A Useful Woman (32 page)

Jasper Aimesworth forged the tickets. Lady Blanchard distributed them and they collected the money. And when it all threatened to fall apart, she might have met him in secret, and
killed him in anger. And in shock, in fear, confessed it to her husband.

It could easily have happened in just that way.

I could still be wrong.
Rosalind slammed the drawer shut and turned to her friends. “I know where they are,” she said. “They've gone to Thurlough Square.”

*   *   *

Whelks led Harkness into the parlor. It was a Spartan place, with one chair drawn up in front of the fire, and one chair at the dining table. There was no evidence of a wife, never mind any children. The only luxury in the place was the small harpsichord under its tapestry cover by the window.

Whelks set the candle carefully on the mantle. “I trust I am allowed to dress before you take me with you?”

“Should I be taking you with me?” asked Harkness.

“Oh yes,” said Whelks to the fire. “I killed Mr. Aimesworth. I am ready to confess it.”

Give me patience.
Harkness folded his arms. “You did not, and I can prove it, but I'd rather not have to take the time.”

Whelks turned around, his eyes wide and astonished. “But—”

“I don't know who did it—yet, mind you, but I know it wasn't you. Was it your Lady Jersey?”

Whelks drew himself up to his full height, and it was impressive. If he'd been under the roof beam, he would have hit his very hard head. “You are insolent, sir!”

“I know,” answered Harkness. “Look, man, you're not going to be able to stop the scandal, if that's what you're worried about. What you can do is make sure the proper parties pay for what they've done, before anyone else has to.” He paused. The man was shrinking in on himself, shriveling like very tall men did to try to
fit into the crowded world around them. “You've already seen how trying to hide this away has just made it worse.”

“Yes,” said Whelks softly. “Yes, I have.” He slumped in the fireside chair.

Harkness grabbed up the chair from the dining table and brought it over.

“I'm sorry about this, Whelks,” he said. “But I've got no time. I need you to talk, and quickly. What can you tell me about this business of the Almack's vouchers?”

Whelks rubbed his big hands against his knees.

“I found out last season.” He paused so Harkness could nod and signal his understanding. “I was letting myself into the patronesses' office, to make sure it had been cleaned and that all was in order for the first meeting of the year. The room must be well aired and free of damp, with everything in its place. Willis is an excellent manager, but it is my job to be sure. Lady Jersey is quite particular, you understand.”

And probably has the devil's own temper and if anything's out of place, it's your head on the block.
“I understand.”

“It was a Monday, of course, directly before the patronesses' meeting. I opened the door and . . . there was Lady Blanchard, and the young man was with her.”

“Jasper Aimesworth?”

Whelks nodded. “It was a horrible breech of etiquette. No one is permitted in the lady patronesses' office except the ladies themselves.”

“And you.”

“Only when no business is being conducted.” Whelks sniffed. “I was so shocked, I closed the door and stood there until her ladyship came out.” He paused again. His fingers had started drumming restlessly against his thighs. It took Harkness a minute
to realize the motion was that of a man playing a tune on a keyboard. “She said it was a joke. She begged me to say nothing. It would never happen again. She trusted my discretion.

“I, of course, was willing to overlook the matter. With the season coming on, there was no need for Lady Jersey to be distressed by something so small. I put it out of my mind, until I began to notice the discrepancies.”

“More people were coming to the assemblies than showed up in the official books?” prompted Harkness.

Whelks's fingertips stilled. “Oh no, the lists were quite complete,” he whispered. “But they were not in my handwriting.”

“Someone was swapping them?”

He nodded. “Someone created false ledgers, copied from the originals, but with additions, and put them on the shelves. The copies were good, but well . . .”

Of course. Two sets of books. It was a standard trick among moneymen. It would work with other kinds of records as well. This way, if there was any question about admitted persons, and anyone did check the records, they would find all in order. Anyone, that is, except this man.

“I realized something was wrong, and I realized Lady Blanchard must be involved. It was a horrible accusation to make. I wanted to take my time and muster my evidence. But then, I heard about the Konigsberg appointment. I was so relieved.” He paused and wiped his upper lip. “I thought that would end it. I need never say a word.”

You would never be accused of carelessness, and perhaps dismissed from your post.

“Almack's would continue, and not a soul the wiser. Then . . .” He stopped and pressed his hand across his eyes.

“Then Jasper Aimesworth died,” Harkness finished for him.

Whelks nodded.

“Why didn't you say anything?”

“Because it would destroy Almack's, and my lady,” he said, and Harkness saw a single tear trickle slowly down his cheek. “I could not take away everything she, and I, had worked for. It was all I had. He who steals my purse, Mr. Harkness, steals trash.”

“But he who steals my good name . . .” Harkness continued the quotation. “But you said you'd mustered your evidence.”

“Yes. I'd begun keeping copies of my own lists, so I could compare them to the ledgers in the office after the assemblies.”

“And where are those ledgers?”

“I don't know,” he said. “When I went to fetch them after . . . after. They were already gone.”

Taken by somebody who had access to the office. Probably Aimesworth had gotten wind that the jig was up. He'd already been in and fetched the ledgers that morning, to take home and burn.

“But that was why you went and cleared out Aimesworth's rooms. You were looking for the ledgers. You assumed the landlord would be blamed when the theft was eventually discovered. It would be assumed he sold the young man's goods to a pawnbroker.”

He nodded. “At that point, I just wanted to make it all go away, all evidence of . . . impropriety.”

Because you were afraid
, thought Harkness.
With good reason.

Any servant, no matter how highly placed, could lose their position on the turn of a whim and the snap of a finger, and all of them knew it. If they were at all intelligent, they took great pains to make sure of the perfection of their actions. Mr. Whelks was very intelligent, and he knew it probable Lady Jersey would not forgive him for keeping such a secret from her.

“What did you do after you cleared out Aimesworth's rooms?”

“I went to Lord Blanchard with a letter, to warn him of his wife's deceptions.”

Harkness got to his feet. Slowly he walked over and stood before a man who was not used to being loomed over. “You did
what?
”

“I wouldn't have done it, but Miss Thorne was still ferreting out the gossip. I thought Lord Blanchard could force her to be quiet. I was sure he would protect his name from scandal as I must protect . . .”

But Harkness was already across the room. He threw open the door, and reeled backward. A stunned and gasping Lord Casselmain staggered across the threshold.

“Harkness, come quick. Rosalind . . . Rosalind . . .”

Harkness just grabbed the duke by the arm and dragged him out into the dark.

The Coldest Truth

I have often heard her say,
“que le jeu d'Almack's ne valoit pas la chandelle”
[“that the game of Almack's is not worth a candle”].

—
Marianne Spencer Stanhope Hudson,
Almack's

Thurlough Square was absolutely black and silent when Rosalind and Honoria leapt from the carriage.

Devon had not wanted them to come. Devon had raged at them. But no one else could go to fetch Mr. Harkness, and Rosalind was finished with lying to Devon or playing the meek and obedient miss. Even then, she was sure he would have kept insisting if Mr. Faulks hadn't volunteered to drive.

Honoria stared about her at the blackened square. “Where are we?”

“I'll tell you later.” Rosalind looked up at Sanderson. “Mr. Faulks?” They could not leave the horses and the carriage.

“Go,” he said. “I'll tie up the horses and follow.”

Rosalind grabbed Jasper's keys out of her reticule and ran up the steps, her slippers skidding on the damp stone. After several fumbling attempts, she found the lock and opened the door. The inside was as dark as the square, and as silent.

“I can't be wrong,” she breathed as she grabbed up her hems and stumbled inside. Despite her coat and bonnet, she was chilled to the bone. She felt as if she would never be warm again.

“Why not? You were before.” Honoria was leaning against the wall, trying to catch her own breath. Her curls had tumbled down from their formal dressing and trailed around her ears along with a tangle of ribbons.

“Because the money's here.” Rosalind staggered forward and found the stairs. With her hems in her fists and Honoria right behind her, she climbed as fast as constricted breath and battered slippers allowed. “If they're fleeing the country, they'll need money.”

There. The door to the lady's bedroom was open a crack, and there was a faint flickering light beyond. Rosalind ran, and when she reached the door, she pushed it open.

The first thing she saw was Lady Blanchard stretched out on the bed, the covers in disarray around her. Her head lolled at an unnatural angle. One white arm fell across her chest, the other dangled over the side of the bed.

“Lady Blanchard!” Rosalind cried and dashed forward.

“She's dead.”

Rosalind froze in her tracks. Lord Blanchard stepped around the foot of the bed. The curtains had concealed him from Rosalind's view until now. He came forward, silent as a ghost and just as pale.

“My wife is dead,” he said. “She took this.” He held out a small, stoppered brown bottle. “She took it all.”

Rosalind could not look away from him. The candlelight played across his ghastly features. He looked less alive than the woman on the bed. Rosalind raised the bottle to her nose and caught the too-sweet scent.

“Laudanum?” It was Honoria who spoke.

Lord Blanchard whipped around, seeing the other woman for the first time. He groaned. “I was too late. When she left the party, I followed, but not fast enough. God forgive me,” he added. “You were too late, too.”

His eyes shone oddly, but it was not tears. Rosalind took a step backward. Something was entirely wrong here.

She had it. Lord Blanchard said he followed his wife.
The footman said they'd left the party together.

Movement caught her eye. Lady Blanchard's head shifted, just a little.

“She lives!” Rosalind cried. “Lord Blanchard, go shout for the watch! Faulks is outside! They can bring an apothecary! She lives!”

“I'll go!” Honoria was out the door and thudding down the stairs before Rosalind could stop her. She moved to dart forward to the bedside. There might be time. They might be able to get the poison out of her. She might . . .

Lord Blanchard stepped into her path. He did not even look behind him.

“She's dead, Miss Thorne,” he breathed. “My wife is dead. I was too late and so were you.”

“You can't mean this! Let me past!” She dodged sideways again, but he grabbed her wrist, holding it high and twisting hard.

“There is no help,” he told her in that same soft, flat whisper. “How many times do I have to tell you? She is already dead.”

Understanding fell heavily through her. Rosalind gulped air. “You knew. About Almack's, about the forged tickets.”

“Yes, yes, I knew.” He shoved her backward. “And now there's nothing to be done. You're a sensible woman, Miss Thorne. You can see how it had to end this way, can't you? She thought she could control you with your old loyalties. She thought she could
control Lady Edmund with the bribe of an Almack's post. But she couldn't. And where would it end? She could not let the world know she'd killed her young lover with whom she'd colluded to sell fake tickets for Almack's. Her name would never survive it. She had to end her life. There was no choice.”

His grip loosened, just enough. Rosalind drew her arm down slowly. She must not startle him. “Oh no. She never would. Not over such a man as she knew you to be.”

His mouth closed.

“She was forging the tickets with Jasper. They were lovers, and they did it to get the money so they could run away together. You'd never grant her a divorce, and you'd ruin her if she tried to leave openly, because it would end your political ambitions. But you found out about the whole scheme . . .” Where was Honoria? Where was Mr. Faulks? She couldn't even hear voices in the street below. “And Jasper knew it. He'd gone to Almack's that day to warn Lady Blanchard.”

“I thought he might be getting jumpy,” said Lord Blanchard. “I was waiting to see if he'd show up and he did not disappoint.” He snickered. “It was Aimesworth's idea to talk in the musicians' gallery. The young idiot thought he could put me off.
Me!
Said he'd tried to tell Jane I was wise to them as well as that blaggard Whelks. Said he burned the evidence that morning. He offered to hand over the money—thousands, he said—if I would just let her go. They were going anyway, he said. It was just a matter of whether they left quietly or loudly.”

“And you killed him.”

“Of course I killed him! That bitch and her insolent puppy were going to ruin my good name! I killed him right there, in pure and perfect Almack's, where everyone would rush to cover it all up and assign blame in every quarter, and never look twice at me, and never think to ask why it had happened, so there'd
be no scandal involving my wife. What else was I supposed to do?” He spread his hands toward her. “And now, I must ask, what am I to do with you?”

Malice dripped from each word, and there was no mistaking the hatred, and the exhaustion.

Rosalind forced the panic down. She was not here alone. She'd not been such a fool. Honoria was outside, so was Mr. Faulks. They were bringing the watchmen, and an apothecary. She just had to buy herself some time.

Her eyes darted left, darted right, and she saw Blanchard's walking stick leaning against the wall. Her mind froze, then galloped forward. She wondered how many blows it had taken to kill Jasper, and how he'd dealt with the blood on his hands.

“It doesn't make any difference,” she whispered. “I cannot tell anyone. They will not believe me.”

“No, that's true. You're just a single woman alone. Prone to imaginings and hysterics. There's not a magistrate in the kingdom who would take your word over mine. Not when you've been abandoned by your family and living by your . . . wits.” He chuckled rudely. “Especially once I've noised it about that I had to ask you to leave my house once before.”

Rosalind listened to him reason with himself. She glanced toward the door. It was not so very far away. She could bolt. No. She was in slippers and corset and this ridiculous dress. If he tried even a little, he'd be on her in an instant.

“Still, Miss Thorne, we all know you are not an ordinary woman. You are so very useful. I can count on Lady Jersey and the rest of her scheming cats at that ridiculous little social club to keep quiet and safeguard their own reputations. But you, you might just be able to convince that man from Bow Street, or that harridan daughter of the Aimesworths, to say something out loud.”

“I swear I will not tell anyone.”

He shook his head ponderously, like it had suddenly grown too heavy for him. “I don't believe you. I can't believe you. You'll turn into a talking fool like any woman would.”

He took a step toward her. He took another.

“Stop, Lord Blanchard. Think. Your wife . . .” She swallowed. Had Lady Blanchard moved again? Was she still alive? Was there any chance at all? “You're an intelligent man. You've fashioned an explanation for your wife's death, but what of mine? The watch will be here any moment.”

He snickered. “What explanation do I need? I am Viscount Blanchard! What happens in my house is beyond question. You'll be buried and forgotten faster than that pathetic Aimesworth boy.”

Rosalind turned. She dove forward, not for the door but for the walking stick. She seized on it and turned back to swing at her godfather's head, but Lord Blanchard ducked, and grabbed her wrists, twisting hard, until she cried out and dropped the stick.

One great hand closed about her throat.

“Now, now, Miss Thorne, it's best to go quiet. Even Jane saw that in the end.”

Rosalind pried desperately at his fingers, but could not find purchase. She did the only thing she could. She grabbed his arm and let herself fall.

He wasn't ready to take all her weight, and he staggered. Rosalind twisted frantically and his death grip broke. She rolled sideways, struggling to get to her feet, but her skirts tangled her legs. She caught the dressing table and dragged herself upright.

“Help!” Rosalind screamed hoarsely. “Help!”

Blanchard was there, tall and broad and monstrous in the shadows. Rosalind snatched up the table's stool and swung it at him. He knocked it away easily and lunged for her, without seeing she now had hold of the tiny pair of silver scissors.

“Stop, Blanchard!” hollered a man's voice. “In the king's name, stop!”

It was too late. Blanchard's momentum had carried him too far forward. The scissors drove into his stomach and he howled in shock and pain and staggered backward.

Adam Harkness grabbed him from behind and bore him to the ground. Devon Winterbourne ran past and grabbed Rosalind.

“Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”

Rosalind looked at her hands and saw the blood.

“I . . .”

She got no further before the blackness swallowed her whole.