A Useful Woman (5 page)

Rosalind felt a twinge inside her. This polite banter was exactly right for the moment, but it was entirely wrong for Devon. Devon was always a little awkward and searching for his balance. Devon was sincere, and he was kind. He wasn't polished. He wasn't graceful in company. He laughed. He teased. He returned small, lost things to their proper owners.

Only this wasn't Devon in front of her, of course. This was Lord Casselmain.

Lady Edmund laughed. “As flattery, sir, that has the virtue of being original. What is your opinion, Miss Thorne? Shall I accept his apology?”

“As it is sincerely offered, Lady Edmund, I think you should.”
As Rosalind spoke, the doors opened to show Honoria Aimesworth poised on the threshold.

“Oh, Lord Casselmain is never less than sincere,” Honoria declared. “It is one of his great virtues.”

Honoria entered the room with a stride closer to a soldier's march than a lady's delicate glide. Rosalind glanced at Lady Edmund in time to see how quickly she smoothed out her frown of disapproval. As for Devon, he watched the approach of the girl he was supposed to marry with indifference, and perhaps a little amusement. Not that Honoria's face exactly lit up with joy at the sight of her future bridegroom. Perhaps it might have, if she had not been so busy scowling at Rosalind.

“Lord Casselmain was calling on Jasper,” said Lady Edmund. “Do you know where he's gone, Honoria?”

The question turned Honoria's attention back to her mother.

“I didn't know he had. He said nothing at breakfast about going anywhere.”

“Well, you and I must entertain his lordship until your brother returns.”

As a hint, it was hardly subtle, and Rosalind at once got to her feet. “I'm afraid I must be on my way. Thank you for the tea, Lady Edmund.”

Devon—Lord Casselmain—rose as well.

“Oh, must you go, Rosalind?” said Honoria brightly. “I was so hoping we might have a chance to chat.”

The small, false politeness of social conversation had never been Honoria's forte. If the truth were to be known, it was something Rosalind actually liked about her. Honoria might be sharp as a knife, but she was also entirely straightforward.

Lady Edmund wasn't frowning, but maintaining her placid demeanor was obviously costing her. Rosalind felt curiosity prick. Honoria was giving her an acceptable excuse to stay, but
that would mean angering Lady Edmund. She might not have any intention of accepting her outrageous proposal, but Lady Edmund was a prominent figure in society, and Rosalind could not risk falling into her bad books.

“Thank you, Honoria, but I'm afraid I've several calls to make. Perhaps another time?” Rosalind found her polite smile and bestowed it evenly on the little assembly. “Thank you so much for your invitation, Lady Edmund. I will have an answer for you regarding the other matter shortly.”

“I look forward to hearing from you, Miss Thorne.”

Then, because it was expected and therefore required, she turned to face Lord Casselmain and receive his polite bow. Rosalind bobbed her curtsy. But her eyes raised themselves a heartbeat too soon and caught his.

Memory wrapped her in summer darkness, and Devon's gentle eyes were filled with moonlight and kindness and something else she did not yet have the courage to put a name to. His hand caught hers, and she felt how he shook. She remembered thinking how this was only fair. She was shaking, too.

Six hours later, Rosalind was chasing her sister Charlotte down the servants' stairs, out to the coach and four their father had hired to make his escape.

Rosalind forced herself back to the present, where Lord Casselmain stood a polite distance away and touched her only with his light, gray gaze.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” he said. “But I believe you know my cousin Louisa, Miss Thorne?”

“Yes, indeed. How is she?”

“Very well, thank you. She and my aunt are staying with me for the season. She mentioned she hoped to meet you while you are in town. May I tell her you will call?”

Rosalind did not for a moment believe this invitation
actually came from Louisa. Lord Casselmain was contriving to bring them together again, right in front of the girl who was supposed to be his fiancée.

Unfortunately, because of the way Lord Casselmain phrased the request, and because they were in company, Rosalind could not refuse without appearing ill-mannered. “Certainly you may, Lord Casselmain. I'll be delighted to see Louisa. Now, you must excuse me.”

Annoyance at having been so neatly cornered gave her the strength to turn smoothly away.

Outside, January's cold wrapped around Rosalind, digging under her collar and into her finger ends. There was a livery stable nearby where she might be able to hire a hackney carriage, but as she mentally counted the meager number of coins in her reticule, Rosalind sighed, and started walking in the direction of Blanchard House.

Why?
she thought again.
Why are you doing this, Devon?

But still there was no answer.

The Secrets of a Diplomatic House

“How will this look in Almack's” was as insistent a question as “How will this look in the universe?”

—Thomas Carlyle

Blanchard House had been built on a grand scale. Unlike Lady Edmund, however, Lady Blanchard had attempted to find some harmony between her home's past and its present. The lower rooms maintained much of their old grandeur, with their frescoed ceilings and gilded trim. Since it was not easy to make such vast painted and paneled chambers comfortable, Lady Blanchard did her receiving in the private rooms above the first floor.

Because Rosalind was expected, the stout footman took her up the sweeping central stair without any of the formal delay of sending up a card or inquiring whether the mistress of the house was at home. As a further mark of distinction, she was led to the private parlor off Lady Blanchard's boudoir.

“Rosalind!” Lady Blanchard held out her hands in welcome. “At last! Sit down, my dear, and tell me of your success.”

“It was not at all difficult, you know.” Rosalind took her godmother's hands and pressed them warmly. Her encounter with Lord Casselmain had left her more troubled than she would care to admit, and being able to throw herself into Lady
Blanchard's business was a welcome distraction. “The news that you are leaving your post as lady patroness of Almack's should appear in A. E. Littlefield's ‘Society Notes' this Sunday.”

“Excellent.” A determined satisfaction that Rosalind had not seen for a very long time lit Lady Blanchard's green eyes. “I know tea and sandwiches are poor payment for a successful effort, but you shall have them all the same.”

When Rosalind had first come to London in preparation for her debut, Lady Blanchard was a society hostess at the height of her powers. To say that the intervening years had not been kind to her was to do a grave injustice to the pitched battle each had waged against the other. Lady Blanchard still charmed, but like her beauty, that charm had dimmed. She propped up her diminished personal luster with the perfection of her houses and entertainments, much in the way the faded gold of her hair had been reinforced by a special recipe known only to her lady's maid. She applied the art of conversation and of arranging a guest list as carefully as she did her rouge and powder. Nothing, however, could conceal the fact that her pallor was no longer fashionable, or that years of holding back any unseemly show of feeling had sharpened the once gentle lines of her face.

The business of pouring out tea and selecting sandwiches of delicate farm cheese, or thinly sliced ham, or spicy preserved meats occupied the following several minutes, and gave Rosalind time to consider her next words.

“You understand, of course, your fellow patronesses will not be best pleased by our actions.” Rosalind settled onto the sofa with her plate of sandwiches and biscuits. “I expect Lady Jersey at least would prefer some say in the form and timing of the announcement.”

“Which is why I'm making sure the word is put about now.” Lady Blanchard sipped her own tea, but left the food untouched.
“I never should have gotten involved with Almack's. It has been a disaster from beginning to end, but I thought it would help my husband. He was so pleased when I was tapped for the post.”

“And now you're both going away.”

“Yes, we are, and it's high time.” As she spoke, Lady Blanchard smiled, a soft, distant, contented expression.

“It's good to see you happy,” Rosalind said warmly. “I will say, though, that when I'm offering my assistance to a friend, I'm generally told what it is they are after.”

Lady Blanchard colored at this, but only a little. “I know it. But you know that in society two people can keep a secret only when one of them is dead, even if one of those persons is you, Rosalind.”

“I think I should be insulted.”

“Probably you should. I'm using you rather shamelessly, and what makes it worse is that you are the one person I will truly miss after I am gone.”

Rosalind waited, and she hoped, but Lady Blanchard was too practiced a political hostess to allow one moment of intimacy to loosen her tongue. “Enough of my dreary business. Tell me how you are doing.”

Had Rosalind been speaking to Alice Littlefield, she might have ignored the attempt to change the subject. Her difference in age and station to Lady Blanchard, however, made that impossible, not to mention severely impolite.

“To speak the truth, Lady Blanchard, I find myself in a quandary. I've just come from Tamwell House. Lady Edmund Aimesworth wants me to stay with her for the little season.”

The pause between Lady Blanchard's taking hold of her cup and her lifting it from its china saucer was small, but it was there. “I'm sure she wants you to help manage her daughter's return to polite society, just as you helped with her exit.”

“That's what I thought at first, but Lady Edmund wanted to discuss a different matter. She'd heard about your leaving London, and the Almack's board, before I got there.”

“Oh, well.” Lady Blanchard attempted a careless attitude. “We knew it could not be kept quiet for long. Men talk as well as women, and all of Blanchard's ministry friends knew about the posting days ago.”

Rosalind fixed her attention on her hostess. She did not dare blink lest she miss some subtle point of her friend's reaction to what she said next. “Lady Edmund wants to become a patroness.”

Lady Blanchard froze, a heartbeat of absolute stillness. “She
what?
”

“She asked me to use my influence with you to smooth her way.”

Lady Blanchard set her cup down. She rose then, and walked to the window. Rosalind watched with a growing sense of alarm. For Lady Blanchard, such a gesture was as forceful as another woman's shout.

“Tell me what she said,” ordered Lady Blanchard without turning around. “And what she did. Tell me exactly.”

Rosalind did, describing as best she could the scene and the conversation she had endured. She even told Lady Blanchard about the offer of a house and an annuity.

“Who was there when she did this?”

The question took Rosalind aback. How could that matter?
No
, she stopped herself. Of course it mattered. Who heard a thing was at least as important as who said it. “No one at that time. We were alone until Lord Casselmain arrived.”

“Ah. Yes. He'd be there to visit Honoria. I've heard the rumors coming from that quarter, and I'm sorry.”

“There is no need,” murmured Rosalind, trusting the distance between them to mask any telltale note of falsehood. Lady
Blanchard had, after all, been the first to warn her that setting her heart on Devon was a mistake.

Lady Blanchard maintained her post by the arched window, staring out at her walled garden and the cobblestone street beyond. Rosalind felt something very close to panic bubbling up in her. It was ridiculous, and she knew it. She was behaving as if her friend were threatening harm or dissolving into hysterics. But that was how she felt. For all the time she had known Lady Blanchard, she had never seen her betray such indecision that she could not even look at the person to whom she spoke.

Then, just as Rosalind was certain she could endure no more, Lady Blanchard turned, and it was not indecision Rosalind saw shining in her expression. It was triumph, cold and absolute.

“This is an excellent turn of events,” Lady Blanchard said. “Lady Edmund should not only seek the post of patroness, she should have it. It's perfect.”

“Lady Blanchard . . .”

“No, no, you must trust me, Rosalind.” She returned to her seat and took both of Rosalind's hands. “It is positively providential. Lady Jersey will not approve of her at first, but we can change her mind. I'll enlist the Countess Lieven to help. She can persuade Mrs. Drummond-Burrell and Lady Sefton. Then we'll all work together on Sarah . . . yes.” Lady Blanchard's eyes darted back and forth, following the thoughts that flickered through her mind. “You'll have your work cut out for you as well. We must build up Lady Edmund's social presence, and show off her hostessing skills. That will be your work. She must hold a series of routs and supper parties, and they must be exquisite. You will send me the guest lists and I will make sure the required persons, in fact, attend. Getting Lady Edmund out into the most useful settings without tipping our hand might be a little more difficult. I can arrange only so many invitations . . .”

“Stop, please, Lady Blanchard.” Rosalind withdrew her hands so she could smooth her brow. “Just a moment so I can catch my breath! I am ready to stand by you, and do whatever you need and whatever you ask. But please, can't you take me into your confidence? How can I truly help if I don't know what it is you hope to accomplish?”

If Lady Blanchard had any intention of answering, it was cut short by the knock at the door.

“You'll excuse me, I hope, ladies,” said Lord Blanchard as he entered.

Morgan Newcombe, Viscount Blanchard and Third Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs, was a broad man who exuded an air of physical strength in spite of his advancing years. Although his clothing was both conservative and immaculate, his gray hair was perpetually shaggy, as were his eyebrows. Taken together with his small, hooded eyes, strongly arched nose, and prominent chin, he had the look of a highly annoyed hawk.

“Oh, I hadn't realized you'd arrived yet, Miss Thorne.” His lordship nodded distantly to her. “All is well, I trust?”

“Very well, thank you, Lord Blanchard.” Rosalind made both her curtsy and reply as if she and Lady Blanchard had been discussing nothing more serious than the latest Drury Lane comedy. “May I congratulate you on your new appointment?”

“Yes, yes. Lovely place, Konigsberg, and there's a good deal of work to be done now that we've finally gotten rid of that damned upstart, Napoleon. No one wants the Prussians getting ideas about taking too much of their own back from France.” He smiled thinly. “Has Jane secured your agreement to her plans?”

Lady Blanchard colored. “Morgan,” she murmured.

“We had not yet talked about it, sir.” Rosalind put a great amount of effort into keeping the statement casual and her
countenance cheerful, but Lord Blanchard's attention remained entirely on his wife.

“That's me putting my foot in it, I suppose.” He laid his hand on Lady Blanchard's shoulder. “Still, no harm. We were hoping you might come stay for the season, and perhaps even through the summer.” His words were meant for Rosalind, but he spoke them directly to his wife. “There are a thousand details to be seen to before we leave. Jane was saying how glad she'd be of the help, and I must concur.”

Throughout this speech, Lady Blanchard sat with her husband's hand on her shoulder, stiff as a wax doll, her smile fixed in place. It was as well he could not see her expression from this angle, because he would surely be at least as shocked as Rosalind. She could not believe Lord Blanchard really wanted her to stay. He had put up with her for his wife's sake, and as long as she did not presume too much on her status as his goddaughter. Her father's dramatic, though blessedly brief, reappearance last season had eroded even that tolerance.

“I was just telling Lady Blanchard how I'm glad to be of whatever help I can.”

“Excellent.” Lord Blanchard squeezed his wife's shoulder. “Jane was certain we could count on you. Now, I'm sure you have a thousand things to talk about. My dear, I have to go and see Hildebrand, but I should be back in time for dinner.” He kissed Lady Blanchard's hand, nodded to Rosalind, and took his leave.

Rosalind waited until the door closed again, and until her friend's attention had returned to her.

“I suppose I should thank you for your kind offer,” she said. “I see you've been preparing Lord Blanchard for my presence this season.”
You've been lying to your husband so that you'd have an excuse for bringing me back into the house. Why? And why on earth has he decided to agree?

“You mean to remonstrate with me, and I'm sure I've earned it,” Lady Blanchard said. “I trust to our years of friendship to make you understand I would not be doing all this were it not completely necessary.”

“Which means something is wrong.” Several very unpleasant possibilities rose up in Rosalind's mind.

Lady Blanchard did not answer at once. Rosalind bit her tongue. She must let Lady Blanchard find her own words.

“The truth is, Rosalind,” said her godmother softly, “I need the world distracted while I, that is we, make our departure.”

“That's why you're playing this game with the patronesses. This is the distraction.”

Lady Blanchard nodded. “Society and the newspapers will speculate madly about who will take my place, and the sooner that begins the better. Lady Jersey and the others will do everything possible to use the publicity to their individual advantage. In the face of all that commotion, the fact of our leaving will fade into insignificance.”