THE MATTER OF THE SECRET BRIDE — A Useful Woman Mystery

by

Darcie Wilde

READER SAMPLE

PROLOGUE — AN INITIAL MEETING

“…this fatal, ill-starred connection so unfortunate, probably, for both the parties concerned.”

Langdale, Charles, Memoirs of Mrs. Fitzherbert

London

June, 1820

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      “Mr. Poole?”

      Josiah Poole turned, and found himself facing a tall, pale man in a black coat. 

      “Do I know you, Sir?”  Poole inquired. 

      The fellow was impeccably turned out, with a tall beaver hat and stove-pipe trousers.  Poole thought he had the look of a clerk, with that black coat and cravat.  He was stooped and ink-stained like one as well, with the hard, knowing eyes of a man who spent his life pouring over ledgers, looking for the smallest mistakes.

      It was early June, but summer’s warmth had yet to penetrate the gritty air of this particular neighborhood.  That, Poole told himself, was why he shivered. 

      Up until now, Poole had been enjoying a good morning.  He’d just secured a gratifying new client —  a young man from a highly placed family.  Being plump in his pocket gave Poole a satisfaction that even London’s shadows could dim. 

      “We have not previously met,” the clerkish man told Poole.  “I, however, have heard great things about your reputation as a man of business.”

      “Indeed?” Poole’s chest expanded at the compliment.

      Poole was a solicitor.  His specialty lay in straightening out the affairs of gentlemen who found themselves in unfortunate financial circumstances, particularly those who had been relegated to the confines that institution colloquially known as “the sponging house.”

      English public life had numerous peculiarities.  One was the existence of numerous enterprises dedicated to the collecting, transferring and punishing of debt, and debtors.  The sponging house was part of this vast mechanism.  A bastard cross between a boarding house and a private prison, these houses lodged debtors on a temporary basis.  The idea was to give them a last chance to discharge their obligations before they were escorted to a less comfortable sort of prison, such as Newgate, or the Marshalsea. 

      That the fees charged by the sponging houses tended to increase the amount of debt owed by the prisoner was one of the little contradictions of English law that Poole chose not bother his head about.  His business was to pull his clients free of the machinery, and collect his own fee.

 His newest client, for example, had been deposited into the house run by Henry Ross.  The young man had made a substantial payment to Poole on the understanding that Poole would help bring a speedy resolution to his various difficulties — preferably before his noble father learned of his current whereabouts.  Poole would help this bewildered unfortunate raise money to pay his debts, or, at the least, find a friend to stand his bail.  Poole was always diligent in his efforts, and left no avenue unexplored, however crooked and poorly illuminated the path might be. 

      Poole squinted at the clerkish stranger in front of him now.  This man was most definitely not one of Ross’s inmates.  He noted the quality of the man’s black coat.  He further noted that while his fingers might be ink-stained, his shirt was unblemished white lawn.  His collar points remained crisp despite the damp morning air.

      “I’m sorry,” said Poole.  “Who did you say you were?”

      “A man with a proposal for you,” the other answered smoothly.  “If you’d care to walk with me?  We can have a drink and discuss matters.”

      “I do not care to walk anywhere with a man who will not give his name.” His business, by its nature, attracted quite a few flattering ne’re do wells, and some genuinely dangerous men.

      “A sensible precaution.”  The man’s smile was thin.  “My name is Carmichael.”

      You’re lying, thought Poole at once.  “Have you a card?”

      Instead of bringing out a card case, Mr. Carmichael — whoever he might really be — pulled his pocketbook from his coat and extracted a folded paper.  Poole opened it.  His practiced eye quickly ascertained it was a draft on the private bank of Ames & King.  For twenty-five pounds.                “Shall we see about that drink, Mr. Poole?” Carmichael inquired.

      Poole folded the draft and tucked it into his own pocket.  Mr. Carmichael, made no objection.

      “Very well.  If you would care to lead the way, Mr. Carmichael?”

      In short order, Poole found himself seated in the best tavern the neighborhood had to offer — which was, admittedly, not saying much — and being treated to a bottle of the best red wine the landlord had in his cellar.  Again, it was not much, but it showed that Mr. Carmicheal had more in his pocket than just the one bank draft. 

      “Your health, sir.”  Poole raised his glass and drank.  “May I assume you — or some client of yours — has need of a solicitor?” 

      Carmichael returned his wintery smile.  “As it happens, I do represent another party, and they find themselves in need of a person with your particular set of skills.  They are willing to pay handsomely for your time.  And your discretion.”

      “Discretion is everything to a man in my business,” said Poole.  “What is it your client requires?”

      “My client has an interest in a matter that is heading to trial, Mr. Poole.  A difficult and public business. A divorce in fact.”

      “Not my usual line of work, Mr. Carmichael.” 

      “I am aware,” replied Carmicheal.  “You prefer preying upon debtors.  But in this case, there is a marriage certificate, indicating a prior connection with a person yet living.”

      “Ah.”  Poole allowed his face to assume a sympathetic expression.  He’d had plenty of practice at it. 

      While it was true that Poole did not normally take on marital cases, it was also true that such work could be quite lucrative.  Especially when the involved party was anxious for a result.

      Like many other aspects of English law, divorce was a convoluted and contradictory affair.  For the most part, however, it was fairly easy for a man to bring suit against a wife who strayed from the confines of domestic bliss.  The church, the law, and society at large frowned heavily upon female indiscretion. 

      But, there existed several impediments to the man seeking to end an unsatisfactory union.  There was, for example, the matter of  “recrimination.” If the defendant — say, the wife — could offer positive proof that the complainant — say, the husband — had behaved at least as badly as she had, the divorce would be denied.

      Proof of a second marriage would serve such a purpose extremely well. 

      Poole took another drink of wine and considered.  Exposing bigamy did mean the second marriage would be declared invalid.  It would also, however, mean that damages and support would have to be paid to the second wife, or at least to her male relations.  Also, if proved, bigamy brought the very real probability of jail, not to mention the social ignominy which must accompany such a revelation.

      A man might be willing to go to unusual lengths to prevent any of these things from happening.

      Poole looked at Carmichael again.  He looked at his good coat and his spotless cravat.  Poole kept abreast of public affairs.  He read the papers religiously, because one never knew what one might find in the advertisements or the agony columns.  Divorce cases that made it all the way to Parliament were widely reported.

      There was, in fact, much talk of a divorce in the works.  An extremely public and prominent divorce, one which had already gotten quite ugly.  That divorce brought with it rumors of a previous marriage.  Rumors that had been circulating for years.  Pamphlets had been published.  Accusations traded.

      No. Poole grabbed the bottle and refilled his own glass.  Couldn’t be.

      Except…that coat was of excellent quality.  The man who wore it was hard, close and clever, and thought nothing of handing over twenty-five pounds simply to secure Poole’s attention.

      Poole took another swallow of wine.  He noted that Carmichael had not touched his.  “May I ask you something, Mr. Carmichael?”

      Carmichael hesitated a moment before he nodded.  His face remained inscrutable.  Poole was impressed.  He’d played at cards as well as at the law for many years.  A truly unreadable man was a rarity.

      “This client of yours,” began Poole.  Carmichael opened his mouth, but Poole cut him off.  “We’ll say, rather, this person your client has taken an interest in.  Public man, is he?  Very highly placed?”

      Carmichael did not so much as move, which gave Poole his answer.  Poole felt his heart — a normally insensible organ — thud heavily. 

      It could be.  Well, well, well.  It could indeed be. 

      “Wife been living abroad, maybe?” Poole went on.  “Suspected of shenanigans with foreigners and all sorts?”

      That, it seemed, was quite enough for Mr. Carmichael.  “Mr. Poole, do you wish to undertake this job?  I can promise you payment of two hundred pounds upon delivery of the document, and verification that it is the true and original certificate.  However —” Carmichael leaned just a little closer.  Poole smelled peppermint and stale coffee on his breath   “— whether you accept my offer or not, if I discover you have breathed one word beyond what is strictly necessary for this business, I promise, you will vanish from the face of the earth so completely, it will be as if you’d never been born.”

CHAPTER ONE — AN UNEXPECTED SUMMONS

“These dinners are peculiarly agreeable — nothing to impede the flow of soul, whatever there may be of the feast of reason.”

Bury, Charlotte, Diary of a Lady in Waiting

August, 1820

London

#

      “They’re here!”

      Alice Littlefield seized the the brown paper parcel from the startled footman and raised it over her head.  All the friends and family gathered in the front parlor of 9 Orchard Street, huzzahed and raised their punch cups. 

      Rosalind Thorne smiled indulgently at Alice’s open delight and raised her cup along with her guests.  Alice’s brother George was here, along with his wife Hannah.  Sanderson Faulks lounged beside Honoria Aimesworth and Mr. Clements.

      And of course, Adam Harkness stood at Rosalind’s side, smiling his quiet, devastating smile.

      “I can’t believe it!”  Alice darted through the little crowd to the tea table.  “They’re really here!”

      She unceremoniously dropped the package onto the table and herself into the nearest chair.  Amelia McGowan — a plump, ginger-haired young woman — hurried to Alice’s side.  The pair clasped hands and laughed with wordless excitement.

      Up until a few months ago, Amelia had worked as a maid for Rosalind and Alice.  Now, she worked to establish a charity school for young women in servce who wished to better their situation.  That she was also Alice’s sweetheart was a fact their friends kept to themselves.

      Adam reached down the pair of scissors Rosalind had placed on the mantle for exactly this moment.  He handed them to Rosalind who, in turn, handed them to Amelia, who handed them Alice.  Alice slit the package’s twine.  The paper fell open to reveal three quarto volumes, bound in red morocco and stamped with gold lettering:

      EVERSWARD

      A NOVEL

      BY

      A.E. LITTLEFIELD

      A second cheer rose from the assembly, except from the dandy Sanderson Faulks, who confined himself to decorous applause.  Alice rose to her feet and gave a single, dignified nod as if she were the queen acknowledging the crowd at the opera, and then handed round the books so they could be more readily admired.

      “Congratulations, sister dear,” George, Alice’s older, taller brother kissed her on the cheek. 

      “Even though you never wanted me to turn novelist?” Alice inquired cheekily.  “And you were sure I should lose all hope of making any sort of living?”

      “Don’t tease, Alice,” Hannah, George’s sturdy, black-haired wife, admonished lightly.  “He is terribly proud of you.  I can barely get him to talk about anything else.”

        “That is not true,” said George indignantly.  “I am perfectly able to talk about our brilliant infant, and the madness in Parliament as well.”

      “Oh, lord, we are not bringing that up!” groaned Honoria Aimesworth.  A pale woman with the studied grace that came from years of strict training in deportment, Honoria had refashioned her life after scandal and tragedy.  Now, she was creating something of a stir among the haut ton as a woman of independent means, and mind.

      Rosalind had not expected Honoria to still be in town to join the party.  It was August, and normally, everyone who could afford to do so would have abandoned the swelter and stench of London for the country or the Continent. 

      This summer, however, Parliament was being called to a special session to consider King George’s petition for divorce from Queen Caroline, and fashionable society was determined not to miss the spectacle.

      George Littlefield sighed.  “I don’t see as we will be able to help it, Honoria.  I hear the king’s divorce has even led to arguments among the lady patronesses at Almack’s.”

      The entire gathering turned to Rosalind.  Adam raised his brows, assuming an air of polite inquiry.

      “I had not heard,” she replied, coolly.  Adam’s eyebrows lifted further.  The fact was that Rosalind had heard a great deal, but now was not the time to repeat any of it.

      “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if the lady patronesses were at odds,” George went on.  “Everyone else is.  Between the king’s endless investigations and the queen making her return to English shores into a royal progress, we’ll probably have a paper shortage from all the special editions.”  George wrote for the London Chronicle, a twice-weekly newspaper that relied heavily on politics and gossip for its sales. 

      “It is impossible to keep up,” agreed Mr. Clements.  Ernest Clements presided over Rosalind’s favorite circulating library.  He had been helping with the efforts to advance the cause of Alice’s book by introducing her to a number of the most prominent owners of lady’s bookshops.  Consequently, Rosalind felt it only right to invite him to the party.  “I have had to employ a pair of young men to eject patrons who grow too heated over the news.  A fist fight broke out in the reading room this Monday.”

      “Was the winner for the king or the queen?” asked Alice.

      “Oh, the queen, of course,” Mr. Clements replied.  “Nearly everyone is for the queen.  It is her name they are chanting in the streets.”

      “In the reading rooms, and the streets perhaps,” drawled Mr. Faulks.  “In the clubs it is all for the king.” 

      “Well, king he may be,” Amelia sniffed.  “But he’s a rascal all the same.  The man forced the queen to keep one of his mistresses as her maid, and he charged the people for her diamonds!”

      “My brothers would thrash the man who treated me with so little respect,” agreed Hannah Littlefield.

      “A warning to you, George,” said Honoria.  “Personally, I hope the queen’s attorneys make him highly uncomfortable with a full recitation of his clandestine marriage to a Roman Catholic.”

      Mr. Clement, George and Hannah exchanged wary glances.  Mr. Clement had been born Ernesto Javier Garcia Mendoza y Clemente.  He had changed his name to suit English fashions, but not his religion, even though the public celebration of mass remained illegal and Catholics were barred from any number of professions, including the majority of public offices.  Hannah, for her part, had been born into a large Italian family.  She and George were married in a protestant ceremony, but she quietly kept the faith of her ancestors.  Since his marriage, George had written several anonymous pamphlets on the subject of Catholic emancipation.

      It was Mr. Clement who spoke first.  “Miss Aimesworth, you make the fact that she is a Catholic sound like a greater offense than the secret marriage.” 

      “I beg your pardon, Mr. Clement,” said Hannah.  “I should have been more careful with my choice of words.  It is the breaking of the succession laws, and the concealing of his marriage that I meant to decry.  Not the lady’s religion.”

      Mr. Clement bowed.

      “I’m not going to defend His Majesty,” said George.  “But he does have some cause for grievance against the queen.  There really can’t be any excuse for her to be traipsing about the Continent with such a crowd as she has…”

      This proved to be too much for Alice.  “Rosalind, you must forbid any more talk of the king’s divorce.  I will not have it at my party!”

      “I agree, Alice,” said Rosalind.  “This is a celebration, and we shall have no arguments over controversial subjects.  Mr. Faulks, you were hinting earlier that you had some interesting news from your friend at the Edinburgh Review?  What can you tell us?”

      Sanderson, who never failed to enjoy being the center of attention, drew himself up.  “As it happens, I am given to understand that the next issue may include mention of a certain new novel.”

      “Oh!” Alice clapped both hands over her mouth.  Amelia squeezed her shoulder.  “You don’t…he didn’t say…”

      “Of course, I could not ask whether such mention was favorable.” Sanderson spoke regretfully to his punch cup.  “But it is possible I overheard a word or two, later, as we were enjoying a friendly drink.  I do believe all Littlefields will be quite pleased with the results.”

      “Oh!” cried Alice again.  She leapt up to hug Amelia, and George, and Hannah, and then turned to Sanderson — suddenly all decorum and correct deportment — and curtsied.  Sanderson placed a hand over his breast, careful not to disturb the folds of his elaborate cravat, and bowed.

      The gathering laughed at this display and talk turned easily to small matters, light gossip and stories of family and friends. 

      For Rosalind, it was almost too much to take in. 

      Up until recently, she had lived on a knife’s edge.  Rosalind had all but given up the possibility of finding herself in the situation she now occupied — mistress of a comfortable and independent establishment living a life that was both useful and absorbing. 

      Now, surrounded as she was by so many friends, Rosalind felt her heart swell with a pride and gratitude that she seldom allowed herself to acknowledge. 

      Adam, of course, noticed, and moved just an inch closer.

      “You are radiant,” he murmured.

      “You are a flatterer,” she replied under her breath.

      He raised one brow.  She lifted her chin.  He grinned the astonishing, crooked grin that lit his blue eyes and reminded her of the times when this room was empty except for the two of them.  Rosalind felt her cheeks begin to warm.

      “Mercy,” she breathed.

      “If that is what you wish,” he replied.

      “For now.”

      This scandalous remark was rewarded by Adam’s abrupt blush.  Rosalind attempted to hide her grin behind her punch cup, but found herself in danger of dissolving into a fit of undignified giggles. 

      Fortunately, she was saved from this eventuality when her newly hired footman, Mortimer, pushed open the pocket doors that led to the dining room and announced, “Dinner is served.”

#

      Rosalind’s greatest asset when it came to entertaining was her cook, Mrs. Singh.  When she lived with her family in India, Mrs. Singh had grown up in the hybrid kitchens of English households.  There, she had absorbed the techniques of French and English cuisine along with the English language.  Mrs. Singh had lived in London for some years, now, and had been glad to leave the rigors of a large establishment for Rosalind’s smaller home.  The advantage to her was more regular hours and the ability to go home in the evening to her sister and her sister’s children.

      When Mrs. Singh discovered Rosalind enjoyed piquant flavors, she began to include dishes from her native Punjab in her menus.  Her samosas, tikkas and highly spiced vegetable ragus added welcome variety to the unyielding English dinner regimen of sauced turbot and roasted beef. 

      Tonight, Mrs. Singh had out done herself.  She liked Alice personally and had exerted all her considerable talents on the author’s behalf.  There was a fish soup followed by leg of lamb accompanied by a vegetable biryani and a series of side dishes with early greens, new potatoes, and fresh cheese.  All was crowned by a dessert course of sugar topped cake and sweet dumplings.

      The cake had been reduced to crumbs and Rosalind was just about to suggest the party return to the parlor for tea, when a great banging arose from the depths of the house. 

      “What on earth?” exclaimed Alice.

      Someone, Rosalind realized, was hammering at the kitchen door.  All conversation momentarily fell quiet while Mortimer stepped smartly away to see what might be the matter. 

      “Have you gotten yourself into trouble again, Rosalind?” remarked Honoria.

      “Not that I am aware of,” Rosalind answered.  But her mind began leafing through her list of current commitments just the same.

      The house was small enough and well ventilated enough that voices could sometimes be heard from the cellars.  The entire gathering heard those voices now.  The words were indistinct, but the tone was loud and insistent.

      Adam wiped his hands on his napkin.  “Should I…” he began.

      Before he could rise to his feet, Mortimer had returned, a folded note in his hand.

      “Apologies, Miss Thorne,” Mortimer said.  “But the man says it is extremely urgent and he insists he must have an answer at once.”

      Rosalind frowned and rose, taking the note from him.  “You will all excuse me for a moment,” she said to her guests.

      Rosalind retreated to the back parlor, which she used as her writing room.  She moved to shut the door, but not quickly enough.  Both Adam and Alice had already come in.

      Adam closed the door.  Alice hurried to Rosalind’s side. 

      “What is it?”

      Rosalind turned the note over.  The paper was heavy, and the ink quite dark, which told her this missive came from a person of means.  The sealing wax was scarlet, and imprinted with a curling letter F.  “I don’t recognize the hand, or the seal.” 

      Rosalind broke the seal and unfolded the missive.  As was her habit, she read the signature first. Her eyes widened in shock. 

      “Rosalind?  What is it?” asked Adam.

      “It is a…request to call,” Surprise had made her throat go dry.  She swallowed and tried again.  “At once.”

      “At this hour?  That seems a bit precipitous,” said Alice.  “Who is it from?”

      Rosalind found she had to swallow again.  “Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert.”

      “The Mrs. Fitzherbert…?” began Adam.

      “You can’t mean…” said Alice at the same time.

      “Yes,” said Rosalind.  “I do mean.  This is from the Mrs. Fitzherbert.”  She met their startled gazes.  “The king’s wife.”