A Useful Woman (7 page)

The Empty Ballroom

Many Diplomatic arts, much finesse, and a host of intrigues were set in motion to get an invitation to Almack's.

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

Fortunately, Rosalind was not left with much time to sit and brood upon the cruelties of fate, much less her many deficiencies of resolve and good judgment. Around her, the crowd was shifting, its assorted conversations and curses overwhelmed by that low, murmuring gasp which indicates a mob has spied something of interest. Rosalind's gaze lifted itself reflexively to Almack's, and its low doors.

Just as she did, those doors opened. A small flock of servants in assorted liveries hurried out. The crowd's massed murmuring turned awed, and excited. People crammed, craned, and crowded—or at least they attempted to crowd. The footmen, prepared with staves and very firm manners, descended the steps to keep the way open for the lady patronesses.

First to emerge was Sarah Villiers, Lady Jersey. Swaddled in burgundy velvet, with white plumes nodding above her ruffled bonnet, Lady Jersey was the acknowledged queen of the patronesses. They might all have some say in what happened in
Almack's, but Lady Jersey's word reigned over the rest, and she made sure the whole world knew it.

Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, garbed in forest green and a positive acre of fur, came up beside her. Delicate, pale, and younger by far than most of the rest of the patronesses, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell was reckoned to have her position because Lady Jersey knew she could always count on her vote and agreement, no matter what the question. But Rosalind saw something in the keen way the young woman turned her face toward the crowd, and wondered.

The Princess Esterhazy glided forth from the doorway. Lady Sefton bustled. The Countess Lieven rolled her dark, imperious eyes in an attitude of exaggerated suffering. She also picked up her hems with ostentatious fastidiousness before descending the stairs.

Rosalind unlatched the carriage door and waited.

Lady Blanchard did not appear. The footmen closed the doors. Rosalind frowned, but composed herself to patience. She also remembered to raise the window glass again.

Around the carriage, the crowd began to crack apart. The bystanders on the walks drained away first, presumably prodded by the cold and encroaching dark, as well as the looming necessity of dressing for dinner and the evening's entertainments. The scrum of carriages loosened much more slowly, urged on by the shouts of drivers and postilions.

But Almack's doors remained closed.

All around, church bells began their ponderous tolling of the hour. Rosalind shifted on her seat. What could possibly be keeping Lady Blanchard so far behind the others? The memory of their conversation that afternoon filled her. How could it not? Especially after Lady Blanchard had made it so clear she meant to use her position at Almack's for her own purposes. Rosalind
remained certain those purposes included leaving London behind for good and all, but what else did they include?

As Rosalind contemplated this unpleasant question, the driver, Preston, called down from his box. “Shall I go speak to the porter, miss? Perhaps he can find out what's keeping her ladyship?”

Rosalind shook herself. This idle speculation served no purpose. “Thank you, Preston, but I'll go.”

“Yes, miss.” Preston climbed off his perch and opened the door to help her out.

“She's probably just been detained on some matter of committee business,” Rosalind ventured. Never mind that all the rest of the committee had already gone.

Preston touched his hat. “That's sure to be it, miss. These meetings do take up a mountain of Lady Blanchard's time.”

Rosalind picked her way across the cobbles and around the frozen puddles. As she did, she performed several small adjustments to her attitude. By the time she reached the doors, she had assumed an air that managed to be brisk, unassuming, and completely at home all at once. Almack's might fill others with terror, but not Miss Rosalind Thorne. She did still belong here. Although it was not quite on the same terms as in earlier days, she knew everyone. Oh, not the patronesses, but all the others—the ones who kept the door, who staffed the rooms and made sure the patronesses' plans were fulfilled, down to the last detail. These were the persons who constituted Rosalind's Almack's now.

“Good evening, Molloy,” Rosalind said to the porter at the door. “Is Mr. Whelks still inside?”

“I believe that he is, Miss Thorne.” Molloy bowed and held open the door so Rosalind could step through.

Almack's entrance hall was spacious. The lusters overhead were quite dark, but several candles shone in the brass wall
sconces. Their yellow light reflected on velvet drapes and gleaming floorboards. Mr. Whelks was indeed within, at the foot of the grand staircase. He was also engaged in what could be described as an animated consultation with several stout gentlemen wearing dingy shirts and stained leather aprons.

“It is simply insupportable!” roared Mr. Whelks. “We must have the new chairs for the card room
before
next week, you b—”

Rosalind cleared her throat. Mr. Whelks clapped his mouth shut and turned toward her.

Thorvald Whelks was Lady Jersey's personal secretary and the tallest, thinnest man Rosalind had ever met. Rumor was Lady Jersey had chosen him as her assistant because he could be easily seen in any room, no matter how crowded. He was also reputed to be a harpsichordist of unusual talent, but as Rosalind had never heard him play, she could not judge.

What was no way in doubt was that when Lady Jersey wasn't in the building, Mr. Whelks was the voice of the Almack's patronesses. Mr. Willis might occupy the building's offices, reviewing the books and counting the receipts, but Mr. Whelks was the only person trusted to handle the sacred voucher lists once they were completed by the board. Rosalind had never seen him wearing anything other than a black coat, no matter the time of day or night. The only reason he changed his black trousers for white breeches when evening came was that if he did not, he would not have been admitted into the ballroom, no matter how pressing his business. The rules for gentleman's attire in Almack's admitted no exceptions.

“Miss Thorne!” Mr. Whelks greeted her with a long, deep bow, this being the only sort his elongated frame was capable of. “Good evening!”

“Good evening, Mr. Whelks. I'm here with Lady Blanchard's carriage. Is she still upstairs?”

“I confess, I don't know, Miss Thorne. Shall I enquire?”

“If you please.”

Mr. Whelks glanced at the aproned tradesmen and coughed. A lady, he was clearly thinking, could not be left alone with such rude mechanicals as these. “Perhaps you'd care to step upstairs? As it's you, I'm sure no one will mind.”

“Thank you, Mr. Whelks.”

The secretary ordered the tradesmen to wait and took up a candle from the nearest table. Rosalind followed.

The great marble stair curved grandly upward to the right. The light from Mr. Whelks's candle flickered across its polished banisters and was reflected warmly in the painted glass of the arched windows. The air smelled of cold and wax, faded smoke, and old perfume. It had been a long time since Rosalind had been this far into the sanctum sanctorum, but she still remembered it perfectly. The stair ended at the broad open gallery, which furnished a fine view of the entrance hall below. To the left waited the grand ballroom and, beyond that, the famously modest tea room. To the right was the card room. Rumor whispered that Lady Jersey had fought bitterly against the introduction of cards at Almack's, as it would take the gentlemen away from the dancing. It was one of the few battles she'd ever lost.

The committee rooms and business offices waited one more floor up, but Mr. Whelks hesitated—delicately, of course.

“If you'll just wait here, Miss Thorne? I think I see a light on in the committee room. I'll go and knock for you.”

“Thank you.” Rosalind nodded her understanding. While Rosalind might be welcome here and even accorded a certain amount of latitude, no outsider could be allowed into the patronesses' office—not even the Prince Regent or the Lord Admiral.

Mr. Whelks bowed with perfect aplomb and started up the last flight of stairs. Rosalind strolled across the gallery to keep
the cold from settling more firmly into her bones. As she turned, she could not help noticing that the ballroom doors were less than two yards from her left shoulder. Somewhat to her surprise, they were slightly ajar.

I will not look.

This resolution lasted even less time than her initial resolve not to look at Devon Winterbourne. The ballroom, at least, could not look back.

Rosalind glanced up the stairs but saw no hint of motion. Slowly, she let herself drift toward the ballroom doors. When neither Lady Blanchard nor Mr. Whelks appeared, she gently nudged the right-hand door open a little farther. The hinges were, of course, perfectly oiled and made no noise.

Inside the ballroom, the draperies were closed, turning the evening's twilight to a deeper gloom. Pale gold light seeped under the velvet from a few remaining torches and lanterns in the street outside. It made a pretty sheen on the floorboards, but did little to alleviate the darkness. She could only just make out the shape of the musicians' gallery at the farthest end.

She'd seen this room when the curtains were fully open and light from great lusters and chandeliers sparkled on gilded pillars and framed mirrors. She'd felt like the queen of the world when she walked into the ballroom on Father's arm. She remembered the weight of the pearls around her neck—a gift from her then-fond father—and the pink roses in her hair. By contrast, her white dress had seemed light as air. The music had swelled, as if that particular passage had been chosen specifically for her entrance. Every head turned. The ladies whispered and nodded. The gentlemen looked her up and down again. She'd blushed. She'd adored it.

She'd curtsied to Lady Jersey and heard herself praised.

So slender, so modest, such a pretty girl, Althea. And, ah! Here is
my particular friend Mr. Hammond. He will make you an excellent partner for the first waltz, Miss Thorne, should you agree to accept him.

Of course she'd agreed. She would have agreed to the Man in the Moon. She'd just been given permission to waltz at Almack's, and at last, life would begin.

She trembled a little at this memory, and felt an unfamiliar trace of shame.
It's all right
, she told herself.
It's your life, after all. Why shouldn't you remember being happy?

But it wasn't memory that made her ill at ease, at least not entirely. Rosalind frowned at the empty ballroom. There was something odd about the dark, still, soaring space in front of her, but she couldn't quite make out what it might be.

It was then she heard Mr. Whelks's measured tread descending the stairs.

“I'm sorry, Miss Thorne, but Lady Blanchard isn't in the committee room. You must have missed her in the street.”

“Yes, I'm sure that's it,” Rosalind replied, but didn't turn to look at him. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, allowing her to see farther into the ballroom. There, almost hidden by the deeper shadow under the musicians' gallery, lay an odd black bundle. It might have been a rolled-up rug, except it was too uneven, and it gleamed, in patches, as if the torchlight from outside were catching on glass or metal. She thought it might be a pile of burlap sacks, perhaps delivered by the workmen downstairs. But such things wouldn't have been so inelegantly dumped in the Almack's ballroom, no matter the time of day.

And if it were a pile of sacks, what was the pool of thicker darkness that spread out around it? That wasn't a shadow. It was the wrong shape.

“Is there something the matter, miss . . .” Rosalind felt Mr. Whelks move to look over her head. “Great God!”

Propriety forgotten, Mr. Whelks shoved past her. The boards echoed under his shoes as he bolted across the ballroom.

Rosalind grabbed up her hems and ran after him as quickly as skirts and coat allowed. Even so, Mr. Whelks had dropped to his knees beneath the gallery by the time she reached his side.

It was not a rug he turned over. Rugs did not have long white hands, or dress in buff and blue. It was not shadow he knelt in, but thick blood—the blood of the young man whose still, startled eyes stared up at them both.

“Who is this?” cried Mr. Whelks. “How . . .”

“Dear Lord,” whispered Rosalind. “It's Jasper Aimesworth!”

Persons in Inappropriate Places

What is so dreadful, what is so dismal and revolting as the murder of a human creature?

—Thomas De Quincey,
On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts

Rosalind stumbled backward. An odd choking noise teased at the edge of her awareness, but all she could truly understand was that Jasper Aimesworth lay stretched out at her feet with his eyes wide open— perplexed, sad, and quite certainly dead.

Arms, warm and solid, wrapped around her and turned her away. Soft fur and woolen cloth pressed against her cheek and she caught the scents of leather and sharp soap.

Devon.

Rosalind jerked away sharply and would have stumbled again, but Devon did not let her go.

“Gently, gently, Rosalind,” he murmured. “It's all right. You're safe.”

“Don't talk nonsense!” Of course she wasn't safe. She was being held by Devon Winterbourne with Jasper Aimesworth lying dead just a few feet away. “What are you doing here!”

“Never mind that,” Devon said. “You must come away now,
Rosalind. Whelks, is Willis still about? Get him down here at once!”

“Yes, your lordship.”

Whelks was past them in an instant, stretching his long legs to their utmost. Rosalind attempted to push Devon away from her, but he had turned himself and her so that somehow he was beside her, holding her under both elbows in a way that pinned her arms to her sides. Rosalind seethed, but she did not struggle. It would have made her look ridiculous. But she also did not let herself feel grateful for his support, or acknowledge how badly her knees were shaking.

“We're getting you out of here,” he said firmly.

Which may have been an excellent plan, but their retreat was blocked by Lady Blanchard, who hurried toward them across the broad expanse of the floor.

“Rosalind!” she cried. “Lord Casselmain! What on earth . . .”

“Oh, no!” Rosalind tried to pull away from Devon to intercept her godmother, but she was too late. Lady Blanchard had already come up level with them, and seen past them.

The blood drained from her face, and slowly, as if her strings were being cut one at a time, Lady Blanchard sank to her knees.

“This can't be,” she breathed. “How can it be?”

Dignity forgotten, Rosalind yanked herself away from Lord Casselmain's importunate grip. She knelt beside her godmother and grasped her shoulders. Lady Blanchard looked up at Rosalind, and her green eyes were almost as still and staring as Jasper's.

“I was waiting. I had to wait.” She wasn't even looking at Rosalind. She was looking past her, toward the doors.

“Now, now, Lady Blanchard.” Devon crouched down beside her. “There's no need to be talking so. Miss Thorne, will you help her ladyship away?”

Rosalind nodded and took Lady Blanchard's ice-cold hands. “Hush, Lady Blanchard. Lord Casselmain is right. You need to get out of here.”

But Lady Blanchard didn't move. Her hands did not even clench around Rosalind's. Light flickered overhead and more footsteps sounded. The thick-set Mr. Willis, who managed the building, was racing across the ballroom, a globe lantern held high. Mr. Whelks towered over him, carrying a branch of candles.

“He wasn't supposed to be here!” cried Lady Blanchard. “It's not what we
agreed . . .”

Willis came to a halt beside their chilling tableau. He slapped a beefy palm over his mouth as he took them all in. Mr. Whelks looked down on Lady Blanchard, his face flushed and as close to angry as Rosalind had ever seen him.

“Damme,” Willis muttered. “Damme! Who is this young idiot? And what in God's Holy Name . . .”

“Mr. Willis,” Devon said, “we have to get the ladies out of here, then we can deal with the rest.” He glanced at Rosalind. Another time she might have bristled at his high-handedness, but Lady Blanchard still wasn't moving and that demanded all her attention.

“Mr. Whelks,” Rosalind said. “Run down and alert Lady Blanchard's coachman. He must be ready to leave immediately.”

Whelks glanced at Willis, clearly uncertain about whose orders were to take precedence in this ghastly moment.

“Go, go,” snapped Willis. “Damme! A complete disaster. Would you, Your Grace, help the ladies out of here?”

Rosalind tried to raise her friend, but Lady Blanchard didn't budge. “Lord Casselmain, I'm afraid I will need your assistance.” Devon, murmuring quiet nonsense, moved around Lady Blanchard until he could get his hands under her elbows. Between the two of them, he and Rosalind lifted the trembling
woman to her feet. She lurched heavily to the right and Rosalind caught her.

“Don't look.” Rosalind turned Lady Blanchard's head so she would not see the corpse, or the great splotch of blood that stained her skirts. “Close your eyes. Lean against me. I will take you out of here.”

Thankfully, Lady Blanchard obeyed and pressed her face against Rosalind's shoulder. Rosalind glanced over her head at Devon, who simply nodded. Together, they half supported, half dragged Lady Blanchard across the great expanse of ballroom and down the long, curving stairway.

They emerged onto Kings Street and were plunged instantly into the damp and the cold of the February night. Rosalind drew as deep a breath as she could manage. She must clear her head. The bells were tolling seven. Barely an hour had passed since she had walked through Almack's door and into, as Mr. Willis so succinctly described it, a complete disaster.

Lady Blanchard had begun to shake. She had no wrap and was as cold as death. Devon slipped off his own top coat and wrapped it around Lady Blanchard's shoulders as Preston threw open the carriage door and put down the step.

“Here we are, my lady,” Preston said. “We must get you inside, and wrap you up warm.” Rosalind scrambled inside first, ready to receive her godmother as the driver handed her through.

“Why?” Lady Blanchard whispered. “He wasn't supposed to be here. I told him. I told him! Everything was already arranged!”

“Hush now.” The carriage was well stocked with rugs, and Rosalind piled them all over Lady Blanchard. “You must not agitate yourself.”

Devon closed the door, and stared in through the window. “Will you be all right?”

“I'll get the ladies safe home, Your Grace, you may depend on it,” said Preston stoutly, and a trifle defensively.

“Good man,” said Devon, but he was still looking at Rosalind. “See she stays wrapped up, and you as well. Neither one of you can get chilled.”

The knowledge that she had a task to perform rallied Rosalind's strength and spirits more thoroughly than anything else could have. “I'll take care of her.”

Something else scrabbled at the back of her crowded thoughts, something vitally important. But with her attention divided between Lady Blanchard's state of nervous collapse and Devon's solicitous presence, Rosalind couldn't think clearly.

Preston hoisted himself up onto the box and the boys clambered up behind, all jostling the carriage. Lady Blanchard moaned.

And still Rosalind did not give the order for them to move. She looked into Devon's face. The play of shadow and flickering lamplight made his familiar features dramatic and mysterious.

“Devon?” she said, as if it were perfectly natural to use his Christian name.

“Yes?” he answered just as reflexively.

“Why were you in the ballroom?”

His gray eyes had gone confused, and unkind. He was helping her, looking after her, but was irritated with her. “I followed you in. I didn't like to leave you as I did. I bungled things. Then I heard you scream . . .”

“I didn't scream.”

“I'm afraid you did. At length.”

She wanted to deny it again, but did not seem able to muster the strength. Besides, she was becoming uncomfortably aware of a raw burning sensation in her throat.

“What . . . what will happen to . . .”

Devon glanced over his shoulder. “Willis means to send for his physician. They'll get poor Aimesworth back to his people.”

“Someone must go tell them. Prepare them.” But how on earth did you prepare parents for the death of their son? Not even Lady Edmund deserved such horrible news.

“I'll do it,” said Devon. “Don't worry.”

A small, utterly inappropriate laugh escaped her. “A man is dead. It seems worth a bit of worry.”

“Let Willis worry about it. They're his rooms. You worry about yourself and Lady Blanchard.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” She should not keep them sitting here. Except there was something important she still needed to ask, but she couldn't remember what it was. Devon stepped back from the carriage. “Drive on!” he ordered Preston. Preston touched up the horses, and Rosalind uneasily turned her attention to comforting Lady Blanchard.

*   *   *

It felt like a year before the carriage finally reached Blanchard House. The whole way, Lady Blanchard lay still and silent in her swoon. Rosalind held her friend close, trying desperately to impart some kind of warmth, but she had none of her own to spare.

Preston had barely brought the horses to a halt before he tossed the reins to the groom and leapt down. He barked an order to the footman, who had come out onto the steps with a lamp. The footman ducked into the house, presumably to summon help, while Preston threw open the carriage door and put the step down.

Good man
, thought Rosalind dazedly. She gathered her godmother into her arms, trying to sit her up a bit straighter. “Come now, Lady Blanchard. You are home. Can you climb out, do you think?”

In answer, Lady Blanchard clutched Rosalind's wrists. “His eyes,” she murmured. “I will never escape his eyes.”

There was no answer to that.

The entrance hall of Blanchard House was lit only by a single branch of candles. They had meant to dine informally at home this evening, Rosalind remembered. As Rosalind supported Lady Blanchard inside, a house maid, followed by a woman in black whom Rosalind recognized as Lady Blanchard's maid, came running down the stairs, with Lord Blanchard at their heels.

“Jane!” Lord Blanchard cried. “What
happened?
”

As soon as the maids reached Lady Blanchard, they pulled her away. Rosalind's arms flopped to her side.

“Well?” Lord Blanchard roared at her. “Speak up, girl!”

“I saw . . . that is to say . . .” Rosalind swayed on her feet. Now that her godmother was home and safe, her strength fled. She couldn't even feel her hands anymore. “Jasper Aimesworth is dead. In the ballroom at Almack's.”

Lady Blanchard slumped forward, making the maids who held her stagger. Lord Blanchard stared.

“You can't tell me
Jane
found him!”

“She saw him. I . . . happened on him first.”

“Damme!” Lord Blanchard shouted. “But how? What did you see? Tell me exactly what you saw.”

“His eyes,” whispered Lady Blanchard. “I saw his eyes.”

Lord Blanchard whirled around. He muttered another oath, but this time he also moved to his wife's side. “Jane, Jane, you must bear up. Lacey, get her upstairs into bed. She'll need hot water bottles and plenty of quilts.”

“Yes, m'lord.”

Lord Blanchard glanced at Rosalind in apology, and she waved him away. He needed to be with his wife.

Master and servants left in a crowd around their fainting mistress. Rosalind found herself alone in the echoing front hall. She began to shiver, then to shudder. The painted salon was to her right. She managed to reach the hearthside chair just as her knees collapsed, dropping her into the round-backed chair beside the hearth and its bright fire.

Rosalind rubbed her arms hard and tried to force some order upon her thoughts, but there were too many of them and they would not quiet. She remembered Jasper from when they were both younger. She saw him astride his chestnut hunter in the cool morning, raising his hat to the girls gathered to see him off. She remembered the breezy and utterly disinterested way he led her through country dances at the parties and the balls where they were urged together. She remembered him standing in a corner with Honoria, attempting to make her at least smile at what she saw around her.

She thought about Honoria. She thought about Lady Edmund, and Lord Edmund, who spent his days hidden away with his books on classical architecture and his blueprints. Had Devon reached them yet?

What was Jasper even
doing
there?

I was waiting. I had to wait. He wasn't supposed to be here! It's not what we
agreed . . .

The papers were going to feast on this. Alice and George Littlefield would be describing every detail for the rest of the season, perhaps even the rest of the year. They'd be mad to interview everyone involved.

Like her.

It is the least of your worries
, Rosalind told herself.
You must think clearly.