The Perfect Princess (29 page)

Callie went to the window and watched the gentlemen drive off in the curricle.

Rosamund said, “I’m sorry if I was rude to one of your guests, but I cannot like that man.”

Callie laughed. “Be as rude as you like. You’re not the only one he’s practically accused of helping Maitland escape from Newgate. He’s obsessed with Maitland. I can’t think why.”

Rosamund said musingly, “There was something about Newgate, though, wasn’t there?”

Callie turned from the window. “What?”

Rosamund shook her head. “I don’t know. It may come to me, it may not. Callie, look out the window. Tell me what you see.”

Callie dutifully looked out the window. “Nothing. Wait a moment. I’ll tell you what I
don’t
see. I don’t see your father’s coach or his coachmen or his postilions.”

This was the moment Rosamund had been waiting for. “They’re a thing of the past,” she said. “From now on, I shall travel in my own modest carriage, just like any other lady. Of course, I haven’t got the carriage yet, but that will come. And I refuse to be hemmed in by footmen who just get in the way. I’m going to live like an ordinary girl.”

Callie shook her head. “We’ve had this conversation before. Nothing ever comes of it.”

“This time, I’m serious. You see, I’ve finally taken the plunge. I’ve leased a house just off Bloomsbury. If I like it, I have the option of buying it before the year is out.”

No one knew when Aunt Fran had wakened, but she suddenly exclaimed, “Bravo, Rosamund. That is a real accomplishment. Bloomsbury, you say? That’s not far away. Why don’t we go right now and see it?”

“Aunt Fran, you took the words right out of my mouth,” said Rosamund.

George Withers banged into his study and went straight to the table with the decanters and glasses. He bolted his first drink, poured himself another, then walked to the window and looked down upon Bond Street without really seeing anything. His hand was trembling, not in fear, but in rage.

Digby was incompetent! The man was a fool if he imagined he would ever step into Maitland’s shoes as chief of staff. He waited for things to happen when he should be
making
things happen.

He sipped at his brandy as he sifted through the conversation at Mrs. Tracey’s house.
Peter Dryden
, the vicar. He was the only person in England who posed a threat, because Dryden had known the real Withers. A moment’s reflection calmed him. He wasn’t likely to run into the vicar, not in the circles in which he moved. All the same, he’d met the sister. These things happened.

If things had gone to plan, Maitland would have hanged and he would have left England by now.

Maybe it was time to cut his losses and run.

That’s what enraged him. And Lady Rosamund Devere. It sounded to him as though she could cause a great deal of trouble.

He took a long swallow of brandy as he considered his
choices. Unlike Digby, he didn’t wait for things to happen. He’d deal with Lady Rosamund first, then he’d think about Peter Dryden.

They all piled into a hackney, and though it was a bit of a crush, it didn’t take them long to arrive at the house.

“You said Bloomsbury,” said Callie. “This is Somers Town. I don’t call this convenient for shopping or making calls on friends.”

“Nonsense,” said Aunt Fran. “Bloomsbury is only a short walk away. And there are shops in Bloomsbury, aren’t there, and hackney stands? We passed them on the way here.”

“All the same,” said Callie, “it
feels
isolated. I like to see what my neighbors are doing and vice versa. It’s safer that way.”

Rosamund paid off the hackney, knowing that she could get another only a five-minute walk away, and she joined the others at the great wrought-iron gates.

“I don’t have the keys yet,” she said. “That’s why the gates are locked. But there’s a caretaker, Fenton. He’ll let us into the house.”

They entered by the wicket gate, and strolled up the drive. It was a two-storey house, built in the Georgian manner, with long windows facing south over a vast expanse of lawn. Rosamund began to point out the various features; the pasture for horses, the stable block, the woods where deer roamed.

“That’s where the house gets its name,” she said. “Woodlands.”

The caretaker was a grizzled, amiable fellow who obligingly offered to make tea and serve it in the rose salon. And half an hour later, that’s where they were, sipping tea and planning a shopping expedition to order material for curtains and upholstery.

After a while, Callie and Aunt Fran went through a door that gave onto a little sunroom overlooking the front lawns, leaving Miss Dryden and Rosamund alone.

Miss Dryden said, in her usual restrained way, “I want you to know how much I admired the way you defended Mr. Maitland. Back there, with Major Digby, you were splendid! I only wish I could have said those things.”

Rosamund looked at her companion with interest. “Do you believe he’s innocent?”

Miss Dryden nodded.

“You never mentioned it to me when the trial was going on.”

“No. But that was because you said he was as guilty as sin, and I didn’t like to contradict you.”

The price of being a duke’s daughter! “You have my permission to contradict me as much as you like.”

Miss Dryden’s fleeting smile was impish. “Thank you. But as I said, I think he’s innocent, too.”

Rosamund sighed. “Not many people would agree with us.”

“My brother does. Then, he remembers Mr. Maitland from their Cambridge days.”

Rosamund sat back in her chair. “Your brother
knows
Mr. Maitland?”

“They were at Cambridge together. Peter says that though Maitland was difficult to know, he was as straight as an arrow. He could never have murdered that girl. You see”—Miss Dryden hesitated before going on—

“there was some trouble at Cambridge, and Maitland was blamed for it.” She looked directly into Rosamund’s eyes. “But he was exonerated. And Peter deeply regrets that he ever mistrusted him. He vowed to himself that he would never make that mistake again.”

Rosamund felt her excitement mounting. “Did your brother ever mention a boy called Frank Stapleton?”

Miss Dryden spoke slowly. “The other boy.”

“Where is he now? Do you know?”

“He went to Canada right after he left Cambridge. Peter heard he died there.”

And that, thought Rosamund, was that. Or perhaps not. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to Prudence’s brother. Maybe Frank Stapleton had a friend who wanted to avenge his disgrace. Maybe Peter Dryden wasn’t as innocent as his sister made out. Not all vicars were saintly.

And maybe she was clutching at straws.

Miss Dryden said, “If only there was something we could do to help Mr. Maitland. It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it, to be convicted of a crime if you did not do it?”

Rosamund was reminded of her resolve to work tirelessly to clear Richard’s name, a resolve that had wavered because her father had warned her that Richard would not thank her for meddling.

“Perhaps there
is
something we can do,” she said.

Miss Dryden was startled. “What?”

“We can do what I suggested. Go back to the beginning and interview witnesses again, but this time on the assumption that Mr. Maitland is innocent.”

Callie wandered into the room just then. She said archly, “I think this is Richard Maitland’s doing, Rosamund. I think something happened when he abducted you, and that’s what finally provoked you into setting up your own establishment.”

Rosamund made light of it. “You’re right, of course. There’s nothing like believing that one’s life is hanging in the balance to make a lady think about what kind of life she really wants.”

Callie laughed. “There speaks Miss Fainthearted! If only Richard Maitland had abducted
me
, I would have
relished
every minute of it.”

Rosamund had no desire to listen to Callie eulogizing Richard Maitland, so she exclaimed at the time and said they would have to get back to Manchester Square because that’s where they were to meet Caspar.

I
t was the oddest birthday party Richard had ever attended. The guests brought presents, not for Rosamund but for the parish poor. It was a tradition, it seemed, to collect money for the poor whenever a Devere celebrated a birthday, and the duke would double whatever was collected.

Such were the ways of the rich.

The weather, as usual, was perverse. What had started out as a glorious day was chased away by a sudden gale blowing in from the North Sea, bringing spotty showers in its wake. Ladies who had dressed to the nines in diaphanous gowns for Rosamund’s ball were forced to wrap themselves in shawls to stave off the chill. And that was inside the house.

Outside, footmen with umbrellas hurried down the steps to offer shelter to newly arrived guests while they got in out of the rain. The marquee had blown down and every gardener and groundsman was under orders to
batten it down so that it did not blow away, and all this in the rain. Tempers were becoming frayed.

Richard’s temper was already frayed. He was made up to look like a fop who had stepped out of the last century, with a powdered wig that was making his scalp itch. He was beginning to wonder if it was infested with lice, but even if it was, there was nothing he could do about it without drawing attention to himself. It was just like the army, just like being on guard duty. He was at one end of the long ballroom, stationed in front of the glass door to the conservatory, where supper would eventually be served, and it was his job to keep guests out until everything was ready.

The duke had been right—even if his own mother came calling, she wouldn’t recognize him. No one recognized him, not the duke, or Lords Caspar and Justin, or Miss Dryden, or Rosamund’s friend, Mrs. Tracey, whose harebrained idea it had been to visit Newgate. They were all here, in the ballroom, their eyes passing over him without really seeing him. Even Rosamund failed to recognize him.

He, on the other hand, had no trouble finding her in the crush, though the younger ladies were all dressed much the same, in gowns that looked as fragile as tissue. He didn’t care how many maids it had taken to dress her or do up her hair in a swathe of dark curls that were pinned to her crown by fresh flowers. It was worth it. She had never looked more lovely.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been struck by her beauty, but tonight she was different. She didn’t look haughty, or bored with the company. She seemed animated. He’d been watching her all night. She’d opened the ball by dancing the waltz with Prince Michael, and everyone had stood around gawking as though they’d never seen a man and woman dance the waltz before. She’d never missed a dance. But now she was standing at the edge of the floor with Miss Dryden and Mrs. Tracey.

He hoped the change in her wasn’t because of that blockhead Prince Michael. He wondered what she was thinking.

What Rosamund was thinking about was finding a partner for Prudence Dryden. She wasn’t exactly matchmaking; she just wanted Prudence to see that there were other men in the world besides Caspar. With this in mind, she’d encouraged all the eligible young gentlemen who’d come calling on her this last week to come again, and she’d tried to bring Prudence to their notice, but Prudence was her own worst enemy. She didn’t mope and she didn’t give herself die-away airs. She smiled, she was polite, but no one could get past that wall of reserve.

Even she couldn’t get past Prudence’s reserve, and it puzzled her. They’d returned home from their outing that morning closer than they’d ever been, and now they were back to being polite acquaintances.

Maybe Caspar had something to do with it. Maybe the pain of unrequited love made Prudence the way she was. It didn’t work that way with her. She was determined that she would not be seen as an object of pity, especially by the man who had rejected her.

Which was why she had agreed to let her ball go forward instead of succumbing to the strong temptation to lock herself in her room and go into a decline. She didn’t want her family or friends to worry about her. But above all, she didn’t want Richard to feel sorry for her.