A Useful Woman (26 page)

“I did not lie to you,” said Lord Casselmain, but his voice faltered as he said it. “I made the wager with Aimesworth.”

“And why would you do such an unspeakably stupid thing?” she demanded. “
That's
something you did not say!”

“Miss Aimesworth, this is not a conversation I care to have in the street,” answered the duke stiffly. “May I call on you later?”

Lord Casselmain might not have wished to have this conversation in the street, but Miss Aimesworth looked perfectly ready to continue it, and at the top of her lungs. Miss Thorne leaned forward and whispered something in her ear that made the veiled woman turn sharply. Miss Thorne nodded, but when she spoke, it was to Harkness.

“We have some information to communicate, Mr. Harkness, but now does not appear to be convenient. Perhaps you could call at Blanchard House tomorrow? You will find me at home all morning.”

Mr. Harkness bowed. “I would be glad to, Miss Thorne, thank you.”

Rosalind nodded in acknowledgment and faced the other man. “Lord Casselmain,” she said simply. He opened his mouth to answer, but Miss Thorne had already taken Miss Aimesworth's arm to walk her back toward the carriage, where the driver and his boy assisted them both inside and closed the door.

The driver touched up the horses and Casselmain rounded on Harkness. His face had gone hard with anger, but there was something more. Harkness had seen men's hearts break before, and he knew, to the depths of his soul, that's what he was seeing now.

“You intend to go, don't you?” Lord Casselmain planted his stick firmly onto the sidewalk and leaned heavily upon it. However briefly, Miss Thorne had managed to rob this young aristocrat of his strength.

“Is there a reason I shouldn't, Your Grace?” Harkness asked.

He expected a shout. But Lord Casselmain was not a shouter, any more than he was a gambler. He met Harkness's gaze, trying to get his measure, trying to find an argument that would reach him.

“If I told you that your interference will ruin an innocent woman absolutely and entirely, would you stop?”

“How could that be, sir?” Harkness answered him evenly. “Is there something else you've failed to mention? Something about Miss Thorne perhaps? Or are you referring to Miss Aimesworth?”

They were hard words, and deeply disrespectful. Harkness wanted to see how the duke would react to them, and he did not have to wait even a heartbeat for his answer. Casselmain walked forward, his stick clutched tight in his fist. Harkness held his ground. They were, of course, being watched from the station, probably by Townsend himself. Harkness would not be seen to strike the first blow.

But Casselmain did not strike, at least not with fist or stick.

“This is a private affair. Your business is done, your warrant is fulfilled,” said Casselmain, with all the assurance of a man who knew law and custom were entirely on his side. “If I hear you have so much as mentioned Miss Thorne's name again, let alone had any contact with her, I will destroy you.”

The House in Thurlough Square

There are few more delightful amusements than will be afforded by a day's excursion in fine weather . . .

—John Britton,
The Original Picture of London, Enlarged and Improved

“He lied!” fumed Honoria. “He looked in my face and he lied to me!”

“He did.” The carriage curtains were closed, so Rosalind could not see what was happening on the station steps as they drove away.

“What does he think he's doing? As if this weren't enough of a mess, he has to go and do something so ridiculous, so shameful, so . . .”

Rosalind closed her eyes briefly, praying for patience. She also wanted to scream, and to lash out, but she wasn't sure if it was at Devon for his ill-conceived actions, or at Honoria because she could not be quiet for two minutes altogether. “I expect he thought he was protecting us.”

“I don't want his protection!”

Neither do I.
“It seems we are to have it anyway.”

“You are,” sneered Honoria. “He doesn't care two pins about me.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Honoria stared at the curtains, which were waving in time with the rocking motion of the carriage. “No,” she answered. Then she said, “He really hasn't told you, has he?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Casselmain. He hasn't told you why we're marrying. I had assumed that was what that little shopping expedition was for.”

Rosalind felt all the fibers of her body begin to tense, and it was a moment before she could speak and be sure her voice would remain even. “I did not ask.”

Honoria waved this away. Of course, to her it would be entirely beside the point. “He's marrying me because I asked him to.”

I have no wish to talk about this. I need to think about what has happened, about what we've done.
About what Adam Harkness must be thinking now, and what he might well do next. “It is an eminently desirable marriage,” she murmured. “And your mother seems to be in agreement with it.”
Which must be a relief for you.

Honoria faced her again. She said nothing, just looked hard at Rosalind from behind the shelter of her mourning veil.

“I don't want the marriage,” said Honoria at last. “I want the divorce.”

Rosalind stared blatantly, and with her mouth disgracefully wide open. Honoria sat back, her arms folded across her breasts. She stared at the waving curtains again.

“If I become a divorced woman, I'll be beyond all social salvation and Mother will finally have no further use for me.”

To Rosalind it was as if Honoria had said she planned to run naked through the streets. She would deliberately conspire to lose all her standing, the protection of her family, their income, and their home? She was not angry. She was quite mad.

“Honoria, you don't have to do this.”

“Then tell me what I can do,” replied Honoria, quite calmly and with far less than her usual rancor. “Leave the house on my own? I have no relatives who will receive me, especially if it's understood I don't mean to go back. Live alone? Mother would never permit it and Father could override the lease on any house I tried to occupy. Once I am divorced, I will be free to leave the city for good. In fact, Mother might even arrange that herself. I'll be able to live on my own somewhere. Anywhere. No one will question it, because I'll already be disgraced.” Under other circumstances, this might have been a shaft aimed at Rosalind. “I've my inheritance from Grandmother, and Casselmain promised a decent settlement. I'll be comfortable.”

“There must be some other way.” Rosalind's thoughts flew forward, skimming across possibilities. She knew Honoria was ruled by her anger, and her helplessness. She understood it. She knew what it was to live under the constant expectations of perfection. But Honoria could not possibly understand all that came with deliberately courting such ruin.

“If you find another way, please do let me know,” Honoria said, and her words were flat and entirely devoid of that heated emotion that normally animated her. “As a single woman, I am controlled by my father, and my father is controlled by my mother. Casselmain agreed to the project when we were thrown together over Christmas. We will remain married for a year, possibly two, and then we will produce evidence of my having done . . . something. There are men who can be hired for such tasks. Casselmain will petition Parliament, there will be a trial to establish I did indeed fall into ‘criminal conversation' with a man not my husband, after which I will be expected to retire permanently to Bath or Bristol or some other place.”

Devon. Devon was willing to help Honoria ruin herself. It
was not possible. But then, he'd been lying about so many things of late, how could Rosalind be sure what he might do? “Why would Devon go along with such a scheme?”

“Because it will get society matchmaking mamas off his back, as well as his own mother. Since Hugh died, Lady Casselmain's become terrified that Devon will kick off early as well. He's all her security now. If he dies, the estate and much of its income will pass to some cousins. If he marries, however, there should soon be an heir, and all it implies.” She paused and then added, “I also expect he's doing it to fill the time.”

“The time until what?”

For a moment, Rosalind thought Honoria would refuse to answer. Her native stubbornness and disdain once again filled her features, but slowly, as if this once she fought against them. When she did speak, her voice shook. “He's waiting for you, Rosalind. He has been for years.”

No. Devon was struggling, as she was. He'd worked to get past the feeling between them. He knew the gulf was too wide, just as she did. He knew, he felt, he
understood
 . . .

Rosalind pressed her hand against her mouth.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I rather thought as payment it would be worth more to you than the money.”

A day ago it would have. A day ago, a week, a month. But Devon was lying to Mr. Harkness, and hiding more from her than she would have believed possible. What could it be worth to her now?

The carriage came to a halt, and rocked slightly as the driver climbed down and opened the door.

“Thank you for telling me, Honoria,” Rosalind said.

Honoria shrugged with one shoulder. “You needn't come in.
I'll deal with Mother. Will you be at that thing of Mrs. Nottingham's tonight?”

“I had forgotten that was tonight.” Which was unacceptable, and possibly unprecedented. “You mean to go?”

“Mother means to have me go.” Honoria hunted in her reticule and came up with a pair of coins to hand to their driver. “With Casselmain, of course. It's been weeks since Jasper's funeral, so we are allowed to go into part mourning and since it's not the season yet, we may be seen at small friendly gatherings, although of course I cannot dance. I'm surprised Mother didn't tell you.”

“I have been a little preoccupied. Perhaps she talked the matter over with Lady Blanchard.”

“Probably. Your godmother's been here three or four times in the past week.”

Rosalind caught herself right before she could begin staring.
She said nothing to me.
She swallowed this, as she had swallowed so many other words today. She had to think, and think quickly.

“Honoria, I need a favor of you.”

Honoria waved wearily. “What is that?”

“I need you to keep your temper with Lord Casselmain and make sure he comes to Mrs. Nottingham's tonight.”

“After what he did, that's a very large favor. Why?”

“Because I have a feeling time may be running short, and there are things I need to ask him.”

Honoria pressed her lips into a hard, thin line. Then slowly, she nodded. “Very well. If it's necessary.”

“I believe it is.”

“But I'll call 'round tomorrow and we can work out how to tell that runner what we found.” Honoria paused. “You never did say what that odious landlord told you when you went running back in there.”

“I asked him if he could describe the men who removed Jasper's personal items. He denied being able to.”

“I could have told you that would happen. Oh, well.” Honoria sighed sharply. “I suppose it was worth trying.”

Rosalind nodded, because she did not trust her voice, and Honoria strode up the steps to Tamwell House without looking back.

“Anywhere else, miss?” asked the driver.

Rosalind bit her lip. She pressed her hand onto her reticule where it lay in her lap.

“Yes,” she said. “Number 12, Thurlough Square.”

*   *   *

Had Rosalind allowed herself to think about this, she might have told the driver to turn around and return her to Blanchard House. But she did not allow herself to think. There had been too many revelations already, too many shocks and reversals. She needed this matter over and done with.

She needed to know which side to take on the war inside her—between the fear of Devon and all he had done, and the desperate yearning that rose up in her as Honoria's words repeated themselves in her dazed mind.

He's waiting for you. He has been for years.

She tried to deny this, but that denial would not come. The only thought she could muster in response was,
As you have been waiting for him
.

That was the real reason she'd guarded her gentility; that was the reason she'd struggled to keep her place in society. One of them, at any rate. But she had not wished to admit that particular reason even existed, until Honoria had dragged it up into the light.

Rosalind took a deep breath. Even if she must admit that
reason had been there all along, it changed nothing of present circumstance. She needed answers, not mistaken protection, or unresolvable affections. When she spoke again to Mr. Harkness, she needed to be able to tell him as much as possible.

Going alone to this place was a risk. She knew nothing about Thurlough Square, not even the portion of town where it was located. But there wasn't any possibility of stopping at Blanchard House and retrieving Mrs. Kendricks without alerting Lord or Lady Blanchard that something was wrong, and she had no way to send for Mr. Harkness. There was no time to be wasted, not to mention no additional money for the hackney's hire. Rosalind would have to hope, and trust to her native wit as a woman of the city.

Thurlough Square proved to be a new neighborhood. So new, in fact, that the square itself was still more dirt than cobbles, and the skeleton frames of several buildings stood sentry on its west side, waiting for better weather so the building could continue. Number 12 was a finished house at the northern corner, and a very neat one. It had a white pillared entranceway in the new style, with a freshly painted black door, and its shining brass appurtenances included two gleaming lamps.

Rosalind turned the bell and waited. When there was no answer, she knocked firmly and waited awhile longer, until her cheeks began to sting from the cold wind. Finally, she brought Jasper's key ring out from her reticule and selected the larger of the unidentified keys. It fitted easily into the lock, which turned smoothly.

The door came open on well-oiled hinges and Rosalind stepped inside.

Darkness enfolded her. The curtains were drawn, although the shutters were not. It was cold. Rosalind could see her breath steaming in the faint light. The silence around her was absolute,
and there was no trace scent of candlewax or coal smoke in the still air of the entranceway.

If this was the home of the woman to whom Jasper had been sending expensive gifts, she had not been back recently.

However, those persons who had stripped down Jasper's bachelor rooms so thoroughly had left this place untouched. As Rosalind's eyes adjusted to the gloom of the entrance, she saw the cabinet table and the painting hanging above it. To the left was a tidy parlor, to the right, a comfortable sitting room. There were no dust covers on the furniture. The carpets still covered the floorboards. The draperies might be closed, but the house itself was not shut up, although with three weeks having passed since Jasper's death there had been plenty of time for the mistress of this place—whoever she was—to have ordered it done. That meant someone still planned to return, as they planned to return to Jasper's rooms.

That, in turn, meant that every moment she stood here, Rosalind risked being found.

With this thought goading her into action, she raced from one room to the other. All she found was in good taste, but not unduly luxurious or overcrowded with ornaments. A writing desk waited by one curtained window. Rosalind hurried to it, and opened the drawers. Inside was paper and quills and all other necessary items, but no letters or bills. Nothing that would give Rosalind the one thing she wanted, which was a name.

With a wordless cry of frustration, Rosalind slid the last drawer shut and turned to climb the stairs. A choice of four doors presented themselves to her in the upper corridor. She made for the one toward the back of the house and opened it.