A Useful Woman (4 page)

“Is that why you're drunk? Over money?”

“Among other things. Don't worry, though, the money's not mine. As to the rest . . .” He touched the side of his nose. “Now, here's my coffee. Do you mean to stay and watch me drink it all up like a good boy?”

“No, I trust you.” Honoria stood, but she made no other move to leave. “Do you really think Mother's up to something?”

“Oh, I'm sure of it.” Jasper poured coffee from the silver pot into the Sevres china cup, and added an appalling amount of sugar.

“Very well. I will talk to Miss Thorne. I will bribe her, if necessary.” Honoria glowered at the doors as if she expected them to open at any moment and reveal Rosalind in all her shabby triumph. “I will
not
let anyone make a fresh ruin of my life, and that includes our mother. I'll ruin her first.”

“I wish you all the luck in the world with that, sister dear.” Jasper raised his coffee cup. “Do let me know if you need my help.”

Invitations and Insinuations

To be introduced to that magic circle was considered at one time as great a distinction as to be presented at Court, and was often far more difficult of attainment.

—E. Beresford Chancellor,
The Annals of Almack's

“Miss Thorne, how good of you to come.”

Watching Lady Edmund cross a room was very much like watching a prima donna take the stage. Every movement was perfectly smooth, but in no way relaxed. Lady Edmund was always on the alert, and she controlled not only her person, but the space around her.

Controls it
, thought Rosalind.
But does not inhabit it
.

“Thank you for inviting me, Lady Edmund.” Rosalind made her curtsy and took her seat on the round-backed tapestry chair her hostess indicated.

“Will you have a cup of tea?” Lady Edmund was already pouring out as she spoke. “And do try a slice of this apple tart. We've a new cook, you know, and I shall be most interested in your opinion.”

Rosalind slid etiquette and expectation firmly across her impatience. She drank the tea and inquired as to its provenance.
She ate the tart and pronounced it excellent. The nutmeg was a perfect touch, much to be preferred over cinnamon as an accompaniment for apples, especially if one was also enjoying a good cheddar cheese with them. The roads were, of course, bad, the weather was worse, and all families of their mutual acquaintance were last heard to be in excellent health.

As the polite and practiced chatter flowed, Rosalind cast any number of surreptitious glances about her. Lady Edmund had clearly taken advantage of her time away to institute sweeping changes to her household decor. The frescoes, tapestries, and gilding Rosalind remembered had been replaced by plain paint: dusky red for the upper walls, pure white for the panels, trim, and ceiling. Only a few plaster rosettes and garlands were suffered to remain. These were relieved at reasonable intervals by tasteful oil paintings, mostly copies of great masters, with one or two family portraits between them.

Lady Edmund had also changed. Not in her
toilette
; that remained perfect. Her sage green morning dress was exactly what the moment called for, being elegant and expensive without overt ostentation. Her dark hair was swept back and pinned beneath a cap that was little more than a scrap of tissue. Nonetheless, Rosalind detected fresh lines around Lady Edmund's wide mouth, and a furrow between her ruthlessly plucked brows. These small signs showed Rosalind that Lady Edmund had hardened herself. As with the rest of the room, everything that was not of immediate use to the leading lady had been put away.

“Now, Miss Thorne.” Lady Edmund set her empty cup and its saucer down on the new teakwood table. “I fear I must beg your pardon. The truth of the matter is, I have invited you here to ask a favor.”

“There is no pardon necessary, Lady Edmund. How can I be
of assistance?” Rosalind put her plate aside with a small twinge of regret. The tart really was excellent, and there was still a bit left. But it would not have been polite to keep eating now that the business portion of this conversation had commenced.

“I was wondering if I might persuade you to come stay with us for the month? As you know, Honoria and I are only just returned from the country, and before that our tour abroad. Everything is at sixes and sevens. We stand in sore need of your calming influence as we prepare for the new season.”

And that, Rosalind mused, was as close as Lady Edmund would come to mentioning the fact that Honoria had been jilted in favor of Emma Ibbotson-Davies and her bewitching ways, not to mention her fifty thousand pounds.

“Lady Edmund, I thank you for your kind invitation,” said Rosalind, “but I'm afraid I must decline.”

Another woman would have huffed, or even cried out in surprise. But in twenty-five years of close and glittering confinement in London society, Lady Edmund Aimesworth had never been required to so much as raise her voice.

She said, “I trust, Miss Thorne, that I may be frank without giving offense?”

“I much prefer plain speaking, Lady Edmund.”

“A quality of yours I particularly admire. Now, while your skills and connections would prove invaluable to helping make up the ground my daughter lost last year, it is not Honoria's situation that persuaded me to invite you. At least, not entirely.”

This took Rosalind aback and, unfortunately, piqued her curiosity. A hint of a smile flashed behind Lady Edmund's eyes. “Since Lady Blanchard is your godmother, she has no doubt told you that she and her husband will shortly be leaving London for a diplomatic posting.”

“I have heard something of it,” agreed Rosalind.

“I want the position she's deserting. I want to be named a lady patroness of Almack's.”

It was as if Lady Edmund had announced she wanted to be married to King George. In point of fact, arranging that match might have been easier. Mad as the king was, he might be persuaded to at least like her.

Rosalind did not say that. She said, “A great number of ladies will wish to be named to the Almack's board. Many of them will be close friends of the current patronesses.”

“But will any of them guarantee your future if they get it?”

The cold sensation of having been cornered crept across Rosalind. “I beg your pardon?”

Lady Edmund fixed her gaze entirely upon Rosalind's, and when she spoke, it was in the same ringing tones a barrister might use upon summing up his case. “I understand that since last season, you have set up your own establishment. I suppose that's in preparation for your godmother's departure?” She paused, but Rosalind did not answer. “It is also, of course, an expensive undertaking. If you assist me in becoming a lady patroness of Almack's, I will sign over to you a house my family owns in Westminster for use during your lifetime. With it will come an annuity of seventy-five pounds per year. It is not a great deal, but it will enable you to live quietly, comfortably, and without reference to anyone else.”

A house?
It took every ounce of Rosalind's pride and self-control not to stare at Lady Edmund. This cold, practiced woman was offering her a house? It was unheard of. It was ridiculous.

It was a bribe of the very first water.

What was it for? Yes, Almack's lady patronesses had prestige and power, but so did Lady Edmund. Her daughter had been jilted, but a good marriage would erase all memory of that
unpleasantness. As the mother of the Duchess of Casselmain, Lady Edmund would have access to the very heights of London society. She did not need the patroness post. Certainly she did not need it enough to offer Rosalind a house and a pension.

“That's very generous of you, Lady Edmund, but—”

She got no further. “Miss Thorne, there is no reason at all we should not work together on this. It's not as if you retain any friendly feeling for the lady patronesses and their smug little assembly.”

“If I may, Lady Edmund, that is hardly the point. There is very little chance that I could even begin to help with what you're asking. Lady Jersey is notoriously high in the instep. If someone's name so much as sounds disagreeable to her, she will blackball them from the assemblies. If a girl is not pretty enough, or her mama comes from trade, she will keep them out of Almack's forever. Any person she allows onto the board will be someone she is certain is loyal to her first and to Almack's second.”

“Then we will have to remain alert for opportunities to demonstrate that loyalty. Perhaps you could consult Lady Blanchard herself?”

“I do not believe Lady Blanchard will be receptive to inquiries on the subject.”

“Should that prove true, I'm sure you will be able to think of something else. You have always demonstrated such impressive invention. In the meantime, we will make sure that the world understands you are here to assist with arrangements for my daughter's season, which, I should tell you, will likely culminate in a ball celebrating her engagement to Lord Casselmain.”

Rosalind had been ready for this. She'd been ready since Alice broke the news this morning. She should have been ready since she heard of the previous Lord Casselmain's death. Her readiness didn't matter, though. The words still hit her dead center.

“I tell you this in strictest confidence, of course,” Lady Edmund went on.

“Of course.”
For heaven's sake, don't let her see how she's upset you.
“I regret to say that I must still refuse.” Rosalind stood. “I am sorry I could not be of more help.”

Lady Edmund did not move. “It's clear you need a little time to think. I am certain that once you've considered all aspects of the situation, you will find yourself able to accept my offer.”

There was a scratching at the door and a footman in the dark Aimesworth livery entered. He carried a silver salver with a single card on it. Lady Edmund read the card and nodded. Rosalind looked away and suppressed her sigh of relief. The etiquette of paying calls dictated that if another visitor arrived, the first was required to make a quick, polite exit.

Her relief, though, lasted only until the footman admitted the visitor: an elegant, broad-shouldered man with waving black hair.

Devon.
This was Rosalind's first thought as Devon Winterbourne, Lord Casselmain, entered Lady Edmund's salon. Her second was,
You've changed.

His shoulders were broader and his bearing more decided than she recalled. His eyes had changed as well. Not the color. They were still that remarkable steel gray, made all the brighter by the contrast to his black hair and dark brows. But the man behind those eyes had darkened. Was he tarnished or closed off? It was impossible to tell from so brief a glance.

Rosalind had prayed this first meeting would occur someplace that offered easy escape—some concert or rout, where there was a balcony, or a retiring room to which she could retreat.

“Lord Casselmain.” Lady Edmund executed a perfect, polite curtsy. “How charming. We did not expect you today.”

Devon's—Lord Casselmain's—answering bow was as smooth and as polite. “Lady Edmund. How do you do? I was
coming to see Jasper, but wished to stop a moment to pay my respects.”

“You are always welcome here, sir. And I believe you know Miss Thorne?”

Devon turned. Their eyes met for a single instant. “Of course,” he said. “But it has been a very long time since I've had the pleasure.” Then, he was bowing once again and she was curtsying because that was what the moment called for, and they must all conform to etiquette's expectations. “How do you do, Miss Thorne?”

“Very well, Lord Casselmain, thank you. I trust I find you well?”

“Perfectly, thank you.”

He certainly looked well. His clothing—a blue coat, tan waistcoat, and buff breeches—was sparingly elegant. His white cravat had been tied in crisp folds, but without any trace of the dandy's fussiness. He had foresworn the stiff, black Hessians so many gentlemen considered indispensible. Instead, he wore a pair of plain top boots, scuffed from long usage and clearly soft as kid gloves. Devon Winterbourne had become a practical man, and one who followed inclination rather than fashion.

Why on earth is he agreeing to marry Honoria Aimesworth?
The question was shamefully petty, but Rosalind could not clear it from her thoughts.

“Won't you sit down, Lord Casselmain?” Lady Edmund resumed her own place. “I'm afraid my son is not at home. He left us before luncheon and has not yet returned.”

Lord Casselmain sat. He also looked quite perplexed.

“Did you have an appointment?” Lady Edmund inquired.

“It's of no matter. I'm sure to run into him at White's later.”

“Well, I know Honoria will be delighted to see you.” Lady Edmund reached for the bell to summon the parlor maid. “Please tell Miss Aimesworth that Lord Casselmain is here.”

Lord Casselmain turned toward Rosalind. Naturally. It was the time to make polite conversation. “Have you plans for the season, Miss Thorne?”

“They are not yet fixed.” Rosalind kept her gaze on the tea table. If she looked up, she might yet see pity in Devon's eyes.

“I have been attempting to persuade Miss Thorne that she should come stay with us for a short time, Lord Casselmain,” Lady Edmund said as she passed him a cup of tea. “As you two are old acquaintances, perhaps you could help me.”

The words jolted Rosalind's gaze away from the safe contemplation of the china. That was no accident. Lady Edmund must have heard whispers of their old attachment. Now she was testing them.

If Devon realized as much, he didn't even blink. “Lady Edmund, I have never observed that you require any assistance to achieve your ends. I am quite sure Miss Thorne will be brought 'round to your way of thinking without my intervention.”

“You make me sound like a managing woman.”

“Then I must apologize, for that was not my intention. I only meant that you are sensible, resolute, and determined.”