A Useful Woman (6 page)

You don't want anyone asking questions; not the papers, or the Lady Patronesses, or me. And you've found the only possible way to guarantee that silence. But why all this trouble? What's happened?

Now it was Rosalind's turn to look away. Outside, snow had begun to fall on the Blanchard gardens. Rosalind watched it while she struggled to gather nerve and composure.

This woman stood by me when the rest of the world would have tossed me and Mother onto the ash heap
, Rosalind reminded herself
. She showed me how to live, and keep at least a teaspoon's worth of my gentility and pride.

Because of this, instead of asking the obvious and obviously unwelcome question, Rosalind only spoke the obvious warning. “If Lady Jersey realizes you're using her and the board for your own purposes, she will ruin you.”

Lady Blanchard only smiled. “Soon, I will be beyond the reach of Lady Jersey or any of the rest of them. Then, they may whistle for their vengeance. I will not hear.” She spoke this softly, almost as if she did not wish to hear herself. “And now, what will you do, Rosalind? Will you stay and help me, or will you leave? You should know that either way, I remain your friend.”

Rosalind suppressed her disappointment and her confusion. They would not serve. She had to think clearly, and see the future as well as the past.

“I will stay,” she said. “You may be assured of my best assistance.”
And may heaven help me
, thought Rosalind as the words of the promise echoed in her heart.
But at least if I've erred in this decision, it's out of friendship, not cowardice.

Even as she thought this, she exchanged smiles with Lady Blanchard, as if some tender secret had been shared.

“Well.” Lady Blanchard's manner turned brisk. “I fear that the day is getting on without us. The patronesses are meeting to approve each other's voucher lists for Almack's first month of assemblies.” The Almack's balls were subscription affairs. Upon being deemed acceptable by the board, each subscriber paid a fee of ten guineas. In return, they were granted a voucher guaranteeing them a set number of tickets to a set number of dances. “It will all take hours, even if Lady Jersey is in one of her more charitable moods. I dare not be tardy, especially now that we have such plans. How did you come?”

Rosalind put down her cup and stood, because that was what one did when one had been dismissed, whether one wanted to or not. “I came on foot.”

“Well, you will ride out with me, and Preston will drop you at home.”

“Thank you, Lady Blanchard, but I've several errands yet to attend to.” This was not strictly true, but she wanted the time to
think about all that she had seen and done on this long, strained day.

“How would this be? You ride out with me, and once I'm safe at Almack's, I'll give Preston instructions to take you wherever you wish. You may return for me at half five. That should give us both time enough to take care of our business. Perhaps you would care to dine with us afterward? It will be entirely informal, no need to make any fuss.” Meaning there was no need for Rosalind to change her dress.

“Thank you, Lady Blanchard. That is most kind. I'd be happy to accept.”
And perhaps I can get a few more answers from you.
Because Rosalind was certain of one thing. It was there in every word her friend spoke, and in the way her new plans shone so brightly in her tired eyes.

Lady Blanchard was leaving London, and she did not intend to return.

At the Gates

Kings Street, St. James, is, as all the world knows, the link between London's most fashionable street and its most aristocratic square; it is within calling distance of Pall Mall, which had then a royal palace on each hand, and in the very center of club-land.

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

It could not be described as a madhouse. A madhouse had keepers, rules, doctors, and other such attendants to calm and confine the inmates. Kings Street on a Monday evening had no such civilizing influences. It was every man, woman, and horse for themselves.

Carriages jammed the cobbles and were forced up onto the walks in front of the plain building described as “the seventh heaven of the fashionable world.” Those pedestrians unfortunate enough to be caught in the crush squeezed themselves through narrow windows of space afforded by such breakwaters as thresholds and lampposts.

“Confounded nuisance!” exclaimed one portly gentleman to his companion as they attempted to force themselves past Rosalind's borrowed carriage. “What's it all for?”

This was an excellent question. Rosalind smiled to herself.
She suspected a number of the people crammed into the street were asking themselves the same thing. At the same time, it seemed no one quite knew how to stop.

It was Monday. The lady patronesses were meeting to decide who would be allowed to the first of the Almack's assemblies. Considering that hopes and dreams, not to mention marriages and fortunes, could hang on their decisions, it was not perhaps surprising that the world treated this meeting as a moment of vital importance. Therefore, everyone in the general vicinity had to linger to witness the emergence of the grand imperial ladies of the board, whether they wanted to or not.

Not that Rosalind could claim to be entirely immune to Almack's allure. When she'd first been allowed up to London as a girl, she'd spent the better part of three solid weeks pacing the drawing room while waiting to hear how Mother's application for an Almack's voucher would be answered. Every waking moment was spent contemplating the sublime possibility that she might not just attend the exclusive assemblies, but make her debut there. If only she could have this one night, she prayed over and over, she'd never ask for anything else. She'd never need anything else. It wouldn't matter how Honoria and the others treated her. Even Charlotte's spite wouldn't matter anymore. One night at Almack's, and the whole world would open wide for her.

And for a little while, it had.

Rosalind shook her head. She never knew whether she should be angry at her world for turning out to be so small, or at her own naiveté for believing one night of dancing could force that small world to deliver up its keys.

And yet, look at me, still standing at the crossroads of that world and hoping to find some way home.

“Hello again, Miss Thorne.”

Rosalind was so deep in her own past that it took her a moment to realize the voice was not just another memory. Devon Winterbourne, real and present, spoke to her from the cold, crowded street. She could not possibly mistake the tone and timber of his voice for another, even through the closed windows of her borrowed carriage.

Rosalind thought, a little frantically, about not turning her head. She thought about drawing the curtains and sitting alone in the chilly dark until he went away. But it took a great deal of hardened nerve to behave like a coward, and Rosalind found she did not have so much in her.

Therefore, Rosalind did turn her head, and she did look, politely, of course, at the dark man in the black coat trimmed in beaver fur, who had stopped beside her carriage.

When she saw Devon in Lady Edmund's sitting room, she'd noted how he'd changed. Now that she was separated from him by nothing more than the thickness of a carriage door, Rosalind noted how he'd stayed the same. His full mouth had kept that slight curl about the edges, as if he wanted to smile, but was uncertain if this was the right moment. The cold still brought a pleasing color to his ruddy cheeks. His breath steamed in the deepening twilight, and the light from the lanterns and flambeaux caught in his gray eyes, which had always been a little too wide and too bright to belong on a man's face.

She must stop noticing things about Devon's person, just as she must quash the rising curiosity about what brought him to this street at this moment. She must also stop thinking of him as Devon. His father and infamous older brother were both dead. This man was the Duke of Casselmain.

But since she had looked at him, she could not fail to speak without giving him the cut direct, which, considering the difference in their stations, was a ridiculous idea. Reluctantly,
Rosalind unhooked the window glass and let it slip down. The winter cold flooded the carriage and she shivered.

“Good evening, Lord Casselmain,” she said.

He touched his fashionably curled hat brim. “Good evening, Miss Thorne. How are you?”

Rosalind found she had no interest in answering that question. “How is it you happen to be here?”

“I stopped by Blanchard House earlier, and saw you leaving in Lady Blanchard's carriage.” He waved his stick vaguely up the street. “It was not much of a guess that you might be here about this time.”

“You had business with the Blanchards?”

“A friend asked me to deliver a message to Lord Blanchard,” he answered placidly. He might even have been telling the truth.

“You also had an appointment with Jasper Aimesworth this same day.”

The corner of Lord Casselmain's mouth twitched. Twice.
Stop noticing.
“Do you suspect me of following you, Miss Thorne?”

“Should I?”

“Yes.”

His blunt, graceless answer gave Rosalind an excuse to feign anger, which was better than giving in to any of her other churning emotions. “That, sir, is unworthy of you.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. I'm sorry.” The soft apology sounded so much like the Devon she remembered that Rosalind felt something twist inside her. He was still there, underneath the shell of Lord Casselmain—her Devon, who was both too direct and too kind for the rest of the fashionables. Rosalind closed her eyes and wished she hadn't noticed that as well.

When she was able to open her eyes again, Casselmain was no longer looking at her, which was a relief. Instead, he stared
over the hats of the crowd, toward the wide stone steps leading up to Almack's closed doors. “Are you going to ask me about it?”

“About what, sir?”

“My soon-to-be-announced engagement to Honoria Aimesworth.”

Rosalind found she wanted nothing more than to climb out of the opposite side of the carriage and disappear into the London streets. Had there been any chance she could even get the door open, she might have done it.

“I have no right to inquire about your personal business,” she reminded him, and herself.

“Not even though we are such old friends?”

“Not even then. Propriety forbids.”

“Propriety. Ah, yes. Where would any of us be without it?” A sneer slipped underneath those words. Rosalind found she had no answer to it. That anger had also always been part of her Devon. Like her, he'd learned to suppress it, because it was of absolutely no use.

There was something else she needed to say. Propriety demanded it, but so did common feeling.

“I got your letter when Mother died. It was kind. Thank you.”

Lord Casselmain, still struggling with his own bitterness, only shook his head. “I should have come myself.”

“No, you shouldn't have. What you did was enough.”

“Since you say it is so, I must accept that.”

For a brief moment, Rosalind considered adding something along the lines of, “I hope we are still friends.” She dismissed this. To begin with, it was untrue. Whatever she might want of Devon Winterbourne, such a polite and noble sentiment as friendship was not on the list. He rested his hand on the window's edge. He was so close. If she lifted her own hand, she could touch him. As easily as that. She could feel his warmth
again, know the shape of his strong hand, even if it would be through the double thickness of their winter gloves. No one was paying them any attention. No one would ever have to know. Except her. Except him.

“You're truly not going to ask why I'm marrying a girl I'll never love?”

The smile that formed on Rosalind's lips was a small, bitter thing. “If you want me to know, you can tell me. Here we both are, alone and unobserved.”

Devon paused again. He had become a careful man, one who didn't like to say a thing he might regret. But she could tell he did want her to know his reasons. Slow, heavy understanding tumbled over Rosalind. He wanted her to know, but more than that, he wanted her to ask. He wanted her to be the one who broke confidence and propriety.

He wanted to see she was humbled, and brokenhearted. He hoped that she was pining for him and the life he could have given her if only he had not stayed away after Father fled.

Anger surged through Rosalind, raising a flush to her cheeks despite all the bitter cold. “It is better if you say nothing, sir. After all, we don't know each other that well, do we?” She did not look at him. She must not look. She must remember the whole, dreadful arc of her life. She must remember the ongoing whispers, and the constant little reminders of exactly who she had become.

Because Devon was now the one required to uphold the position and fortune of his great and ancient family, much to that family's relief, Rosalind was sure. Devon's older brother, Hugh Winterbourne, had been a careless, coarse, intemperate man and no one was at all surprised when he died by falling drunk from his horse and breaking his neck.

No one knew better than Rosalind the heartbreak that would follow if Devon failed in his duty. He needed a wife who could
manage the vast household, and provide heirs and income to bolster the bloodline. Honoria Aimesworth could bring him those things. Any other reasons Lord Casselmain might have for choosing this particular bride meant nothing at all to the obscure Miss Rosalind Thorne.

Since she couldn't look at him, Rosalind knew Devon was leaving only because his wavering shadow slipped off her lap. She sat alone in the cold, the noise, and the flickering lights of torches and tapers as the coachmen moved about lighting the carriage lanterns.

“Good-bye, Devon,” Rosalind murmured, but only after she felt sure he couldn't possibly hear her.