A Useful Woman (22 page)

“Lady Blanchard . . .”

“Hardly counts at this point. She's leaving London, which means her influence is all but over here, and Lord Blanchard may not be willing to let her extend what's left on your behalf. You know that, too.”

Yes, I do know it.
She remembered a year ago, when Lord Blanchard had stood in front of her, his hand clutching his lapel. She remembered his serious, sonorous voice explaining how he would not condemn her father to the gallows for his latest crime, but he also could not, would not, allow his name to be threatened or the peace of his house disturbed, not for anyone.

Especially not for a man who was not merely a debtor, but a forger.

Rosalind's hands remembered the light brush of the paper as Lord Blanchard laid the promissory note, the one Father had failed to burn, into her hands. It had Lord Blanchard's name on it, but he had not signed it. Father had put the false name to the bill, trusting that Blanchard would pay it off anyway.

I could have handed this to the magistrates at any time, Rosalind. I could do it now. But I won't, because despite all, you remain my goddaughter.

Forgery was a capital offense, and unlike thievery or debt, it was seldom forgiven, no matter what the rank of the condemned. If Father were found by Bow Street and the extent of his crime uncovered, he would hang.

Rosalind remembered Adam Harkness, his stillness and his sharp questions, and his talk of Peel's writings and reform and public good. She also remembered how at the time she thought he might be rather too dangerously aware of his own charm.

She closed her eyes.
Have I been nothing but a fool?
For a moment, that thought threatened to overwhelm her, but only for a moment.

“No,” she said, and her eyes opened of their own accord, to
face the world around her, including Devon, who was both angry and anxious. But was all that emotion just for her?

“Something is wrong with this,” she said. “It doesn't add up.”

“Things don't add up in real life!” snapped Devon. “It's not one of your account books!”

“But perhaps it is.”

“No, Rosalind, you have to stop! You're putting yourself at risk! What if the man decides to arrest you?”

“Well, then I shall just have to find out the truth before it comes to that, or at least a better story.”

She said this placidly and now Devon wasn't just looking at her, he was staring, in open and flagrant outrage at her semblance of calm. “I beg you.” His words rasped in his throat. “Don't do this. Honoria was angry when she asked you to find out about Jasper. I'll talk to her. She'll see that this can only damage you, and her. Us.”

Rosalind lifted her chin so she could see between the nearest shoppers. Louisa was signing the receipt at the counter. Aunt Showell was consulting her book. They'd be back any moment. This conversation had to end. “It's not about Honoria, Devon, at least not just Honoria, and nothing you've told me changes that.”

Devon swallowed, his face stricken. He watched his relations turn, and begin shouldering their way through the crowd. “Listen to me, Rosalind,” he croaked. “The reason Lord Blanchard didn't tell you what he found in the betting book was he wanted to give me a chance to speak with you first. I've been delaying. I didn't . . . I hoped you would stop without my having to say.”

“I don't understand.” They had barely a few yards, a few seconds, left. He had to hurry. She could stop him, interrupt him. She didn't have to hear.

“I value your regard, Rosalind,” whispered Devon, so softly
she could barely make out his words. “What little of it I have left. I had hoped . . . well, never mind that now.” He took a deep breath and met her gaze. His mouth moved silently, shaping a single word. Rosalind was certain that word was
good-bye
.

“There is a bet in the White's book,” Devon told her. “And it has Jasper's name signed to it, and mine.”

The Consequences of Memory

These gentlemen never failed to make hard terms for the borrower . . .

—Captain Rees Howell Gronow,
Recollections and Anecdotes of the Camp, the Court, and the Clubs

Rosalind remembered very little of the carriage ride back to Blanchard House. Louisa did her best to keep up a steady stream of chatter with her aunt. In the end, however, Rosalind and Devon's mutual silence defeated her best efforts.

They arrived at Blanchard House and the driver put the step down. As courtesy dictated, Devon climbed out first to help Rosalind out. He bowed without taking his gaze from hers. He wanted her to see his pain, and his worry. He wanted her to see that he was sorry for what must come next.

“Don't make me use my name in this, Rosalind,” he said. “Please. I have no wish to hurt you.” Because if it came to any sort of public contest of words, it was Devon who would be believed, because he was Duke of Casselmain and the head of a family, and a gentleman. Rosalind, if she said anything that contradicted a statement of Devon's, would be left looking like a liar at best. At worst, she'd be labeled an hysteric.

“I do believe you,” she murmured in response. “For all the good it does either of us.”

A maid Rosalind did not know helped her off with coat and bonnet. Mrs. Kendricks was surely around somewhere. She should ask for her, but she could not muster the strength. But she had to talk to someone. She needed to find some kind anchor for all the thoughts swirling through her mind.

“Where might I find Lady Blanchard?” Rosalind asked the girl.

“I believe her ladyship is in her rooms, Miss Thorne. Shall I let her know you're asking for her?”

“No, that's all right. I'll go up myself.”

But when she knocked at the door to Lady Blanchard's apartment, there was only a muffled response. Rosalind, aware she was being presumptuous, pushed the door open. The sitting room was empty, as was the boudoir. Lady Blanchard stood in her dressing room in front of her open jewelry cabinet. She held something in both hands.

“Lady Blanchard?” said Rosalind softly. “I beg your pardon. I—”

“Oh, Rosalind! I'm sorry.” Lady Blanchard laid the comb back into its drawer. “You've caught me being a bit silly, I'm afraid. I managed to break the tooth of my tortoiseshell comb, and Lacey's out running an errand, something I'm sure I told her to do, and I thought I could manage to find my own replacement, only . . .” She turned to see Rosalind's face and she stopped. “My dear! What's happened?”

“I . . . I'm not sure. I . . . was out shopping with Louisa Winterbourne, and Devon . . . Lord Casselmain came as well and he, he had something to tell me and . . .”

Lady Blanchard did not let her get any further. She took Rosalind's arm and led her out into the sitting room. “Sit down, sit down.” Matching action to words, she sat on the sofa, so
Rosalind could hardly remain standing. “Do you need some salts, Rosalind?”

“No. I am quite well.” Rosalind swallowed against the patent lie. Temper and pride both flared.
I will control myself.
“But while we were out, Lord Casselmain told me that Lord Blanchard found a bet in the book at White's.”

Lady Blanchard frowned. “Morgan said nothing to me. How—” She cut herself off. “What else did Casselmain say?”

“He said Lord Blanchard hadn't told me himself, because he thought Devon should speak first, because the wager was made by Jasper, and Devon.”

Lady Blanchard went very still and very white. After a long moment she stood, and walked all the way back into her dressing room. Rosalind saw her close her jewel cabinet. By the time she returned, she was once again entirely composed.

“Thank you for telling me this, Rosalind,” she said. “It explains why he did not tell me either. He would be concerned that I might let the matter slip before Casselmain had a chance to speak with you. This is very good.” She spoke these words toward the doorway and the jewel cabinet. “Very good. It explains everything satisfactorily and now . . . now we can all get on with things.”

“But there was more.”

“What more could their possibly be!” cried Lady Blanchard. She immediately pressed her hand to her mouth. “Oh, forgive me, Rosalind. I didn't mean . . . I'm sorry.”

Rosalind shook her head, indicating the outburst was of no importance. The question she had to ask now was, however. In fact, it was vital.

“Lady Blanchard, has my father contacted you since last year?”

The surprise on Lady Blanchard's face was immediate, and to Rosalind's inexpressible relief, it was genuine. “Oh my dear, what could your father have to do with this?”

“I don't know. But . . .” Forcing herself to speak calmly and clearly, Rosalind told Lady Blanchard about Devon's suspicions regarding the course of Mr. Harkness's inquiries. Lady Blanchard listened in absolute silence.

“So as you can see, I need to know if Father has contacted you looking for money, or anything else,” Rosalind whispered finally. “If . . . if Lord Casselmain is right, and Mr. Harkness is looking for Father, and if he discovers that Father has been making mischief for anyone connected with me and this incident . . . I have to know.”

Lady Blanchard touched the corner of one eye. “Of course you do, my dear. But you should know, Rosalind, that I have watched out for you even when you weren't under our roof.” She smiled kindly. “I can say with confidence this matter has nothing to do with your father, or your sister. They have not been seen nor heard from, and if this man Harkness does try to trace them, that is what he will find. Not that there's any reason he should. Now that the wager has been found, the entire matter will be closed.”

Rosalind's hands twisted in her lap. She stilled them with the force of long habit. “I want to believe that.”

“Why wouldn't it be?”

“I'm not sure. But there's something. I was sure of it this morning, but now, I've been so worried about my father being dragged into this business it's driven everything out of my head.” She paused again. “Lady Blanchard, that day . . . you were late coming out of Almack's. That's why I came in.”

Lady Blanchard patted her hand and the consoling gesture sent a flash of irritation through Rosalind. “I was, and you cannot imagine how many times I have reproached myself for it since. I had mislaid one of my notebooks. You know how important our visiting cards are for determining who is allowed onto the subscribers lists. I stayed behind to hunt for it.”

“But you said ‘he' was supposed to have waited. What did you mean by that?”

“Did I say that?” Lady Blanchard blinked. “What an extraordinary thing. I don't remember. I was terribly shocked. I'm afraid I can recall nothing clearly.”

She spoke smoothly and directly, without stammer or hesitation, and Rosalind felt a sensation inside her that was very close to heartbreak.

She kept her face still, and tried again. “Did you perhaps hear anything . . . untoward?”

She blinked, and for a moment, the mask slipped, but what Rosalind saw beneath was not distress. It was anger. “I heard many things,” she said. “I could not begin to tell if any of them was untoward or not. Now.” Lady Blanchard's normal decisiveness returned to her tone. “What you need is to lie down. I'll send Mrs. Kendricks to you with some tea.”

“Thank you, but don't bother Mrs. Kendricks just yet.” Rosalind saw Lady Blanchard get ready to protest and forced a smile. “I will lie down, and I promise I will ring for tea as soon as I've caught my breath.”

“Excellent. You need your strength, Rosalind. There's still so much to come. I'm sorry, but it cannot be helped.”

“It isn't your fault, Lady Blanchard.”

She smiled again, and this time Rosalind saw the sadness in her eyes. “Go have your lie down, my dear. I'll see you later.”

Rosalind returned to her rooms, but she did not lie down. Instead, she sat at her writing desk and stared out the window. The square beyond was filled with the day's traffic. Carriages, wagons, and persons of all kinds and classes on foot passed to and fro, all of them doubtlessly grateful for the sunshine the day most unexpectedly afforded.

Rosalind, though, saw all this only distantly. In her mind,
she was listening to Lady Blanchard talk about how she'd been late coming out of Almack's because she was looking for a missing notebook. It was perfectly believable. Lists, books, and letters—they not only regulated the social world, but also defined it. They told the tales of money, of welcome and hospitality, plans and hopes and dreams. They told of wins and losses and pending questions to be settled by future events. Even Mrs. Willis had her little book of notes of things to do and watch over. And Mr. Harkness had his. The lady patronesses certainly each had their own.

Rosalind remembered all the books and piles of papers in Mr. Whelks's office, and the steady, methodical way he wrote out the voucher cards. She remembered the solid hour she'd spent updating Lady Jersey's visiting book with the names of the women who wanted to secure their entrée to Almack's. She remembered the legions of matrons and daughters that had paraded through Lady Blanchard's sitting room in the past several days, to drink tea and try to find out if they would still be granted admission to the rooms, where they believed they could find the makings of a brilliant future, or at least a secure one, free of the least possibility of a drafty Bloomsbury flat and eggs boiled over the sitting room fire. Or worse.

She thought about the book at White's again, and Devon's declaration, and her hands remembered the touch of a paper, and her eyes remembered the sight of a signature and a promise of payment, and the revelation of a hanging offense.

And with that Rosalind knew what had killed Jasper Aimesworth. Not who, not why, but what.

And she remembered something else. It was another day like this, gray and sad and strange. She was standing in a lady's dressing room then, only this one was her mother's. Mother was applying her rouge, Rosalind recalled. She carefully rubbed the
pale pink ointment into her skin and leaned forward to examine the effect in her mirror, while Rosalind attempted to explain how they should go at once to their friends, if any friends would consent to receive them.

“I will not run away as if something was wrong,” Mother said. “I've told you a hundred times, Rosalind. Your father will be back shortly. I expect a letter from him with a bank draft momentarily.”

“Mother, I don't think he is coming back,” said Rosalind. “At least, not in time.”

“I won't hear it, Rosalind. He would not have taken Charlotte if he did not mean to return.”

“Perhaps he means to, but what if he can't? The men downstairs . . . they say he owes a great deal of money.”

Mother held up a peach ribbon against her cheek. “This one will do, Marie.” She passed it to the girl so it could be threaded into her curls.

“Mother, if we can't pay, they'll take the furniture.”

“I can't understand you when you talk like that, Rosalind. Tell Phipps to deal with them.”

“Phipps is gone, Mother.”

“Then tell him when he gets back. Marie, I need my coral necklace.”

But Phipps wasn't coming back any more than Father was. The only ones who stayed behind when Rosalind had to explain there was no money for wages on the quarter day were Marie, Cook, and Mrs. Kendricks, and she was no longer certain about Mrs. Kendricks. The housekeeper had not been seen all morning.

“Mother . . .”

“Oh, stop whining, Rosalind!” she snapped. “How many times must I say it? You will accord yourself with calm and dignity in front of me or you will not be allowed in this room at all.” She turned toward Rosalind, and for the first time Rosalind
saw the wild, empty look in Mother's eyes that would become the stuff of her nightmares. “Your father and Charlotte will return!” She shrieked and slammed both hands on the table. “Whatever
you
have done to drive them away, they will not desert
me
! They
will
be back for me!”

Rosalind fled. Out in the corridor she buried her head in her hands, and she shook from fear and from cold and from the knowledge that she was finally and entirely alone.

Eventually, the tremors eased, and Rosalind was able to straighten up. She went downstairs, because somehow the sneering men below had become less terrifying than her mother.

The reek of tobacco and onions filled the entrance hall. The bailiff's men sat on the velveteen sofa, playing cards on a packing crate.

“What will you take?” she asked them.

One of the men pulled out a wrinkled paper and held it to her. She looked at the column of figures. She read them all, but none of them made any sense. She had become like Mother up in her boudoir. Her mind simply would not hold any more horror.