A Useful Woman (30 page)

“Unless I'm mistaken, it is considered rude to leave a lady standing on her own.”

Rosalind turned around and found herself face-to-face with Mr. Harkness.

The Price of Admission

They formed a matrimonial market, where buyers and sellers were as eager, and sometimes the merchandise as unsuspecting and as passive, as in any other commercial traffic.

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

“I surmise from your expression that Mr. Faulks did not tell you I would be here,” said Mr. Harkness. “Or what state I'd be in.”

“No, it's not that . . .”

Rosalind stopped, because she was lying and he could tell. Mr. Harkness was truly a sight. He must have borrowed his silk breeches, because they were at once too tight and too long, with the buckles digging hard into his calves. His jacket seams strained across his shoulders, but the cuffs had been turned back so as not to overhang his hands, and the buckled shoes were clownishly large.

And Mr. Harkness was
here
, where anyone could see him, and see her at his side. Including Lord Blanchard. Including Lady Blanchard.

Rosalind cast her panicked gaze about the room. She glimpsed Lady Blanchard and Lady Edmund in the conservatory, but could not spy Honoria, Devon, or Lord Blanchard.

“What's the matter?” asked Mr. Harkness, with none of the conventional nonsense about her looking unwell or faint. “What do you see?”

I don't know.
But the words died unsaid. She did know. At least, she knew what she had seen up until now, and it was time to tell him.

But where on earth could she? Rosalind fell back at once on an old trick from her debut season.

“Mr. Harkness, I need you to step on my hem.”

The principal officer peered at her to see if she was serious. Evidently deciding she was, he lifted his foot in its overlarge shoe and set the heel down on her gown's modest train. Rosalind gripped her skirt. With a silent apology to her mother's memory and to Mrs. Kendricks, who had worked so hard to keep the gown presentable, she yanked. Silk and lace tore, and Mr. Harkness lifted his foot to display a deplorable gap.

“I'm terribly sorry,” he murmured. “Is there anything to be done?”

“My servant will be able to pin it up. She's in the retiring room.”

“Where shall I wait so we can resume our conversation?”

“Mr. Nottingham has a private study at the top of the stairs.”

He nodded his understanding and Rosalind smiled brightly in case anyone happened to look in their direction. She also curtsied, and hurried away.

In the retiring room, Mrs. Kendricks exclaimed and both pinned and stitched the gaping fabric closed. The seconds ticked relentlessly past until Rosalind felt herself in danger of genuine hysteria. What was happening downstairs? What were Lord and Lady Blanchard doing? What of Lady Edmund? She prayed Honoria was watching and would be able to tell her at least something when she returned.

For now, she had to do her best to steal down the shadowy
corridor that was not meant to be in general use for this party, let herself into a dark room she knew contained an unescorted man, and lock the door behind her.

She had been wrong in one respect. The room was not entirely dark. Mr. Harkness had used his time to light the candles on the mantle. The remaining shadows masked his ill-fitting clothing, but highlighted the strong planes of his face. Rosalind was glad she still stood in the darkness, so he could not see the outrageous way she stared at him.

“I'm afraid there will be trouble for you if we're caught together like this,” Mr. Harkness said. He also did not move from his place by the black hearth.

“I am aware of that.” She leaned toward the door, listening, but heard no sound of movement outside. “We should have a few moments, though, I think.”

“What is it you want to say?”

She faced him, and opened her mouth, and closed it. Where, after all this, could she possibly begin?

“Mr. Harkness, what do you know of how Almack's works?”

A spasm of impatience crossed his shadowed features, but he smoothed it away. “Nothing at all, I'm afraid.”

“It's complicated, and eccentric. What Almack's really is, is a series of assemblies given by the lady patronesses. Admission requires a ticket and only persons who have paid the subscription fee are eligible to receive those tickets.

“Is that unusual?”

“Not at all. It's quite the done thing, especially for charity concerts and the like. To become a subscriber to Almack's, you must apply to one of the ladies who arrange the assemblies.”

“A patroness?”

“Yes. Now, in the normal run of things, a person giving a
subscription ball or assembly will grant tickets to anyone who pays until tickets run out.”

“But not so at Almack's.”

“No. You have to be granted permission to subscribe to Almack's.” Now Mr. Harkness looked at her in frank disbelief, and all she could do was smile weakly in return. “To gain that permission, you must first be visited by a patroness. She judges your character, your taste, your rank and wealth, your
ton,
if you understand me.”
That
ton
which does not allow for unmarried women to be alone with a man, incidentally.

“Almost, I think.” He frowned like a schoolboy working a particularly difficult sum. “So, if the lady patroness judges you to be of good enough
ton
, you are permitted to pay your fee and become a subscriber.”

“Oh, no,” said Rosalind. “Not yet. If you put on a good showing for the patroness who visits you, she takes your name to the others. You are discussed in a secret meeting and voted upon. Only if the whole of the board votes in your favor are you allowed to become a subscriber.”

“Miss Thorne,” choked Mr. Harkness. “Are you telling me people actually have to pass muster before a board of review in order to be allowed to give these women ten guineas?”

“Yes.”

He stared at the fire for a long moment. “Perhaps this is why people say you have to be born to society. It's clearly beyond my tradesman's sensibilities.” He sighed. “So, once you have been permitted to pay your money, you receive a voucher, and you can go to the ball?”

“Yes. A voucher entitles the subscriber to a certain amount of tickets for a certain number of assemblies. All the assemblies in May, for example, or two assemblies in August.”

“The number of assemblies indicating the strength of the ladies' opinions of you?”

“You begin to understand, and I think . . .” She stopped. She had not said this out loud yet, and in this room, alone with this man, it suddenly seemed entirely absurd. But she remembered the strongbox, and she remembered the scrap of ledger Honoria showed her. And she remembered Jasper's eyes.

“I think someone has been forging Almack's tickets, and selling them.”

Mr. Harkness did not answer immediately. He paced over to the window and eased the curtains back to look at the street outside. “I don't understand how that could work,” he said. “You've just told me the patronesses personally know everyone who gets the tickets.”

“No.” Rosalind rubbed her hands together. Despite the cold of the room, her palms had gone damp inside her silk gloves. “The ladies know who gets the
vouchers,
or at least each lady personally knows who gets the vouchers she's approved. Say, for example, you are Mrs. Smith. You have two daughters and a son and you want them to be introduced to society. You apply to a patroness for admission to Almack's. You are found acceptable and pay your fee, and receive a voucher which entitles you to five tickets for the April assemblies; three ladies tickets and two gentlemen's tickets.”

“Why two? I thought you said there was one son.”

“Extra gentlemen's tickets are always given, to encourage more men to turn up. Now, the ladies tickets are transferrable . . .”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Transferrable. If Mrs. Smith cannot attend an assembly, she may give her ticket to another, within limits.”

“So, the lady patronesses might
not
personally know everyone who holds the tickets,” said Mr. Harkness slowly. “Are the tickets examined before the parties enter?”

“Yes, and the patroness who is assigned to preside over the assembly is supposed to be at the door to see who comes in and make sure they are appropriately dressed, and have their tickets.”

“So that would be a barrier to a stranger's entry.”

Rosalind tried to moisten her lips, but her mouth had gone entirely dry. “But not a very great one. The Almack's assemblies may be exclusive, but they are not small. On any given night, there can be as many as a thousand people coming and going. If one has a credible ticket and good enough clothing, one might very well slip in. All it would take was a certain steadiness of nerve at the door. Then, once inside, if there were extra people wandering about, it would be assumed that they were the guests of somebody else.”

“It's an interesting hypothesis, Miss Thorne. I would like to know how you happened to hit on it.”

He had gone still again, and he was waiting. Specifically, he was waiting to see if she would now lie to him.

Rosalind bowed her head. “I thought of forgery because my father is a forger, sir, as I think you already know.”

“Yes, Miss Thorne, I do.”

He said it softly and soberly. But that was all he said. He did not remind her that she was tainted by her father's crime. He did not suggest he had been searching for him, or for Charlotte. Rosalind pressed her hand against her stomach. She had ricocheted so many times between hope and fear tonight, every nerve felt weak and bruised. She must breathe. She could not compound the absurdity and discomfort of this moment by growing faint.

It was Mr. Harkness who broke the silence. “If this scheme is as you paint it, and it was discovered, I imagine the papers would pounce,” he said. “The lady patronesses would go from ruling the fashionable world to being laughingstocks.”

“Oh, worse.” Rosalind told him. “Almack's reputation rests not only on its perfect exclusivity, but its perfect safety. Only the richest and most respectable gentlemen are allowed within reach of the most respectable girls. If the matchmaking mamas thought unacceptable parties, or poor fortune hunters, had been let near their darling children under false pretenses, the patronesses might very well find themselves cut dead throughout society.”

“And you think Jasper Aimesworth might have been involved in this ticket-forging scheme?”

“I found a strongbox in a room that he had the key for. It had thousands in banknotes in it, and a thousand more in promissory notes.”

“Which is very interesting, but not conclusive,” Mr. Harkness said, gently, she thought. “He may have been lucky at the tables.”

“Perhaps,” said Rosalind. “But somehow, I doubt that. The last time Honoria, his sister, saw him alive, he was burning papers, and at least some of them were pages from a ledger of some sort.”

“Which might have contained the names of people receiving tickets.” Harkness's fists clenched.

“Honoria told me at the very beginning that Jasper Aimesworth was worried about money. The housekeeper at Tamwell House said he was badgering his father about it. I think he hit on a scheme to make some for himself. He forged and distributed the tickets in collusion with one of the lady patronesses . . .”

She looked at him, waiting for him to say “who might have been Lady Blanchard,” but he did not. He just stood by the hearth and watched her with an air of weary sympathy that robbed Rosalind of her remaining breath. She was not used to being understood, not by strange men in the darkness certainly. But she was so alone, so broken by all the truths she had collided against, she needed someone, anyone, to cling to.

Oh, I have gone too far. There is no coming back from this.

“Miss Thorne, you do realize you're telling me that your godmother, Lady Blanchard, might have killed a man.”

His words dropped like stones into the cold stillness of the room. Rosalind wanted to kick them all away, but she could not even make herself move. “His skull was bashed in. That's hardly something a woman would do.”

Mr. Harkness's smile was brief, and bitter. “Miss Thorne, I have seen women do as much and worse when they are angry, or desperate.”

Which was hardly reassuring, but then, he did not mean it to be. He would not spare her. She should be grateful. She surely did not want any such protection now. She had been protected before this—first by her father and then by the Blanchards and Lord Casselmain—and look where it had gotten her.

“Lady Blanchard wasn't actually in Almack's when Jasper died,” said Rosalind. Mr. Harkness stood perfectly still, waiting for her to go on. Rosalind did. “I just heard it from the Countess Lieven. I took Lady Blanchard to Almack's, but she never attended that patronesses' meeting. I think . . . I think she was meeting someone quite different.”