyone . . .”

“I'm sure.” She darted past him to the card room.

“May I say how very sorry . . .” he called to her back.

“You may, but I haven't time to listen.” Honoria closed the French doors and drew their curtain.

For once, luck seemed to be with her. A pile of black ash lay heaped beneath the grate. Whoever left this should thank their stars she'd found it before Mother did. Honoria grabbed the brush and shovel from the fire irons and knelt on the hearth. For her own part, she had to thank her stars for black skirts. There would be no obvious smears of grime for Mother to notice. Honoria brushed the ashes forward and spread them out on the hearthstones, raising the acrid scent of old smoke.

There. A tiny scrap of paper lay among the ash. Honoria plucked it out and squinted at it. With the door shut, the light
in here was abysmal, and she could make out next to nothing about it.

Someone knocked. Honoria groaned. She also jumped to her feet and dropped the scrap into the plain vase on the mantel that held the spills used to light the lamps and candles.

“Come in,” she called, folding her dirty hands quickly behind her back.

The door opened, and Casselmain, looking unusually hesitant, stepped inside.

“Hello, Honoria.”

“Hello,” she answered. “Close the door, won't you? There's no need to have Father's orchid farmer listening in.”

Casselmain did as she said. “How is your father?”

“How am I to know? I haven't seen him since . . . since you came to tell us Jasper died.”

Sorrow's black wave threatened again. That night had been inconceivable. First had come the great banging at the door. Honoria remembered waking up, befuddled, and ringing for her maid to find out what was the matter. The stupid girl came back already in tears and choking out nonsense about Jasper.

Honoria remembered brushing past her, not even stopping to pull on a wrap or slippers. The gallery had been abysmally cold, but she'd rushed to the top of the stairs anyway. There was Casselmain down below in the entrance hall. There were Father and Mother standing with him. She couldn't hear what they were saying. Thoroughly irritated, she'd started running downstairs, the marble steps cold and slick as ice beneath her stockinged feet.

Before she reached the bottom, Father fainted. Not Mother, of course. It was not the done thing. But Father crumbled as if his bones had all suddenly dissolved. It took the butler, the valet, and two footmen to carry him away.

Honoria stood on the bottom stair, facing Mother. Her breath was gone, stolen from her by a host of imagined disasters: They were ruined. There'd been a fire at the warehouse, a ship had been lost, the funds had crashed, the money was gone.

Where's Jasper?
she had thought.
If the world's ending, where's Jasper?

“Your brother is dead,” Mother said.

Just like that. No warning, no attempt to shield her or soften the blow. Just the blunt statement of facts.
Your brother is dead.

Honoria closed her eyes before her tears could begin again.
I have to get out of this house.

“Should I go?” Casselmain asked from behind her.

By rights, he should. They weren't even officially engaged, after all. They should not be alone behind closed doors. And heaven knew she was in no mood to make conversation.

“No, you'd better stay, for a little while anyway. It's what Mother wants. If we're being left alone together, more people will think the engagement's a done thing.” Weariness overcame her and Honoria collapsed into the chair. Jasper's chair. “You can sit if you like.”

“Thank you.” Casselmain sat down in the other wing-backed chair and rested his hands on his knees.

Honoria looked at the man she meant to marry. He had a decent figure, thank goodness, and dressed simply and with reasonable taste. Unlike his late brother, Hugh, Devon Winterbourne had a reputation for being sober. A bit too sober, some said, but if that was a fault, it was one Honoria could live with. And Jasper had trusted the man.

Jasper.

His death was a great formless mass that filled all the spaces, inside and out. It left no room to think about what she ought to be doing.

“I'm sorry, Honoria,” said Casselmain. “He was a good man.”

Honoria shrugged and turned her face away. Probably Jasper was a good man. He was certainly better at being a man than she was at being a girl. He could drink and gamble and dress and live as he was expected to do.

I try, 'pon my soul I do.
She closed her eyes. She was going to start crying again. She was sick to death of crying.

“Is there anything I can do?” Casselmain asked.

“There's nothing anyone can do.”

Silence. Casselmain moved one hand from his knee to the table beside him. The room's damp was wilting his shirt points and cravat. He was trying to be kind. She should try to accept that kindness. Unfortunately, that wasn't something she was any good at.

“Your maid told me Lady Edmund was with Miss Thorne,” Casselmain said. “Honoria, did you . . . ask Rosalind here?”

Of course. Honoria felt her jaw tighten. “Why should you care about that?”

“I was just curious.”

“About Miss Thorne. Yes. She's a great object of curiosity with you yet, isn't she?”

“We are all friends, Honoria, and she . . .” He stopped. In the walls, the steam pipes hissed and pinged sharply.

Honoria rolled her eyes. “She found Jasper. You can say it. It will take much more than words to break me down. You should remember that.”

He didn't rise to the bait. He had plenty of practice at keeping his temper, and his own counsel. That was something she'd need to remember. It would take time to learn how to handle this man. Weariness washed over her again.

“Honoria, I don't want to quarrel with you.”

“Then what do you want?” she snapped.

“I want to tell Rosalind about why we decided to get married.”

Honoria straightened up in her chair. He couldn't mean it, except from the frank and direct way he looked at her, he evidently did.

“Well, I do not want to tell her.”

“We can trust her.”

“You can.”

“What has Rosalind done to you?” asked Casselmain. His tone turned waspish. She had insulted his lady love. Good. She had more practice at dealing with anger than with kindness.

“She's done nothing yet, that I know of, but she wants too much to be trustworthy.”

“I don't understand you.”

This was not the safest ground, and prudence dictated she should tread lightly, but Honoria discarded that. Casselmain should understand her opinion of Rosalind Thorne at once, and she must wrangle his as far out into the open as it would come. No one was going to keep secrets from her in her own house. On that point, she was determined.

“Rosalind Thorne wants to get back into society,” Honoria told him. “She's been hanging about like a cat at the back door for years. She picks up everybody's scraps and makes herself as lovable a stray as she can. But for all that, she hasn't found a home yet. She had to leave the only one she did find, and no one seems to know why. Now, she's getting a second chance, and she's going to grab hold of it and not let go.”

Casselmain's jaw hardened, but his voice when he spoke remained low and even. He wasn't a shouter, by any means. He probably knew full well what being overheard at the wrong moment could cost. “If you think Rosalind would let herself be ruled by that sort of base motive, you are very much mistaken in her character.”

“I don't expect she'll want to be ruled by it, but it's there just the same. She's played the martyr for too long for there to be anything else. Oh, don't worry.” Honoria waved her hand again. “I'm not going to forbid her the house or anything of the kind. In fact, I've my own plans for the ever-so-useful Miss Thorne.” She paused for a long moment. She wanted him focused entirely on her, not lost in his own thoughts. “She's going to find out who killed Jasper.”

It was a long time sinking in. Rosalind Thorne might be uppermost in Casselmain's thoughts, but this did not fit his rather limited view of her. In fact, the idea so distressed him, he had to get to his feet and cross the room to the mantle.

“No one killed Jasper, Honoria,” he said when he at last found his voice. “It was an accident.”

“That's a lie and you know it.”

“How should I know it?”

“I'm not sure yet, but you may want to step a little carefully around Miss Thorne for a while.”

“I have nothing to hide from Rosalind.”

“Of course not. She loves you and you love her.”

Did he realize she'd known all along? She wasn't sure. But by saying it aloud, she'd shocked him, as she knew she would.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“Don't be.” The damp had plastered Honoria's ringlets against her forehead and she pushed impatiently at them. “One of the reasons I chose you for our bargain was that I knew your heart to be fully occupied.”

He looked away. There. She'd made him feel sorry for her, and he was trying not to be angry anymore. That probably counted as some kind of victory. That flicker of doubt behind his gray eyes was another. Dear Lord, what a thing to adore
someone. It made one risk so much and play so many games when no good could come from them.

Maybe she should change her mind and become an old maid. An old maid with money was not such an object. Mother would hate it and nag at her endlessly, but Mother at least was the devil she knew.

I'll back you with the paternals
, Jasper had promised.
It was a bad idea from the beginning
, he said.

No, she didn't have the patience for any more waiting. She knew Devon as well. They'd grown up together as neighbors, and he had the advantage of not being much of a devil at all. The sooner she married him and escaped to that great empty house in the country, the better. Honoria imagined what it would be like having whole long days where no one would be watching her and constantly correcting her. There would be no expectations beyond keeping peace between the servants and handing out prizes at the occasional garden fete. She could be alone. Finally and truly, she could be alone, and that would be freedom.

But she would not go until she was certain Jasper's murderer had been punished. If she had to cut his throat herself, or poison his soup or any other thing, she did not doubt her own ability. She must, however, be sure of her target.

Until then, however, there was Casselmain, who was kind, and horribly, mistakenly in love, and whom she needed rather more than he needed her.

“Please do not tell Miss Thorne about us yet,” she said. “Wait a little so we can see what she'll do about Jasper. There will be time afterwards to tell her whatever you like.”