A LADY COMPROMISED — A ROSALIND THORNE MYSTERY

by

Darcie Wilde

READER’S SAMPLE

PROLOGUE — An Urgent Cry for Intervention

They were, I believe, a happy, although not a contented family. 

Theodore Edward Hook, Sayings and Doings

         Let me be in time. 

         Helen Corbyn leaned low across her horse’s neck, the frantic prayer keeping time with the mare’s hoofbeats.  Please, please, please, let me be in time.

         It was a horrid morning for a gallop.  The lazy spring sun hadn’t even peeked over the hills.  Fenland mists still clung to the tree branches and swirled across the road.  Thankfully, Atalanta was always ready for a run, whatever the weather.  Helen held tight to her mount’s reins and prayed the mare did not stumble and that the sidesaddle did not slip.

         Please, please.

         She heard the men approaching before she saw them—a whole gang of jeering, laughing voices.  In an eyeblink, a dense crowd of silhouettes emerged from the fog to fill the road to overflowing.  They were workers on their way to the new drainage canals, and they saw her in the same instant she saw them.  Thankfully, they scattered.  Laughter and bawdy song became an uneven chorus of curses and cheers as Helen raced between them.

         Another morning she would have laughed and waved in answer.  Another morning, she would have enjoyed the feeling of her hair tumbling loose from the few pins she’d jammed into it when she threw on her clothes.

         But another morning she would not have been woken by her brother’s valet with a sealed letter and the whispered explanation that he’d found it on William’s desk, and that he was worried, because William was gone.

         Another morning, the contents of that letter would not have driven Helen out into the freezing March morning after her idiotic brother.

         Atalanta snorted.  Her gait slowed.  She was getting blown.  Helen touched her side with the riding crop, urging her to a fresh burst of speed.  William had who-knew-what kind of a head start.  She had to catch him.

         They had skirted the worst of the fenland, leaving the thickest of mist and shadow behind.  There was enough light now for Helen to make out a dark mass on the road ahead.  She blinked, and the blur resolved into a landau with two passengers, with a driver muffled in a caped great coat on the box.

         In another frantic heartbeat, Helen was close enough to see who it was.

         “Peter!”

         Peter Mirabeau—the landau’s driver—jerked his head around. 

         “Helen!” He pulled back on the reins, bringing his matched grays to a stop.  “What in God’s name are you doing out?”

         Helen brought Atalanta up beside the carriage and patted the mare’s neck.  She was sweating badly and would take a chill if kept standing.  Helen had run her too fast this morning.  She’d had no choice, but perhaps now she would have help.

         “William’s got himself into a duel, Peter!  I have to find him!  I have to . . .”

         Her words dissolved.  Helen squinted hard at Peter.  Now, she saw how white he had turned and how still he’d gone.  It struck her that it was very strange he should be driving friends about this part of the district, which wasn’t on the way to anywhere in particular, especially when the sun was scarcely up. 

         It was even stranger that a doctor’s bag rested on one of those friend’s knees.

         “Oh no, Peter!  Not you!”  We’re to be married!  You cannot be in some stupid quarrel with my brother!

         “It’s not what I wanted, Helen.” Peter held up his right hand as if taking an oath.  “’Pon my soul, I swear it is not.  I tried to make an apology, but Corbyn—William—would not accept.  He absolutely refused to let the matter drop, so in the end . . . I had no choice.”

         Shock and fury threatened to bubble over inside Helen.  She wanted to scream.  If she’d been on foot rather than on horseback, she might have actually used her crop on him, fiancé or no fiancé.  As it was, she could not risk spooking Atalanta, and had to settle for shouting.

         “What on earth could induce you to exchange shots with my brother!  My brother the cavalry colonel!”

         Peter just shook his head.  “I can’t tell you that, Helen.  Please don’t ask me.”

         The two passengers in the carriage shifted uneasily.  Now she recognized the one without the bag.  That was Earnest Worthing.  He opened his mouth to say something.  Helen glowered at him and tapped her crop against her skirt.  Earnest closed his mouth.

         “All men are blasted idiots!” Helen declared through gritted teeth.  “Where is it to be?”

         But Peter wouldn’t budge.  “Helen, this isn’t your place.  You have to trust that I have already taken measures to keep things from going forward.”

         “If that’s true, what are you even doing out here now?”

         Worthing cleared his throat.  This time, it was Peter who glared at him.

         Helen drew herself up.  She threw every ounce of pride and breeding she possessed into her words, and her glare.  “Mr. Mirabeau, if you think I’m going to leave my brother to this . . . this travesty, you are very much mistaken.  I do not care if the affair is of his own making, I will put an end to it.  Now tell me where he is!”

         Peter shook his head.  “No, Helen—Miss Corbyn.  I can’t.”

         “Mirabeau . . .” Worthing shifted uneasily in his seat.  This time it was Peter who glowered at him.  Worthing sagged backward.  He looked pleadingly at the doctor for help.  That estimable gentleman just shrugged his shoulders and drummed his gloved fingers against the bag.

         Helen swallowed pride, swallowed anger, swallowed everything she had and was.  She nudged Atalanta closer to the landau so she could reach out and grasp her fiancé’s arm.

         “Help me, Peter,” she begged.  “You know how William is since he got back from the war.  He cannot possibly want to quarrel with you!  Not really.  If . . . if I can get to him first.  If I can be there . . . it will all have to come to nothing.  No one’s going to shoot if I’m standing between you!  Then you can both blame me for it not going off.  No one can call either of you a coward, or repeat—whatever it is that’s got you so upset.  Please, Peter!” Tears stung Helen’s eyes.  “Don’t risk yourself, or my brother!”

         Peter’s fist tightened around the reins, but he twisted around to face his friend.

         “Worthing, I can rely on you to keep quiet about all this?”

         “As the grave.” Worthing touched his hat brim.  “Word of honor.  Said the whole thing was a mistake from the beginning, didn’t I?”

         Peter nodded.  “We’re to meet at the foot of Bale’s hill,” he said to Helen.  “Now, before you stopped us, I was thinking there’s something wrong with my landau’s axle.  I’d better check it while I have the chance, or we’ll never get there at all.”

         Helen didn’t bother to reply.  She pressed her heels against Atalanta’s ribs, sending the mare leaping forward.

         Peter Mirabeau watched her vanish around the bend in the road.

         Is another such horsewoman in the county?  he wondered with a heady mix of pride and not a little bit of fear.  As Helen disappeared into the trees, he found himself wondering as well if he had made the right choice to let her go on ahead.

         Later, however, he and Helen would understand that this was the choice that saved both their lives.

<CN>CHAPTER 1

<CT>The Parting of Friends

         <EPI>Or are you following the fashion and turning novelist?

         <EPIS>Theodore Edward Hook, Sayings and Doings

         <OT>“Are you certain you’re not nervous?” asked Alice Littlefield as Rosalind entered the dim front parlor carrying the tea service.  “Because if I was about to be shut up for weeks on end with my former fiancé’s mother, I would be dreadfully nervous.”

         “I will be visiting a grand manor house on an estate of thousands of acres,” Rosalind corrected Alice mildly as she set the silver tray down.  The elegant service dwarfed her small tea table.  Very little of the Thorne family plate had survived their abrupt shifts of fortune.  Thanks to several domestic miracles, however, the tea service remained intact.  “And it isn’t as if I’ll be just sitting in the parlor.  I will be helping get Louisa to the altar in as much style as the local church can offer.  It shall be a positive whirlwind of activity that’s hardly going to leave me ‘shut up’ with anybody.”  Rosalind paused.  “Besides, Lord Casselmaine cannot be called my former fiancé.  We were never formally engaged.”

         “Formally, you weren’t, but practically you were.  You cannot deny that.”

         “I could, but would it get me anywhere?”

         “Probably not.”  Alice helped herself to a somewhat lopsided bread-and-butter sandwich. 

         Rosalind had fixed their tea herself.  Her housekeeper, Mrs. Kendricks, was fully occupied with the work of closing up their small London house for the three weeks of Rosalind’s stay in the country.  In this room, all but one of the lamps had been emptied of oil and wicks, and all the most valuable movables were already locked away in the back cupboard.  As soon as Alice left, Rosalind would spend the remainder of the day with her correspondence.  She had to be sure all her accounts were as settled as they could be, and then answer a last few notes from friends and acquaintances.  There was the pair of unusually important letters that she must forward to Mr. Sanderson Faulks.  These would need to be delivered by hand.  Mr. Faulks was an old friend of Rosalind’s, and her family’s, and he had recently begun holding some particularly sensitive correspondence in a sort of trust for her.

         “Then there’s the fact that your former fiancé is now a duke,” Alice went on.  “And is possibly planning on offering for you . . .”

         “All right, Alice!” cried Rosalind.  “Yes, I am nervous.  Does that satisfy you?”

         Alice put down her cup.  “No,  I’m worried about you.”

         Rosalind felt her brows arch.  “Why should you be?”

         Alice took her time in answering, which was surprising.  Normally, Alice Littlefield spoke and moved and thought with a speed that was difficult to keep pace with.  Rosalind, on the other hand, had always been far more deliberate, with a habit of looking steadily at whoever was speaking that some found disconcertingly direct.

         The friends contrasted in their looks as much as in their temperaments.  Alice was petite and dark haired, with a warm complexion and lively brown eyes.  Rosalind Thorne, on the other hand, was tall and golden haired, with a figure more suited to sweeping skirts and cinched bodices of the grand dames of the previous era than the high-waisted Josephine gowns and pelisses that were currently in fashion.

         “Rosalind, I know you better than anyone, even my brother,” said Alice finally.  “You won’t deny that Lord Casselmaine represents a dreadful temptation.  He’s rich, landed, and titled, and it’s not just any title, but an old one that puts him in the very first circles.  If you married him, you would be returned to society in grandest possible style.  It’s a dazzling prospect, and it could easily keep you from appreciating the alternatives.”

         “And what is it you see as my alternatives?”

         “Remaining as you are.  Acknowledging for once and for all that the haut ton is no longer where you live, it’s just someplace you visit.  And keeping on with your business.  I know”—Alice held up her hand before Rosalind could interject—“it is contrary to all accepted etiquette that I should accuse a gently bred woman of engaging in business.  But women come to you with their problems, and when you help them, you are materially compensated for your time and effort.  That’s a business, and you are very good at it.  It’s new and it’s different and you like it and it makes you happy, and you won’t be able to do any of it if you’re swaddled up as the Duchess of Casselmaine.

         “There.” Alice folded her hands.  “I’ve said my piece.  You may now reprove me at your leisure.”

         But all Rosalind did was smile and take up a sandwich for herself. 

         “Alice, everything you just said—those are all the reasons I have to go.  If I hold back, I will always wonder if I was afraid, and what might have been.  And,” she added with a bracing breath, “I shall not just be idling about on picnics or helping Louisa write her thank-you notes.  I’ve had a letter.”

         Rosalind went to her desk, pulled the letter from off her stack, and unfolded it for her friend.  While she returned to her tea and sandwich, Alice read:

<LETTER>

Dear Miss Thorne:

         I am writing to you on the recommendation of my confidential friend Louisa Winterbourne.  Louisa tells me that you have a proven ability and willingness to help women who find themselves with difficulties that may be very much out of the ordinary.  She tells me you have intervened successfully in cases of blackmail and theft, and even helped uncover the blaggard behind that terrible incident at Almack’s.

         Louisa further informs me you are to come down for her wedding.  Miss Thorne, I beg that once you do, you will agree to meet with me privately.  I am in the midst of such a quandary and I know not where to turn.  I am told by everyone that the matter is dealt with and that I must forget it.  But I cannot, and I fear if I do not find answers soon, I shall run mad.  This may sound like a girl’s hysteria, but I assure you it is not.

         Please write as soon as may be with your answer, Miss Thorne.  Louisa will know how to get any letter to me.

         Yours, Most Sincerely,

         Helen Corbyn

         <TXT>“Well.”  Alice refolded the letter.  “I’m afraid she undoes her claim of not being a hysteric by her connection to Louisa.  That girl’s always had more than a touch of the dramatic about her.  Why, she went into full mourning when that actor died.  What was his name . . . ?”

         “Yes,” agreed Rosalind.  “But at bottom, Louisa’s a sensible young woman.  I do not think I can turn down a friend of hers without a hearing . . . Now what is that for?”

         Alice was frowning at her.

         “I’d say it’s nothing at all,” replied Alice.  “But I know you’d be cross with me.  So, I will say I am making a quiet wager with myself.”

         “On what point?”

         “You’ll find out once you have completed your restful stay in the idyllic English countryside,”  Alice told her.  “You know, I wish I could go with you, but we lady novelists must stick to our work.  And, of course, you’re not the only one with a wedding to plan.”

         “Have George and Hannah set a date?”  George Littlefield was Alice’s older brother.

         “It’s to be in October.  Hannah wants time to make her dress, and there are other arrangements . . .”  She let the sentence trail off. 

         Alice currently kept house with George, and while both her brother and his fiancée had insisted Alice was welcome to stay, she had no intention of wearing out that particular welcome.  She wanted new rooms for herself, but with her limited means, respectable places were proving difficult to find. 

         “It will all come together in time, I’m sure,” said Rosalind.  “Now, tell me how A.E. Littlefield’s novel is progressing.”

         The friends finished their tea, all the while chatting about Alice’s work, mutual acquaintances, and the end of the season flourishes Alice had attended as a society writer. 

         At last, Alice gathered up her things and Rosalind showed her to the door.

         “You will write to me, won’t you?” said Alice.

         “Of course I will.  Daily if you like.”

         “Probably we needn’t go that far but . . . I don’t know, Rosalind, I still worry.”

         Rosalind smiled and pressed Alice’s hand.  “I’d tell you to stop, but I know that never works.  Therefore, I will promise to take good care of myself and not to let the Dowager Lady Casselmaine intimidate me in any way.”

         Instead of answering, Alice gave Rosalind a quick peck on the cheek and took herself out the door.

         The parlor seemed quieter than ever without Alice to help fill it.  Rosalind found herself returning to the sofa and swirling at the dregs of her tea distractedly.

         When she was a girl, an invitation to stay was a cause for excitement.  It meant seeing old friends, buying new clothes, and of course, the possibility of flirting with young men.  But it had been a long time since she had been invited anywhere simply as a guest. 

         Her family’s assorted failures meant Rosalind had spent the past seven anxious years making her own way in the world.  Now when she received invitations, they were all to house parties she had helped a hostess organize.  During her stays, she had chores to complete and tasks to be accounted for, not to mention an endless array of plans to set in motion on behalf of her hostess.

         But this time was different.  This time, Rosalind Thorne, daughter of Sir Reginald Thorne, baronet (and forger, drunkard, liar, and suspected panderer), was invited to spend a month at Cassell House by Devon Winterbourne, Duke of Casselmaine.  Ostensibly, it was to help his young cousin Louisa prepare for her wedding.  In reality, it was to give him and Rosalind a chance to recommence a courtship cut off by her father’s downfall and his brother’s death.

         And now, it seemed, she would also be helping a young woman she’d never met out of her difficulties.

         Alice had been right from the beginning.  Rosalind was very nervous.