Amanda McCabe (2 page)

“I cannot think about this right now, Allen,” she
said. “Most of the students are leaving today, and I must see them off.”

Allen nodded, obviously deeply relieved. He never liked quarrels, even when he was the one who started them. “Of course, Rosie. I’ll just come back tomorrow, then, or the day after.”

Two days. That would give him plenty of time to run up even more debts, Rosalind thought. He would never learn. She just nodded, though, and watched him gather up his hat and greatcoat and hurry to the door.

There he turned back and gave her an uncertain glance, a flicker of a pleading smile. “Er, Rosie, about that letter from the bank…”

Rosalind stared down at the letter beneath her clenched hands. The stark black signature stared back, like an accusation. An accusation that she was failing in her duties to her family. Her parents, her flighty, social mother and her distracted vicar father, had always relied on her to look after Allen. Now that they were gone, she owed that to them even more. She was all Allen had. “I will write to them, and see what can be done. I will take care of it.”
As always.

Allen gave her a relieved smile, and came back to kiss her cheek. “You
are
a brick, Rosie. I knew you would see that it could not be helped.”

She answered his grin with a stern frown. “I do not see any such thing. All I see is that banks must be dealt with. But I have no time to talk about this now. Just go, Allen.”

Rosalind closed her eyes, and did not open them again until she heard the click of the door closing.

Alone at last. Her office, her sanctuary, looked the same as it always did. The lovely, restful lavender and cream draperies and chairs and settees, chosen to be feminine and soothing, were the same. The small mahogany desk she sat behind, the painting of pink and white roses that hung above the fireplace, the porcelain shepherdesses and vases on the tables—all the same. This room was where she could come to be
alone, to be quiet, to do what she loved most in the world—write, and run her school.

Yet after such meetings with her brother, such futile, ridiculous meetings, nothing could soothe her.

“If only I wasn’t a lady,” she murmured, “I would have a whiskey.”

Just as her late husband Charles had when things became too contentious. It had always soothed the few rough patches in their marriage.

But she
was
a lady. She had standards—high standards—to uphold. And the parents of her pupils would be arriving soon to fetch their precious daughters for their holidays. It would simply never do to greet them with
whiskey
on her breath!

She would have to content herself with a cup of tea in the drawing room, with those very parents.

Rosalind stood up and crossed the room to the small mirror hanging on the wall between two bookcases. She feared her reflection would show her inner turmoil, with wild eyes and straggling hair. Aside from a pink flush in her cheeks, however, she looked the same as she always did. Her bright red curls, the bane of her life, were drawn tightly back and covered with a lace cap. The frill of her chemisette was spotlessly white, tucked neatly into the square neckline of her green and gold striped silk afternoon dress. Her blue eyes
were
brighter than usual, sparkling with the force of suppressed anger, but other than that she was the perfectly proper Mrs. Chase.

She opened the little hidden drawer in one of the bookcases and took out a small pot of rice powder and one of lip color. She dusted the powder over the faint golden freckles that splashed across the bridge of her nose. Not for the first time, she wished she had Allen’s smooth chestnut locks and clear complexion, instead of the red hair and freckles that came from their grandmother.

The thought of her brother made her eyes narrow again, and pink spread across her cheeks and down her throat into the ruffle.

“Not now,” she murmured. “I cannot think of this now. Allen will just have to stew in his own soup for the moment.”

There was a knock at the door. It was probably Molly, the housemaid, come to tell her that the first of the parents were arriving. Rosalind pushed the powder and lip color back into the drawer, and called, “Come in.”

It was not Molly’s face that peeked around the door, though. It was Lady Violet Bronston.

Rosalind couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Lady Violet’s golden curls and merry green eyes. She was one of the best students at Mrs. Chase’s Seminary for Young Ladies, adept at music, watercolors, and French. She was sweet, and friendly with the other girls, a great favorite of the teachers. And of Rosalind, too, if truth be told. Violet’s conversation was always cheerful, despite the fact that her family life was not entirely happy. Rosalind would miss her when she graduated and went on to her first Season next year.

Yes, Violet
was
a dear. Even if she was the sister of Viscount Morley.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Chase,” Violet said shyly. She glanced around quickly. Usually only Rosalind and the teachers came into this office.

Rosalind smiled at her, and gestured for her to enter. “Please, do come in, Lady Violet. You are not disturbing me at all. I was just going to come and be sure that everyone is packed. Is your father here to fetch you already?” She said this most pleasantly, even though her lips wanted to twist bitterly at mention of Violet’s father. The Earl of Athley was certainly an important man indeed, but also a most unpleasant and arrogant one. He was assuredly one of the most difficult of the parents to deal with. Fortunately, she seldom saw him.

Rosalind also thought Lord Athley could use a thorough lesson in manners.

Violet shook her head, a relieved smile on her rosebud lips. “No, indeed! Papa could not come today.
My brother, Lord Morley, is going to fetch me and take me into Town.”

Morley again. Could not an hour pass that she did not hear that name? Rosalind covered her chagrin by turning away to pick up her shawl and drape it over her shoulders. “Your brother? We have not seen him here in quite a while.” Not since that one disastrous visit last year. That had not gone well at all.

Violet sat down on one of the brocade settees, happily oblivious to any possible strife in her small world. She smoothed the skirt of her stylish, pale lilac carriage gown. “He came to see me last month, when you had gone to Bath. He says he will take me to have ices at Gunter’s when we are in London, and to the theater, and Astley’s Amphitheater, so that—well, so that I do not have to spend
all
my time with Father at Bronston House.”

Rosalind sat down beside Violet, surprised to hear of such generosity from such an annoying man. “That sounds lovely for you.”

Violet nodded, and stared down at her lace-gloved hands folded in her lap. “Yes, of course. But I
will
miss the school so much! And you, and Miss James, and the other girls. I wish…” She paused and swallowed hard before she went on in a softer voice. “I wish I could stay here.”

Rosalind nodded. She had had this discussion with Violet before, had listened to the girl when she spoke of her unhappiness at home. It made Rosalind’s heart ache that she could do so little for her. “Some of the girls
do
stay here for the holidays, of course,” she said carefully. “But most of them have family homes that are far away, not nearby as yours is.”

Violet nodded. “I know, and Father would never hear of my staying here.” She gave Rosalind a brave, bright little smile, and said, “But I promise you, Mrs. Chase, that my time in London will not be wasted! I will work on my watercolors, and my French verbs. And Miss James has assigned us to read
Hamlet
, which is very good since my brother has promised to take
me to see the play at Drury Lane.” She opened her reticule and pulled out a small book, handsomely bound in dark blue leather. The embossed silver letters on the cover read
A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior.
“And I will always be very careful to follow the rules. A true lady is known by her manners, is she not? That is what you always say, Mrs. Chase.”

Rosalind laughed. “Yes, of course. And a true gentleman, too. Manners are what raise us above the animals in their forests and barnyards. They are the mark of true civility.”

Violet nodded eagerly. “I read it every night.” She ran her fingertip over the silver words,
By an Anonymous Lady.
“Do you think we shall ever know who wrote it?”

“Perhaps not. But that is not important, Lady Violet. What
is
important is the content of its pages.”

Violet tucked the book carefully back into her reticule. “Perhaps I should get a copy for my brother?”

I doubt it would do him much good, he is so far gone
, Rosalind thought wryly. But outwardly she just nodded, and said, “I am sure Lord Morley would appreciate that. Now, my dear Lady Violet, tell me what else you have planned for your holiday.”

She half-listened as Violet talked of tea parties and museums. Yet in her mind she saw the most distracting image of
A Lady’s Rules
in the philistine hands of Lord Morley.

For Rosalind had a secret, an even greater one than the rice powder that covered her freckles. She herself was the anonymous lady who wrote the very popular
Rules.
And the sales of this slim volume, so dependent on its interest among the
ton
, helped pay her own, and her brother’s, bills. Fortunately for her, Lord Morley and his ilk were in the minority in Society at the moment.
A Lady’s Rules
had become all the crack among the
haute ton.
Everyone was eager to buy the book and show how very civilized they were.

That tiny book was Rosalind’s very life’s blood.

M
 ichael Bronston, the Viscount Morley, drew his phaeton to a halt on the gravel drive outside Mrs. Chase’s Seminary for Young Ladies, and sat there for a moment, studying the surroundings. The Seminary was only a few miles outside London, but it might as well have been on another continent, so different was it from the rush and noise of the city. Situated in its own green, tidy park, surrounded by a high wall, it had almost the hush of a monastery.

The school building itself was of red brick, faded by time to a rose pink, with neat white shutters at the windows and white pillars lining the portico. Heavy draperies hung inside all the windows, shutting out the light.

Michael frowned at its terribly tidy, terribly proper appearance.

A fitting prison for my poor sister
, he thought. Then he had to laugh at himself. It seemed the whole “poet persona” he took on himself in Society was beginning to tell on him. He was becoming melodramatic.

And, prison though the Seminary might be for Violet,
it was far better for her than being at home. Their father was a more accomplished jailer than Mrs. Chase could ever hope to be.

Ah, yes.
Mrs. Chase.
The beauteous Mrs. Chase, who tried to hide her glorious sunset-colored hair under hideous caps, and whose disapproving moue made her seem far older than she surely was. Michael had met her only once, on one of the occasions he came to visit Violet, but her cool glance had almost frozen him where he stood.

There was something
about
her, though, something in the pale depths of her ice blue eyes that made him want to bait her, to tweak her maddening propriety—to make her show some emotion. So he, perhaps childishly, had acted even more the “poet” around her, lounging indolently in the dainty chairs of her drawing room, quoting suggestive verse to her.

Mrs. Chase had merely raised her chin even higher, and stared at him as if he was an insect on her polished floor. And Violet had berated him for his lack of manners for hours afterward. It had not been his proudest moment. He had been deeply relieved to find Mrs. Chase gone to Bath on his next visit to Violet.

But now here he was again, and there was very little hope that Mrs. Chase would not be on the premises. He vowed that this time he would act his age, and be impeccably well-mannered. He had even brought a sort of peace offering, a volume of his newest collection of poems, though he doubted it would thaw any of Mrs. Chase’s frostiness.

A footman in the school livery came to take the reins of the phaeton, and Michael jumped down to the gravel drive. No sooner had he placed one booted foot on the front steps than the white-painted door opened and Mr. Allen Lucas came barreling out.

The young man was scowling, distracted, until he saw Michael, and a grin lit up his face.

“Lord Morley!” he cried happily, and caught Michael’s hand in a hearty shake. “Fancy meeting you here, of all places.”

Michael remembered then that Lucas was Mrs. Chase’s brother. It was hard to remember that when he saw the young man at their club every week; his behavior and demeanor were so very different from hers. Allen Lucas was one of a group of young men, newcomers to the Thoth Club, who had literary and artistic pretensions and who spent most of their time trying to outdo one another in hell-raising.

“I’ve come to fetch my sister home,” Michael said, pulling off his leather driving gloves.

Lucas gave a lopsided grin, which he obviously considered sardonic, and leaned against one of the pillars. “And I’ve just left
my
sister.”

“Your sister is Mrs. Chase, is she not?”

“The very same.” Lucas heaved a deep sigh, full of exasperation. “I vow I will never be able to fathom females! Rosie has become such a dry stick, and I don’t know when it happened. She was always laughing, always game for a lark, when we lived at my parents’ house.”

Mrs. Chase, of the icy blue eyes and tilted chin, game for a lark? Mrs. Chase, called
Rosie
? Somehow, Michael could not envision it. But then, he very often could not fathom females, either. “So you are leaving, Lucas?”