A Useful Woman (11 page)

“I'll see that they are, Mr. Willis,” murmured Rosalind. She tried to tell herself they were only objects, and of no particular meaning or import, but she shivered as she took them to add to her reticule.

“I'll show you out, Miss Thorne.” Mrs. Willis pushed her chair back from the desk.

“Please don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Willis. I know my way. Thank you again. I'll make sure the keys reach the Aimesworths.”

With this, Rosalind took her leave. The meeting had gone very well. In any social endeavor, the goodwill of a house's master was pleasant and useful, but the goodwill of those who ran that home was essential. Whatever might be coming next, she needed to cultivate the Willises' good opinion.

But why should anything else be happening?
she asked herself as she tied her bonnet ribbon.
Surely, Lord Blanchard will be able to show Jasper's death was an accident, and all will be laid to rest.

But even while she occupied herself with this firm and sensible thought, a door down the hallway opened, and Mr. Whelks stepped out. Very carefully, he locked the door behind him and tucked the key into his waistcoat pocket. He turned and saw her, and was visibly startled.

“Miss Thorne! I did not expect to see you here so soon. I thought after yesterday . . . yes, well. Perhaps it is better not to speak of it.”

Rosalind smiled. “You may be sure, Mr. Whelks, I would not be here had Lady Jersey not sent me with a note for Mr. Willis.”

“Her ladyship sent you?” Although he spoke softly, Rosalind did not miss the note of jealousy underneath the words.

“Only because you were engaged,” she said quickly. “And you know I am anxious to do anything I can to assist Lady Blanchard, and Lady Jersey, of course. I could hardly refuse a trifling errand.” Which might have been laying it on a bit thick, but Mr. Whelks did not seem to notice. “Lady Jersey was kind enough to tell me you spoke on my behalf, Mr. Whelks. Thank you very much for that.” If it was important to be in Mr. and Mrs. Willis's good books, it was utterly vital that she have Mr. Whelks's trust. If he took against her, Lady Jersey would as well.

Mr. Whelks bowed. “You are most welcome, Miss Thorne. You have always been, may I observe, a young lady of superior
understanding and sensitivity. Of course, all of us who have the honor of the lady patronesses' confidence must feel very keenly the importance of these next days. How we conduct ourselves is bound to reflect on Almack's and the patronesses more than ever.” Rosalind nodded in solemn acknowledgment of this. “If you require any assistance, Miss Thorne, you have only to ask.”

“Thank you, Mr. Whelks. I will remember that.”

Rosalind descended the curving stair in a state of abstraction. Something was out of place, but she could not lay her finger on what it was. Certainly it was nothing about the Willises. They had been properly taken up with wiping away any physical trace of unpleasantness that might disturb their guests and patronesses. Neither was it anything to do with Mr. Whelks. It was the most natural thing that he be in the ladies' private office, taking care of whatever business the lady patronesses, and specifically Lady Jersey, might have. On the other hand, he might simply have been making sure that nothing had been disturbed.

Has anything been disturbed?
Rosalind wondered. Then she wondered how she might find out.

The sound of quick footsteps jolted Rosalind out of her contemplations. A man was climbing the stairs in front of her. He dodged neatly sideways so she would not have to disturb her own path down to the ground floor.

Rosalind could not afterward say what made her turn. Perhaps it was the way he trotted so easily up that long, steep stair. Perhaps it was the light glinting in his golden hair, or the sight of a plain coat and dark trousers in a place where she expected magnificence. Then, too, there was the startling combination of his scarlet waistcoat and black cravat.

Whatever the reason, Rosalind did pause, and when she did turn, it was to see him looking back down at her.

He had a weathered face, but a strong one. There was a
stillness about him and a sense of patience and attention. Here was a man prepared to wait for a year and a day to get what he wanted.

The man bowed pleasantly, but with a small smile Rosalind did not know how to interpret. She turned and started down the stairs again slowly. Suddenly, Rosalind felt deeply determined that whoever this man was, he should not see her hurry away from him.

A Fresh Summons

If once to Almack's you belong, like monarchs, you can do no wrong; But banished thence on Wednesday night, By Jove, you can do nothing right.

—Henry Luttrell

When Preston brought the carriage up in front of the Jerseys' great house, Rosalind gave him Willis's letter with instructions to hand it directly to Lady Jersey. Lady Jersey would naturally expect Rosalind to deliver Mr. Willis's letter personally, and Rosalind considered it. She very much wanted to hear what was happening in the patroness's meeting, but she must hope that Lady Blanchard would give her a full account later. She had other business to attend to.

Preston, fortunately, did not consider it his place to ask her any questions. He simply did as she asked and then drove the carriage to Little Russell Street, where Mrs. Kendricks met Rosalind in the foyer.

“How are you, miss?” she asked as she helped Rosalind off with her coat and bonnet.

“I'll do. Eventually anyway,” Rosalind answered. “Lady Blanchard's carriage is outside. You might take them a drink
and tell Preston I won't be needing them for at least another hour.”

“Very good, miss, but I need to warn you . . .”

Before Mrs. Kendricks could finish, the parlor door opened to reveal Alice Littlefield, and her older brother, George.

“It is not Mrs. Kendricks's fault,” announced Alice.

“She tried to deny us the premises,” said George.

“She was quite firm about it,” added Alice.

George nodded. “But we were rudely adamant and insisted on waiting for you.”

Rosalind looked to Mrs. Kendricks.

“It is all perfectly true, miss,” she replied staunchly.

“I'm sure it is, and I in no way blame you. In fact, I was expecting them both. Shall we go into the parlor?” Rosalind added to her guests.

The Littlefield siblings agreed at once. George even held the door.

George's close kinship to Alice was easy to see. Like Alice, he was dark and fine-boned and possessed a pair of cheerful black eyes. Also like Alice, George Littlefield seemed to have fallen down into working life without a single regret or backward glance, although Rosalind knew how carefully the pair of them husbanded their housekeeping money during those long months when the season was over and fashionable London was closed up tight.

Even with the tension of the Littlefields waiting on pins and needles to talk, Rosalind's tiny parlor enfolded her with a homey embrace. There were letters on the table and a fire in the grate, and her worn but comfortable armchair in its accustomed place.

“All right.” She picked up the great pile of letters to glance through them. “Why don't you tell me . . .”

Words written in a firm, masculine hand caught her eye and Rosalind stopped.
Devon?

“What's the matter, Rosalind?” asked Alice.

Rosalind set the letters down at once and turned away. “Nothing. A bill.” She smoothed her skirts and her expression as she sat. “I was going to say perhaps we should start with you telling me what you already know?”

“I don't believe you,” said Alice. “About the letter, that is, but I will let that pass because we haven't the time. Where have you been, Rosalind? Were you with Lady Blanchard? Is it true? Was Jasper Aimesworth found dead in the lady patroness's office at Almack's?”

“It's said he had a petition for a voucher clutched in his fist,” added George.

“And was stabbed in the back with thirty pens like Caesar?” cried Rosalind. “Dear heavens, surely you don't believe such nonsense!”

“Should we?” Alice shot back.

“No,” answered Rosalind firmly. “But it is true, Jasper Aimesworth is dead.”

“Poor fellow,” murmured George. “Not someone I liked, but no one deserves to shuffle off that young. And the rest?”

Rosalind's eyes wanted to stray toward her letters. She kept them fixed on her friends, and she made a decision.
This is to protect Lady Blanchard
, she said silently.
I'm so sorry, Alice, George. I hope you will understand. But there are places I cannot go, nor can I lead you there.

“He was not found dead in the lady patroness's office. It was near the back door.”

Alice's eyebrows shot up. “What was he even doing in the building?”

“At the moment, it seems most likely he had made a bet with
someone about being able to get into the rooms without a ticket, perhaps to steal a memento. He fell, and hit his head. It was a terrible accident.”

George let out a long sigh. “Well. Won't Major Alway be disappointed.” “Major” Algernon Alway was the publisher and editor-in-chief at the
London Chronicle
, for which both George and Alice wrote.

Alice had not stopped looking at Rosalind. “How do you know all this, Rose?”

Rosalind didn't blink. “I found him.”

“What?”

“Lady Blanchard had invited me to dine. I was at Almack's to collect her after the patronesses' meeting. She was late, and I went around the back to avoid the crowds.” She paused. “I found him there.”

“Oh, Rosalind!” Alice dropped her pencil and ran at once to wrap her arms about her friend. “How awful! I'm so sorry!”

“It was an ugly shock,” Rosalind said as soon as she could extricate herself from Alice's abrupt embrace. After being surrounded by an atmosphere of careful restraint all morning, this flood of emotion was a little overwhelming. “It's also why Lady Blanchard insisted I stay with her last night.”

“Quite right, too.” George pulled out his notebook and scribbled down a few lines. “So, you went to Lady Blanchard's right from Almack's? I imagine you didn't want to go home alone.”

There was something in the way he asked the question that set Rosalind on the alert. “I couldn't go home. I had to see Lady Blanchard to her house. She was still at Almack's when Jasper was discovered.” She paused. “As I told you.”

George made no answer. It was Alice who asked the next question. “Was anyone else there? We can still get several stories out of this, you know, if we can talk to other witnesses.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Willis were there, of course. I do not think they'll be all that eager to talk with you. Mr. Willis has, however, hired a runner from Bow Street to interview the staff and make other inquiries, so the public can be assured that everything at Almack's is exactly as it should be.”

“You'll be taking on my job next.” Alice peered at her shorthand, crossed out one notation, and added another. “It does mean that someone is not entirely certain it was an accident.” She glanced up at Rosalind. “What do you think, Rose?”

“I think . . .” Rosalind stopped. “I think that Jasper was doing something foolish, and he paid too heavily for it. I think there will be some trifling wager found in White's book with his name on it and that will close the matter.”
Whether it should or not.
Rosalind kept her face still and her gaze steady as she spoke.

George heaved a great sigh and tucked his notebook away in his coat pocket. “Well, sis, I warned you it would turn out to be a very little thing after all. Another case of mischief gone tragically wrong among the idle young men of the aristocracy. Or something of the kind.”

“Yes,” said Alice reluctantly. “You did.
C'est le vie, n'est-ce pas?
” But she was looking at Rosalind again. “Perhaps we can work up a few fulminations on the scourge of gambling and the ruin it is wrecking upon our finest young men?”

“That always goes over,” agreed George. “And I'm sure we can add in a little something about having spoken to someone entirely informed on the subject, all right, Rosalind?”

“If you leave out my name, certainly.”

“Well, come on then, Alice.” George got to his feet and slipped his book into his pocket. “We can still get this in the early edition, but we'll have to hop it.”

“Yes. Of course.” But Alice didn't move. “Just one thing,
Rosalind. Did you decide whether you were going to go to the Aimesworths' this season?”

“As a matter of fact, I'm going to be staying with Lady Blanchard until she and Lord Blanchard leave for Konigsberg.”

“I see,” said Alice, and Rosalind had the uncomfortable idea her friend might see more than she wished. She nodded once, and turned away. Rosalind suddenly wanted to cross the room, to lay her hand on Alice's arm and say, “I've told you everything I can.”

But she stayed where she was and watched her friends leave. She could not escape the feeling she had gotten off rather easily. Should she have told them about Devon also being a witness when the body was found? Or Mr. Whelks? They might still find it out. She bit her lip and chided herself for her indecisiveness.

When she heard the outer door close behind her friends, Rosalind turned back to her letters. There were indeed several bills—from the grocer, from her seamstress, and from the collier. None of these was enough to make her hesitate, but that letter addressed in a man's bold script was. There was also one note that had come by hand with just her name scrawled across the front. She decided to open this one first. She would face the other in a moment.

Rosalind broke the black seal and unfolded the letter.

If you are not nursing too many old grudges, come see me as soon as you get this.

Honoria A.

Rosalind pinched the bridge of her nose. A headache was beginning. Honoria Aimesworth had never been one to waste charm, or overmuch courtesy. It was something her mother, Lady Edmund, had never been able to correct or comprehend. Of
course, Lady Edmund could never understand how much of Honoria's permanent disdain for the fashionable world came from her mother's endless insistence on perfection within it. In that at least, Honoria and Rosalind had a great deal in common. The difference came in how they'd dealt with that insistence.

A memory of a country house party flashed through her, though it was impossible to recollect whose. But it was before her debut; that much she did recall. She also remembered Honoria's scornful voice ringing out over the lawn.

“Oh, yes, do go and consult Miss Thorne about the dress! If anyone was born to be the world's lady's maid, it's her!”

Rosalind laid Honoria's note down and picked up the other. It was from Devon. She was sure of it. At least, she was sure until her reluctant fingers turned it over and she saw the red wax seal impressed by a signet ring—it featured a linnet perched on a stone with its beak open, presumably to sing.

Rosalind frowned. That was not the Casselmain crest. In fact, she didn't recognize it at all. She looked at the direction again. She'd been mistaken. That wasn't Devon's writing. Frowning, she broke the seal, unfolded the letter, and read.

Dear Miss Thorne:

You'll excuse the impropriety, I'm sure, but since I am not able to see you face to face, I was left with no choice. My being seen calling at Little Russell Street wouldn't be good for either of us, a fact I know you'd be the first to point out.

I'll skip the usuals. I'm sure you're in excellent health and you may assume the same for us. I'm writing about my sister, and my mother. Miss Thorne, I don't know whether you're actually considering Mother's suggestion that you come to stay and do whatever-it-may-be you do so well to get her enthroned
on the board at those ridiculous assembly rooms, but if you are, I beg you pay attention to what I have to say. It would be infinitely better for all concerned—and this includes your very good and respectable self—to steer clear of us, and them.

There, now I've been as mysterious as a Gothic hero and rude in the bargain, but I can't help either. Miss Thorne, I know you've every reason to wish us, and Honoria in particular, to the devil. But if ever I've been capable of sincerity, I am sincere now. Do not get yourself involved with us this season.

Your humble and honest, if not terribly faithful, servant,

Jasper Aimesworth