A USEFUL WOMAN — A ROSALIND THORNE MYSTERY

by

Darcie Wilde

READER’S SAMPLE

PROLOGUE — WHEN THE DANCE FINISHES EARLY

London, February 15, 1812

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            When she told the story afterwards, Rosalind would say the noise woke her.  The truth was, however, she had never actually been asleep.

            She’d come home unusually early from the Wednesday ball at Almack’s.  She’d been tempted to stay, but if she did, she knew she’d have blurted out her secret.  As it was, she feared she’d given herself away. 

            No.  That is not possible.  No one noticed anything.  They would have spoken out. 

            Her acquaintances among the assembly would just assume her high color and her breathlessness came from the dancing.  Who wouldn’t be excited?  It was every well-bred girl’s dream to be allowed to waltz in Almack’s famous rooms.

            Perhaps I should have stayed.  Rosalind tip-toed into her own, far more modest chamber.  Annie, the upstairs maid, trailed behind with the lamp, yawning and blinking.   No.  Leaving looked odd, but staying would have been far worse.  Rosalind wasn’t sure whether she should laugh or to cry at her own lack of discretion and discipline.  She’d been unable to keep her eyes from Devon.  She smiled and blushed every time he glanced toward her, and that was a countless number of times.  Worse, she was tripping over everybody else’s feet because she kept looking for him in the crowd instead of paying attention to her partner.  She’d needed to have a headache and leave before someone said something out of turn to Mother.  She’d write to Devon later, probably through his cousin Louisa, and explain the reason for her sudden departure.  He would understand. 

            Mother had been put out, of course.  Mother never left any party early if she could help it.  She did, however, agree that Rosalind could take the carriage and her maid, as long as she sent both straight back as soon as she got home.

            Rosalind peered into the boudoir she shared with her older sister, Charlotte.  Charlotte had stayed home with her own headache, which might or might not have been real.  Rosalind was inclined, this once, to believe that it was.  Despite the fact it was barely midnight, Charlotte looked to be asleep in bed, wrapped up tightly in her covers.   

            It’s just as well.  Rosalind closed the door so as not to disturb Charlotte while Annie, fumbling, and still yawning, got her ready for bed.  I have to think.  I have to plan.

            Because tonight Devon Winterbourne had made his intentions perfectly clear.  He hadn’t gone so far as to actually propose, of course, but he nearly had.  Rosalind felt her blush rising again, and was glad the room was dim enough that the maid couldn’t see her color. 

            I must calm down.

            She also must decide exactly how to tell Charlotte about Devon. .  She couldn’t be giggling and girlish when they spoke. Depending on her mood, Charlotte was as likely to laugh in her face as she was to help, and Rosalind was going to need help.  Neither Mother nor Father was likely to approve of an alliance with Devon Winterbourne, certainly not at first.  Mother had ambitions for Rosalind as well as for Charlotte, and Father was determined the girls should marry into fortunes, not just titles.

            “My bright stars are not to be hidden out on fusty old estates!” Father cried.  “They are meant to shine in the heights of heaven!”

            Father was fond of making speeches like that.  But he truly meant this one, and therein lay the problem.  Devon was the son of a duke, but he was a scorpion, a second son, with limited prospects of his own.  By prospects, of course, everyone meant money.  His brother, Hugh, was young and strong, if profligate.  Hugh Winterbourne also had women trailing after him in long strings, any of which he might marry at any moment.  So there was next to no chance of Devon ever inheriting the title.  Worse, Devon had a reputation of being under the thumb of his devout, reclusive mother.  This wasn’t true, of course, but it was the gossip. 

            But if Rosalind could get Charlotte on her side, she’d stand a much better chance with both parents.  Charlotte had Father’s ear, and she always knew best how to manage Mother.

            Rosalind climbed into her bed and let down the curtains, but she lay awake with her blood fizzing in her veins and her mind tumbling over every detail of the moment; Devon’s hesitation, the way his hand felt in hers, how they’d danced and they’d laughed and stepped on each other’s feet.  Neither one of them could waltz worth a ha’penny, and whispered merry agreement that this surely meant they’d get on famously all their lives.

            Lady Blanchard had taken note.  She was another problem and she’d have to be talked ‘round quickly.  Maybe even before Charlotte.  Thankfully, Lady Blanchard wouldn’t go to Mother, at least not yet.  She had warned Rosalind, though.

            Be careful, my dear. Do not fix your heart on someone who can do so little when your family needs so much.

            It’s my marriage, not theirs!  Rosalind squeezed her eyes shut., She’d have to apologize for that, and quickly.   Lady Blanchard’s title and standing, not to mention her long time attachment to Mother, would be a marvelous help if Rosalind was to navigate the tricky shoals of parental approval. 

            But one way or another she would do so, because Devon waited on the far shore.

            That was when Rosalind heard curtains rustle, followed by the stealthy slide of fabrics.  She turned over and tried to ignore it.  Probably Charlotte just needed to make use of the chamber pot.  But that particular noise did not occur.  Instead, there was more furtive rustling, and the grating noise of something heavy dragging across the floorboards.  Curiosity got the better of her.  Rosalind hooked one finger around the velvet bed curtains and eased them back to peek.

            A single candle flickered on the bedside table.  Rosalind had to blink before she could correctly make out what she was seeing.  There was Charlotte, fully dressed and kneeling down by her bed, pulling out a bandbox from underneath.  Another, larger box sat beside her. 

            Rosalind flung the curtains back and scrambled out of her bed.  Charlotte whirled, clutching her coat to her chest.

            “Rosalind!” Charlotte hissed.  “What are you doing?  Go back to bed, you little idiot!”

            Rosalind ignored this.  “What’s happening?  Are you eloping?”

            Charlotte hesitated for a single heartbeat and then began pulling her coat on.  “Yes,” she answered acidly.  “How very clever of you.  I’m eloping.  He’s waiting downstairs now.”

            “You can’t!  Mother will have a fit!  And father…”  If you elope now, they’ll never consent to Devon!  They’ll lock me in the attic!

            But Charlotte wasn’t listening.  “I’ll write, I promise.”  She grabbed up her boxes, pushed past Rosalind and shouldered her way out the boudoir door.  Rosalind and ran out into the corridor in time to see Charlotte struggling to get herself and her luggage down the back stairs. Charlotte was not naturally stealthy or subtle, especially when encumbered, and she banged and clattered down the stairs.

            If the servants aren’t all awake now, they will be soon.

            “Who is he?” Rosalind demanded as she thudded down the stairs behind Charlotte. “At least tell me that!”

            Charlotte didn’t so much as pause.  They reached the kitchen and she marched to the garden door.   “Go back to bed, Rosalind!  You’ll ruin everything!” 

            “I won’t!” Rosalind grabbed her sister’s wrist.  “Not until you tell me.  You don’t understand, Charlotte.” She added more softly.  “Something’s happened to me as well.”

            “Something’s always happening to you.  Now get off!”

            Charlotte yanked her wrist from Rosalind’s startled grip and shoved through the door to the back garden.  Rosalind stared, but only for a moment.  Then, her determination hardened and she ran out behind her.  The cold of the flagstones bit into the soles of Rosalind’s toes despite her woolen stockings.  Beyond the garden wall, the watchman shouted “Five of the clock and all’s well!”

            No it’s not!

            Even running gingerly on her toes, Rosalind still managed to catch up with Charlotte, who was wrestling with boxes and hems.  This time when she grabbed Charlotte’s arm, Rosalind hung on tight.  “Tell me who it is, or I’ll wake the house!”  She wanted to believe she was thinking of her sister and her good.  She wanted to help, to do the right thing.  An elopement would be a scandal.  Mother and Father would be beside themselves and they’d never listen to her or hear reason about Devon.  Ever.

            Charlotte brought her booted foot down hard on Rosalind’s toes.  Rosalind squeaked in pain and surprise, and let go.  Charlotte ran, or at least trotted, for the gate.

            What doesn’t she want me to see?  thought Rosalind as she staggered behind.  I must know the man.

            Rosalind reached the gate.  A hired coach and four waited in the muddy lane outside.  The coach door was open and Charlotte was climbing in.  Rosalind hesitated, straining for a glimpse of the man, afraid she’d made the wrong decision, that she should have run back at once, screaming to wake their parents as well as the servants…

            Her father leaned out of the carriage to pull in the step and shut the door.

            The world froze.  At least, Rosalind froze.  In front of her eyes, the hired driver touched up the sturdy horses so that the coach rattled and creaked into motion.  The curtains in the coach’s back window were down.  They did not lift to afford her any last parting glimpse of the occupants, and yet she knew she had not been mistaken.  She knew Father’s profile—his hooked nose and his strong brow—in any light. 

            Rosalind’s thoughts leapt from a standstill to a full gallop.  She turned on her sore and frigid feet and dashed back into the house.  She ran through the dining room to father’s book room. 

            The door stood open.  The smell of burning paper hung in the air, and the last embers of various ledgers and papers smoldered on the hearth.  The imported Italian desk was completely clear for the first time in Rosalind’s memory, except for the one letter left lying squarely in the center of the blotter.

            It was addressed to her mother.  Rosalind barely attended to that.  She just broke the seal and read:

            Althea, My Dearest Wife:

            How difficult it is to write these words!  How many tears roll down my cheeks to stain this page as I think of you even now sleeping so soundly in your bed, blissfully unaware as to what this cruel, cold morning holds in store for you.

            I have always worked diligently at business in order to provide the living that you and our lovely daughters deserve.  Alas, several recent speculations have not turned out as well as I had hoped.  This failure has weighed heavily on my mind for some time, but I have labored unceasingly to free myself of the obligations and restore our fortunes.  Of course, I could not tell you, for I had no wish to risk any perturbation in that domestic harmony which I know means the world to you, as it does to me. 

            But now  — oh, the pain of having to write this! — certain men who swore me friendship and assistance have treacherously gone back on their word.  And worse — far worse! — they have spread infamous lies about my character and conduct, such that I now am hounded without stint by moneylenders and false friends seeking restitution for debts I never contracted and do not legally owe.

            Because of the calumnies spread by these smiling fiends who once shook my hand and behaved to all appearances in the manner of gentlemen, I am left with no choice.  I must run!  I must fly!  I am to become a fugitive in my own country lest I be taken up for these false debts. 

            Now, you must be strong, my darling!  You must remember when these men come to you that they are liars and infamous customers.  You must hold your loving heart firm against the falsehoods they will seek to pour into your ears.  I know your courage.  You will never lose faith in your dearest Reginald.  You know in the depths of your soul that I will return to restore our family’s reputation and fortune, as soon as I able. 

            To help you in this time of greatest trial, I leave you our daughter Rosalind.  Her steady good sense will surely serve to keep and comfort you until I am able to return and clear my good name of these libelous charges and unjust debts.  Our loyal and thrice-darling daughter Charlotte has bravely consented to be my companion and helpmeet in the toils of my exile.

            Adieu, my dearest!  Have courage!  Know that my heart is breaking as I write.  Think of your darling Reginald alone in the cold world without one friend to succor him.  His only thought is of the day he will be able to reunite all our family and restore tranquility to our home. 

            May God bless and keep you both! 

            Your eternally loving husband,

            R.T.

            It was Mrs. Kendricks, the housekeeper, who found Rosalind an hour later, still sitting in the book room, breathing in the scent of burning papers, and holding her father’s parting letter in her numbed fingers.

CHAPTER ONE — THE LITTLE SCANDALS OF THE LITTLE SEASON

London, February 15, 1817

            “The lady patronesses of Almack’s…carried matters — to say with a high hand seems almost inadequate — shall I write, with a clenched fist?”

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

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            “Are you sure we may expect callers this early?” asked Mrs. Kendricks.

            Rosalind Thorne smiled up at her housekeeper.  She was breakfasting in her parlor with the small table drawn up close to the coal fire.  In addition to providing extra warmth, this arrangement allowed her to surreptitiously toast bits of muffin on her fork.  Rosalind made sure she’d eaten the evidence of this unladylike occupation before ringing the bell.

            “They will be here,” she told Mrs. Kendricks firmly. “I expect we’ll be seeing Miss Littlefield first, followed by Mr. Faulks. I have laid the most tempting bait possible in front of them.  Power is about to change hands.  The world will not wait for polite visiting hours to discover the details.”  Courtesy dictated that morning visitors did not present themselves before eleven o’clock, but the church bells, which tolled solemnly outside the frosted windows, declared it had just gone on nine. 

            “Well, that should make for a busy season after all.”

            “Indeed it will, Mrs. Kendricks, if we’re lucky.  I trust we are ready to receive?”

            “Of course, Miss.”  Mrs. Kendricks was a thin, dark woman with severe eyes and narrow, calloused hands.  Her long years in service had erased the element of surprise from her being, and taken a goodly portion of her ability to smile with it.  “The coffee is ready, and I’ve baked some of my ginger biscuits as well.”

#Rosalind had no time for further remarks, for at that moment the doorbell jangled, not once, but four times.  She and Mrs. Kendricks exchanged a knowing glance before the housekeeper departed to open the door for the insistent visitor.

            Or visitors.  It was possible that Alice Littlefield had met Sanderson Faulks on the way to Little Russell Street.  Gentleman that he was, Mr. Faulks would surely offer Alice a ride in his well-sprung and — more importantly — warm carriage.  Winter had clamped down hard this year, and London’s streets were ankle deep in snow and frozen mud.

            Rosalind folded her newspaper beside the large stack of her correspondence and stood to receive her early callers. 

            Upon first impression, Rosalind Thorne was often considered either striking or imperious.  Unusually tall, she possessed the figure and bearing of a grand dame from a previous era — statuesque, confident, and thoroughly poised, despite the modesty of both her surroundings and her made-over blue dress with its sparse lace trim.  Although her rich golden hair had been called her finest asset, she habitually wore it in a severe knot at the nape of her neck.  Her wide-set blue eyes, on the other hand, were considered generally unremarkable, except for the unsettlingly direct way they had of looking at a person, any person, of any rank.

            Cold was another word frequently applied to Rosalind Thorne.

            As such, she was as much of a contrast to the persons who entered her diminutive parlor as they were to each other.  Pretty, brisk, tiny and dark, Alice Littlefield breezed into the room, and straight up to Rosalind. 

            “I am not speaking to you!” Alice announced.  “You’ve been keeping secrets and I’m quite put out!”  Despite this declaration, she kissed Rosalind soundly on the cheek. 

            “May I also bid you good morning, Miss Thorne?” drawled Sanderson Faulks as he bowed over her hand with the weary politeness that was the hallmark of the dandy set.   Mr. Faulks was tall, lean and pale, and if he had ever moved briskly, Rosalind expected it was because either his life or his fortune was in imminent danger.  “If you had not already discerned it from Miss Littlefield’s eloquent exclamation, you see here two wretched pilgrims come to present their humble petitions at the shrine of truth and knowledge.”

            “Fiddlesticks, Mr. Faulks,” announced Alice.  “Lovely, of course, but fiddlesticks still.  Is there coffee?”

            “Mrs. Kendricks is bringing it now.  Good morning, Mr. Faulks.  Good morning, Alice.  Do sit down.  I am so sorry my note forced you both out so early.”

            “Really, Miss Thorne!” Mr. Faulks’s long, mobile face became the very picture of woe as he drew out a chair for Alice.  “I strongly suspect you are now the one talking, as Miss Littlefield so quaintly puts it, fiddlesticks.”  Dandy though he might be, Mr. Faulks betrayed no hint of discomfort or fastidiousness as he took his own place on Rosalind’s worn velvet sofa.

            “Of course it’s fiddlesticks.”  Alice plumped herself down in the cane-bottomed chair, flipped open her notebook, and took up her pencil.  Alice had been trained in deportment by the same masters who had drilled Rosalind in the rigors of their art.  Unlike Rosalind, however, Alice had cast off this early instruction almost as soon as she had ceased to be a minor heiress and begun supporting herself by writing for the newspapers and magazines.  “Rosalind’s been up for at least two hours waiting for us.  One can tell by the breakfast table, and the morning papers, already half read.”

            “All right, you’ve caught me out.”  Rosalind moved her letters and papers to one side so Mrs. Kendricks could set down the coffee tray.  Very little of the ancestral plate had passed unscathed through the abrupt transitions in the Thorne family fortunes, but the silver coffee set had been kept intact.  Rosalind at once set about the business of pouring out and fixing the first cup with two sugar lumps and a delicate dollop of milk.  “But surely we should wait until you’ve had your coffee before we discuss business?”

            “Mr. Faulks, I may be about to commit murder.” Alice turned a cold shoulder toward her hostess, but not before she took her coffee. 

            “Heaven forbid, Miss Littlefield.  I’ve not had my morning cup yet, and Miss Thorne knows my taste to perfection.”  Faulks accepted the second coffee, took a long sip, and sighed like a man who has experienced true greatness.  “Ah!  Now.  Miss Thorne, I beg you to spare your life and my susceptible nerves and tell us quickly.  Is it true?  Is one of the mighty Lady Patronesses from Almack’s Assembly Rooms about to retire her post?”

            It was tempting to tease her friends a moment longer, but Rosalind decided against it.  She needed their good will for several important matters yet today.  “Yes, it is true,” she said.  “I’ve received confirmation from a highly reliable source.  One of the ladies is to step down, and there will be a new patroness at Almack’s.”

            “I knew it!” cried Alice.  “Oh, George will be furious that I got to you before he could!”

            A stranger to London and its gilded social season might have been startled to hear such breathless suspense raised over the question of a single woman on the governing committee of a single suite of assembly rooms; especially when the popular press regularly mocked Almack’s as a dull place that foolishly clung to tyrannical rules regarding dress and manners, not to mention its meager bread-and-butter refreshments.

            Despite this, however, Almack’s remained far more than a set of assembly rooms where dances and dinners might be held.  It was nothing less than the gateway to the uppermost strata of London society.  To be admitted to one of Almack’s weekly subscription balls was to be given the chance to shine before the women who controlled social life across the length and breadth of the United Kingdoms.  To be turned away, on the other hand, marked one indelibly as second rate. 

            Only a member of the Almack’s board — a lady patroness — could decide who would be admitted to the assemblies.  Without their approval, it did not matter what a person’s rank or fortune might be.  That person would be left to languish in the cold. 

            “Now quickly, Rosalind, which lady is leaving?”  Alice Littlefield’s eyes shone with childlike enthusiasm—or perhaps it was simple greed.  The lady patronesses were petted, courted, feted, and discussed throughout the fashionable world and the newspapers observed their movements as closely as if they were royalty.  “It can’t be Lady Jersey.  She’ll die in harness.  The Princess Esterhazy?  Or is it Lady Blanchard?  There’ve been whispers that Lord Blanchard is in line for a post abroad.”

            Rosalind raised her coffee cup.  A small smile played about her mouth as she took a swallow. 

            “I’ll tell you, but I’ll need something in return.  From each of you.”

            “Mr. Faulks…”  Alice gripped her pencil like she meant to squeeze blood or gold from it.

            “Now, now, Miss Littlefield.  Might I advise you to consider the look of delight on your editor’s face when you deliver this news, piping hot for his delectation?  Not to mention the jealousy of your dear brother, George?”

            “All right, all right,” muttered Alice.  “You win, Rosalind.  What is it you want?”

            “A friend of mine, Mrs. Nottingham, is giving a party at her London house to help brighten the little season.”  The “little season” was the name given to the time between Parliament’s opening and Easter Week.  Usually it lasted most of February and on into March.  During this time, fashionable society made its way back to London from the country and set about preparing for the gaudy pageant that was the social season.

            “I spy Miss Thorne’s meaning.”  Mr. Faulks gave Alice a significant nod. “Mr. Nottingham, MP, has something up his sleeve for the coming session of Parliament and Mrs. N. wishes to rally support in the drawing rooms.”

            Alice rolled her eyes.  “Thank you, Mr. Faulks, I do read the papers as well as write for them.”

            “It will be an elegant and exclusive event,” Rosalind went on, unperturbed by Mr. Faulk’s aside.  “Here is the guest list.”  She lifted a sheet of paper from her correspondence and handed it to Alice.  “I hope you’ll find a few lines in your column to mention it will be a magnificent affair; a sign of a delightful season to come for one of our most sparkling and sagacious political hostesses.” 

            Alice made a small, strangled noise.  At the same time, her pencil flew across the page, setting down Rosalind’s words in practiced shorthand.  “Any further dictation?”

            “Not at this time, but I will let you know if anything else occurs.”

            “You always do.”

            “And what is the ransom I am to pay for this information which you guard so jealously?” inquired Mr. Faulks.

            “You’re to attend the party.”

            “In fact, your name’s already on the guest list.” Alice squinted at the page Rosalind had given her.  “Sanderson Faulks, noted collector and art critic.  You forgot pride of the dandy set, Rosalind.  I’ll make sure it’s added.”

            “Oh, no.”  The blood drained from Faulks’ cheek.  “Not a political party.  You may speak as much flummery as you please about Mrs. Nottingham being sparkling, but she’s a fusty old cat and we all know it.  I will not open my season in an overfilled drawing room being bored to tears about reform bills.”

            “Mrs. Nottingham’s son is an artist,” Rosalind told him.  “He’s back from the Continent.  They’ve some of his work in their gallery.  If you like what you see there, you’ll have a new find to grace your season.”

            “I said no.  Not even should you refuse to name the retiring patroness.”

            “Mr. Faulks,” said Alice darkly.  “Rosalind is not the only one risking her life at this moment.”

            “A political party given by a parvenue mama from a pocket borough whose son has artistic pretensions?  You won’t have to kill me, Miss Littlefield.  Miss Thorne has done the deed.”

            “I have seen young Nottingham’s work.” Rosalind leveled her direct gaze at the collector.  “He is worth a few hours at the start of your season, or any other time.”

            Faulks held his silence under Rosalind’s full attention for almost ten seconds, which was more than many men could manage.  At last, he sighed.  “Only for you, Miss Thorne.  Now, out with it.”  He rapped his knuckles smartly against the sofa’s arm.  “Which of the lady patronesses will retire this season?”

            “Alice guessed it,” replied Rosalind.  “Lord Blanchard has received a diplomatic posting to Konigsberg.  At the first ball of the season, Lady Blanchard will announce she is withdrawing from the Almack’s board so she can accompany her husband abroad.”

            Both visitors expelled the breaths they had been holding. 

            “Who is to be her replacement?” Alice turned a fresh page in her notebook.

            Rosalind shook her head.  “That I cannot yet tell you.”

            “And won’t be able to for some months,” said Mr. Faulks shrewdly.  “If I know Lady Jersey and her cronies, they’ll spend the entire season vetting the candidates, and incidentally setting the cream of ambitious haut ton matronry at each other’s throats.”

            “There’ll be blood in the ballrooms.” Alice tapped chin with her pencil.  “Unfortunately, I don’t think my editor will care for that turn of phrase.”

            “An affable affray to light afire betting books in White’s and Brook’s,” said Faulks.  “And you may not quote me on that, Miss Littlefield.”  He reached out and closed Alice’s notebook firmly.  “That is a bon mot of my own composing and I don’t care to hear myself repeated all over the gossip sheets.”

            “Besides,” said Alice, “You’ll need it for your own use when you’ve a wider audience than a couple of spinsters.”

            Faulks laid one manicured hand over his breast.  “I would never use such a vulgar epithet when describing two such excellent ladies.  But otherwise, you are correct.”

            “Excuse me, Miss.”  Mrs. Kendricks entered, carrying a silver tray with a single letter in its center.   “This just came, by hand.  The boy said he was to wait for a reply.” 

            “Thank you, Mrs. Kendricks.”  Rosalind picked up the letter and looked at the direction.  “You can stop craning your neck, Alice.  I recognize the hand.  It’s from Tamwell House.”

            “Is it?”  Alice opened her book and began writing again.   “That means Honoria Aimesworth and her mother are finally back from Switzerland?  They left so very suddenly last year…” 

            “Alice,” said Rosalind sternly.  “Leave this one alone.  You know very well that Aimesworths have been back for months, and spent a quiet Christmas at their country house.”

            “I do know it,” said Alice.  “I was just wondering if you did.”

            “Of course I did.  Why wouldn’t I?”

            Alice bit the end of her pencil and made no answer.  Rosalind frowned. 

            “How stimulating it is to see a professional engaged in the delicate cut and thrust of social intercourse.”  Mr. Faulks rose to his feet.  “I could watch all day.  Alas, however, I have business of my own and must bid you ladies adieu.  Miss Littlefield, is there anywhere I may drop you?”

            Alice hesitated, apparently debating whether Rosalind might be convinced to yield more information.  This time, however, discretion proved the better part, and Alice also rose.

            “Thank you, Mr. Faulks.  It seems I also have work to do and should go at once to my paper’s offices.”

            “My carriage and my person are entirely at your service, Miss Littlefield.  If I may?”  He rang the bell for Mrs. Kendricks and requested his hat and cape as well as Alice’s wrap.  “Adieu, Miss Thorne.”  He bowed to Rosalind. 

            But although Mr. Faulks turned to go, Alice didn’t move.

            “I’ll be there in a moment.  I’ve dropped my pencil.”  Alice said this directly to Rosalind and so missed the significant way in which Mr. Faulks glanced from her to their hostess before he retreated into Rosalind’s small foyer.

            “Rosalind,” Alice said as soon as the parlor door shut, “if you are going to be spending any time with the Aimesworths this season, you should know you will probably be seeing a great deal of Devon Winterbourne.  Only, he’s Lord Casselmain now.”

            Rosalind did not blanch.  She had too many years practice at self-control for any such display.

            “I knew, of course his brother had died,” she said softly.  “But why should he be connected to the Aimesworths?”

            “There are rumors in the air beyond the ones regarding Almack’s, and they’re linking Lord Casselmain with Honoria Aimesworth.”

            Rosalind lowered herself gracefully into her chair.  She was certain Alice noted how she kept her hand pressed flat against the table to prevent it from trembling. 

            “It, of course, can mean nothing to you personally,” Alice prompted her.  “But it is always good to be informed.”

            “Yes, that’s it exactly.  You needn’t be concerned about me.”

            “Only I had thought you once cherished a certain preference for Lord Casselmain.”

            The smile that turned up the corners of Rosalind’s mouth was entirely artificial.  She was sure Alice saw that too.  “Once.  For about an hour, I think, when we were both younger and my social standing was rather different.”

            “I don’t suppose you’ll consider staying away from Tamwell House?” Alice asked.

            “I might, but as things are…Lady Aimesworth has been generous in displaying her gratitude for my assistance in the past.”

            “You mean with helping smooth things over when Honoria got jilted by Phineas Worth.”

            Rosalind didn’t bother to answer that.  “If she invites me for even part of the season, I may not be able to turn her down.”

            “I do understand.”  Alice pressed Rosalind’s hand once.  “Good luck.  Be sure to call on me if you need anything.”

            “I will, dear Alice.  Thank you.”

            They made their farewells and Alice took herself off after Mr. Faulks.  Rosalind Thorne stayed as she was for a very long time.  It was only when she was certain her hands had stopped shaking that she picked up the new letter and broke its seal.