The Spurned Viscountess (17 page)

The shadow separated from the wall. “Rosalind, what are you doing?”

“Lucien. What…what are you doing here?”

His eyes flashed impatience. “My question, I think.”

“I’m treating Harry’s leg.” Bother, she hadn’t had a chance to question the boy about Mary, but she’d wanted to ask about Hawk before someone like her husband arrived.

“That’s not what it sounded like to me.” Lucien’s voice held sharp disbelief.

“Then why are you asking?” Rosalind snapped.

“So you could do a good job of incriminating yourself. Have you finished here?”

Rosalind folded her arms and gave a small mutinous huff. She tugged the blanket back over Harry’s leg. “You need to start walking about to regain your strength.”

Harry stared at them with huge frightened eyes.

Lucien took her arm, his grip firm. “Come, Rosalind.”

“I have other people to see.”

“Are they sick or are you going to interrogate them?”

Rosalind sniffed and didn’t bother replying. Drat the man. It was almost as if he could read her mind. She darted a look in his direction and discarded any idea of evading him. “I’m treating the ill,” she said, her tone lofty. “I have a footman escorting me just as you instructed, so you don’t need to wait.”

Lucien bit back a grin, once again wondering why he’d dismissed his wife as a boring brown mouse. She had more determination than most men. But he knew she wasn’t going to treat the sick. The angle of her chin gave her away. She planned to question more of the villagers about Hawk.

He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “I’ve talked to Matthew already. I know you were the subject of another suspicious accident.”

“But—”

“We will discuss this at the castle.” After a nod at Harry, Lucien propelled his wife from the small cottage. “I sent Matthew back to the castle,” he said, taking her medicine bag from her.

Rosalind stopped. An indignant frown creased her brow. “How am I meant to get back?”

“I will take you.” Lucien led her to the stables. Oberon whickered softly in greeting. He stood back to let Rosalind enter first.

“I’m not getting on that brute.” Rosalind backed up rapidly until she collided with Lucien’s chest.

“Yet I found you hiding in Oberon’s stall the other day.”

“That was…” she trailed off, caught in half-truths.

“You lied to me, perchance?”

“I—”

“Come, Rosalind. There’s nothing to be frightened of.”

“Have you checked under the saddle?” she asked, still stalling.

“I intend to do it right now.” Lucien led Oberon from the stall and deftly undid the girth. He checked beneath the saddle and saddle blanket and refastened the girth again. After examining the reins and bridle, he tossed his wife up on the saddle and handed her medicine bag to her. Lucien swung up behind her and wrapped one arm around her waist.

“I’ll fall,” she gasped, wriggling about uncomfortably.

“I won’t let you fall.” Lucien pulled her slight body close and used his knees to urge Oberon into a walk. Rosalind trembled, and he felt a moment’s misgiving. He still had bad news to impart.

“What if Lady Augusta sees me sitting on the horse like this? It’s…unseemly.”

He tightened his hold, drawing her close so she was almost sitting on his lap, and signaled Oberon to increase his pace. “Close your eyes,” he murmured, looking down at her pale face. When her eyes snapped shut, he smiled.

The scent of flowers rose from her hair and suddenly he wished they weren’t atop his horse. The need to kiss her lips was an ache in his soul. It wasn’t because he’d forgotten Francesca or that he no longer loved his first wife. She resided in his heart still, but to his surprise, he’d found there was room for Rosalind too.

The trip back to the castle didn’t take long enough. In the courtyard, Lucien reluctantly released his wife. A stable lad appeared, and he gave Oberon into his care.

Rosalind was still limping so Lucien swept her into his arms, bag and all, and hustled up the flight of stairs.

“I can walk,” she protested.

His wife was predictable when it came to independence. “If I waited for you, I’d miss my next meal.”

Rosalind huffed indignantly, but Lucien could tell she wanted to laugh. He strode through the entranceway into the Great Hall. It was warmer inside and a welcome respite from the stiff breeze outside. A maid bustled about with a tray of drinks at the far end of the hall. His cousin Charles stood with Mansfield, Lady Sophia and two young women. They looked familiar but Lucien couldn’t recall their names.

“Hello.” Charles’s greeting held a note of surprise.

“Hastings. Lady Hastings,” Mansfield said. His languid gaze swept over Rosalind. “Anything wrong?”

“We’ve been to the village,” Lucien said. Instinct told him not to talk to his cousin and friend about Rosalind’s activities in the village. Rosalind wriggled, and he reluctantly let her down but kept a steadying hand on her arm.

“Are you hurt, Lady Hastings?” Lady Sophia asked.

Lucien frowned at her honey-sweet tones. He’d already noticed the three young women whispering amongst themselves while he spoke to Charles and Mansfield. Not one of them could bear to gaze upon his face.

“A twinge in my knee,” Rosalind said.

“Did you fall?” Lady Sophia’s face held concern yet Lucien sensed the girl didn’t feel the slightest hint of sympathy. “Your gown is grubby.”

Rosalind’s lips firmed, and Lucien noted her chin lifted in defiance. She opened her mouth, but he spoke first.

“We intend to retire to our chambers to rest until the evening meal.”

“We’re going for a stroll in the garden. It’s sheltered from the wind. Are you sure we can’t tempt you to join us?” one of the young women said, her mouth stretching into a moue of disappointment.

“It’s more fun with lots of people,” Lady Sophia said. “Are you sure you won’t come, Hastings? Lady Hastings could rest so she is refreshed for tonight.”

Lucien decided it was time he put Lady Sophia in her place. Since the first, she’d made veiled comments about Rosalind. He hadn’t stuck up for his wife then, but he could do the right thing now. Rosalind was lady of the castle and, as such, had his full support.

“We will see you later.” Lucien scooped Rosalind off her feet with a suddenness that made her squeak. He chuckled as he strode away with her tightly held in his arms, despite her muffled protests. “I have bad news,” he murmured.

Foreboding struck her face, and she ceased her struggles immediately. “Mary?”

The faint tremor in her voice brought all his protective tendencies to the surface. He wished he didn’t have to tell her the grim truth but knew she’d settle for nothing less. “I’m afraid so. Wait until we reach my chamber. I’ll tell you everything then. We don’t know who might eavesdrop on our conversation.”

At his chamber door, Lucien used his shoulder to nudge it open. He deposited Rosalind on his bed and instantly, his arms felt empty. An uncomfortable thought lodged in his mind—he was becoming used to seeing her in his bed.

“Tell me about Mary.” Rosalind’s eyes glittered with stark, vivid fear, and it tore at Lucien’s heart. He wanted to lie, to tell Rosalind her fears were premature, but he couldn’t leave her with hope Mary would return when there was none.

“She’s dead,” he said, his bluntness making him wince.

“How do you know? Are you sure it was Mary?” Tears throbbed in her voice and glittered in her pale blue eyes. Her hands fisted in her lap, and she looked like a broken doll. “It’s exactly six years since…since Mary started work…looking after me.”

Lucien was unsure of whether to make an offer to comfort her or not. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, feeling inadequate and useless. More questions would come and he’d have to tell her the worst.

One tear overflowed and poured down her cheek. “Tell me everything.”

He sat on the bed beside her, pausing to marshal his thoughts. “I found Mary’s body near the North Tower.”

Rosalind grabbed him by the shoulders, startling Lucien with her strength and intensity. “Someone killed her?”

“I’m sorry.” He shrugged, feeling her pain but unable to do anything to make it stop. “I’ve organized two of the footmen to take her body to the housekeeper.”

“Are you sure it’s Mary?” Hope lurked in her eyes when she looked at him. Another tear overflowed, and the anguish on her face almost broke his heart.

“Yes.” Lucien reached for Rosalind’s hand. “She had a head injury and stab wounds in her chest. I’m sorry.”

“I miss her so much.” She shuffled closer to him then, as if she wasn’t certain he’d welcome her touch. Swallowing the constriction in his throat, he gathered her in his arms, holding her tight as her body shook with her grief.

“We’ll discover who did this,” he promised. “They will pay.”

***

Early the next morning, Rosalind slipped from the castle and followed the path leading to the garden.
Mary’s dead.
She still couldn’t believe it. With a heavy heart, she paid scant attention to her surroundings, aside from pulling her mantle close to ward off the morning chill. She lifted Noir from her pocket and set the kitten on the ground. He stalked a shadow, springing and landing in the midst of a small leafy plant. Dew sprayed in all directions, and Noir looked so comically startled Rosalind laughed out loud before stopping guiltily when she remembered Mary. The kitten sneezed, stuck his nose in the air and stalked ahead, looking wet and bedraggled.

Lucien had promised her they’d bury Mary in the plot on the grounds of Castle St. Clare. And he’d meant every word. Although he scowled often and his second nature was bossiness, he had a kind heart. Exactly the qualifications she required in the father of her children.

Rosalind’s hand slipped down to slide over her belly. How would it feel to carry Lucien’s child? Would she ever know?

A gunshot sounded in the distance. She froze like a fox scenting a hound. Another shot echoed. Rosalind let out a sigh of relief. The shots were on the other side of the castle. The men had discussed a hunting trip last night.

She continued her walk, but paid more attention to her surroundings. A light mist was blowing in from the sea. Damp but still sparse, the mist let Rosalind see most of the garden, but obscured the sea. She heard the distant roar of the waves as they struck the cliff base, and a thrush singing near the hedgerow.

More rifle fire sounded, closer this time. Rosalind frowned. She knew too well how dangerous it was to walk in an area where the men were hunting.

She looked for her kitten. “Noir!” He’d been there a second ago. Sighing, she commenced a search. He wasn’t hiding behind the lavender bush or the unruly box hedge. “Noir, you little wretch. Where are you?” From the corner of her eye she saw a flash of black. Rosalind whirled about, snatching at the kitten before he disappeared again.

“Steady on there, Lady Hastings. I don’t think Hastings would like you grabbing my legs,” Mansfield said drolly.

“Oh!” The air hissed from her lungs and hot color flooded her face. She froze in her kneeling position. “I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean…Oh!”

A second chuckle joined Mansfield’s laughter at her expense.

“Charles!” Rosalind said. The heat in her face intensified. “I brought my kitten out to the garden and he’s disappeared. I only took my eyes off him for a second. When I saw the flash of color, I grabbed before I thought. I’m so sorry.”

“No harm done,” Charles said. “Mansfield probably enjoyed the attention.”

“Of course I did.” Mansfield’s lips tipped upward in a grin.

Rosalind straightened to see that both men carried rifles over their shoulders. “I heard gunshots. Have you been hunting?”

Mansfield nodded. “We have.”

“No luck though, as you can probably tell. Cook had her heart set on rabbit pie for dinner,” Charles said.

“Is your kitten black, my lady?” Mansfield asked.

“Can you see him?” She squeezed her hands together, worry churning her stomach as she scanned the bushes. Although she wanted to find her kitten, she didn’t want either of the men to observe Noir too closely.

“There he is!” Mansfield moved with a speed that belied his size. “Got you.” He held the wriggling kitten in one hand, and Rosalind hurried to take charge of her pet. Mansfield handed the kitten over without comment.

“Thank you,” she murmured and thrust Noir safely in her pocket.

“You and Hastings seem to be on much better terms,” Charles said.

Rosalind’s head jerked up while inside she hugged the warmth from the acknowledgement close to her heart. It wasn’t just her imagination.

Mansfield smirked. “It’s true. I never thought I’d see Hastings smile again let alone at a woman. He’s not been the same since he arrived back at St. Clare.”

“It will be good to see children at the castle again,” Charles said. “We had fun when we were youngsters. Do you remember, Mansfield? The fishing. The hunting. Searching for the treasure and playing hide-and-seek.”

“Stealing pies when Cook wasn’t looking.” Mansfield’s grin widened with the memories. He studied Rosalind closely. “You’re good for Hastings.”

Charles nodded. “We await the announcement with pleasure. It will take the pressure off us, won’t it, Mansfield?”

“You, maybe,” Mansfield growled. “But my mother is constantly harping at me to tie the knot with some female.”

“Sounds like Aunt Augusta,” Charles said. “The sooner you and Lucien have children, the better.”

“I think we’re embarrassing her,” Mansfield observed.

They certainly were. “It’s not a seemly conversation.” The two men were talking about her as if she were a broodmare. Rosalind wasn’t sure where to look. In the end, she concentrated on a lavender bush a few feet away. It was a pity she hadn’t perfected her aunt’s technique of silencing unwanted comments.

“We’re not sorry, Rosalind,” Charles said, smiling. “We’re family. You have to put up with us.” He paused to chuckle wickedly. “It’s good not being the one in the firing line. Besides, it would be good to have children about the place.”

Three nights later Rosalind smoothed the apple-green skirts of her newest gown, delivered from the local dressmaker. Mary would’ve loved this gown because she had a fondness for apples and apple pie. The memory of her recent loss sent an icy chill skittering across her skin. Her friend was at rest now, even though her murderer went unpunished.

Rosalind’s shoulders slumped, and she gulped hard. Lucien had stood at her side in the graveyard, clasping her hand and offering silent sympathy. A flash of loneliness gripped her. Lucien and the others had offered their commiserations, but how could they understand? Mary hadn’t judged her because of her differences. A true companion, she’d accepted her as a friend and championed her in times of need.

A clock chimed, jerking Rosalind back to the present. She made her way to the stairs that led to the floor below. St. Bridget’s nose, she hoped this dinner would run smoothly, since Lady Sophia was in attendance. Rosalind had a sneaking suspicion Lady Augusta was matchmaking with Charles and Lady Sophia in her sights—an absurd notion on Lady Augusta’s part. The two barely spoke to each other because the girl spent more time ingratiating herself with Lucien. Jealousy speared Rosalind’s heart. Soon she’d take firm action to show Lady Sophia that Lucien was
her
husband and, as such, his loyalties belonged elsewhere.

As Rosalind approached the staircase, a muffled thud claimed her attention. She half turned, expecting to see one of the servants, but saw no one. Shaking her head, she laughed deprecatingly. Every single noise made her jump these days, which was silly considering the age of the castle and the way the timbered additions constantly creaked. Not wanting to draw Lady Augusta’s censure for tardiness, she hastened her pace, stepping down onto the first step. Her foot caught on something, throwing her off balance. She toppled backward. Her hands clutched for the banister and missed. A scream sounded.

Hers.

Rosalind hit the stairs with a thud. Again, she grabbed for the railing. Again, she missed, grasping at air instead. She landed with a painful thump, rolled and snatched desperately. The solid wood beneath her hands wrenched free a moan of relief.

She grabbed the banister with every shred of strength and came to an arm-jarring halt. Her chest heaved, her breaths escaping in raw pants of relief. When her breathing finally evened out, she flexed her leg. Pain darted from her ankle. She shifted her weight gingerly until at last she sat safely on a stair. Only then did she ease her grip on the banister and look up to see what she’d tripped over. A dark man-size shadow flickered along the pale wall beneath the candle sconce before jerking from sight, a whisper of a foreign sound accompanying the strange spectacle. A blur of black darted down the landing, pouncing on something out of her vision. Someone hissed, and a sharp feline mew of pain jolted her to action. Noir? Seconds later, her kitten raced into view and scuttled down the stairs to crawl onto her lap.

The sound of running feet thudded on the landing above. Her dress had hiked up, displaying her lacy garters and her stocking from knee to ankle. She hurriedly lifted her kitten to rearrange her skirts. Her gaze caught on a small rent where she’d caught the hem with her shoe. Tears filled her eyes as she stared down at her throbbing ankle. One seeped free and ran down her cheek. She sniffed and brushed it away with her free hand.

“Rosalind!” Charles’s anxious face stared down at her. Mansfield appeared then, as did her husband.

Lucien rushed down the stairs, stopping to crouch beside her. “Rosalind, I heard a scream. What happened? Are you all right?”

Another tear slid free.

“What is it? Where does it hurt?”

A sob escaped. Rosalind’s vision turned blurry.

“Talk to me, Rosalind.” Lucien sat on the stair beside her and placed an arm around her shoulders.

“My dress,” she managed. Her shoulders heaved. Another sob escaped.

“What about your dress?”

“It’s…ru-ruined,” she wailed. With that, she burrowed her face in his chest and cried in earnest.

Lucien set an indignant Noir aside and cradled her gently in his arms. He murmured soft nonsensical words until she quieted. She was dimly aware of Charles and Mansfield’s worried queries. Lucien spoke to them and the two friends left, heading down the flight of sweeping stairs, leaving her alone with Lucien.

Rosalind swallowed and pulled away. She wiped a self-conscious hand over her face, knowing she probably looked terrible with red eyes and an equally red nose.

Lucien studied her for long seconds. He lifted one hand to wipe away tears on her cheek. “What is really wrong? Did you fall?”

“I tripped.”

“Over this rascal?” He scooped up Noir, regarding him with a stern face.

“No. No, it wasn’t Noir. It was a string of some sort tied across the stairs at ankle level. I didn’t see it and stumbled.” She waited for him to tell her it was imagination, but he remained thoughtful. She shuddered inwardly. If it hadn’t been for the curve in the stairs, she would have toppled all the way to the bottom.

“Did you see anyone?”

“All I saw was a shadow, and I think Noir pounced at them, whoever it was. It happened so quickly. It could have been one of the servants or one of the guests.” She held her breath, waiting for his next comment. He hadn’t believed her earlier, but another incident might make him finally accept that someone was going out of their way to injure her or worse.

“That makes three incidents in a week,” he said at last.

“Don’t forget the men shooting at me.” The memory made her recall Mary, and she struggled against the onset of more tears. “You don’t think it’s my imagination?”

“No.” Lucien stood. “Can you walk? Wait. Don’t try on the stairs. I’ll carry you.” After handing her the kitten, he picked her up and strode back up the stairs with a firm tread.

Rosalind stiffened. “Where are we going?”

“To your chamber. You’re injured so Aunt Augusta can pardon you from dinner for once.”

“I’m fine,” she protested. “I need to tidy my appearance and change my dress, that’s all.”

“You can’t even walk. How are you going to manage the stairs?”

“I haven’t tried to walk yet.” Rosalind paused to bat her eyelids at her husband. “Besides, I thought you’d carry me.”

The sound of Lucien’s uninhibited laughter was a gift to treasure. “Minx.”

Rosalind turned pensive. “There’s another reason. I want to see if any of the guests seem surprised by my appearance.”

“I don’t like it,” Lucien said.

“But you’ll be there to watch. What more can happen to me?”

***

Rosalind gritted her teeth and managed a smile for the maid who handed her a dish of tea.
Boredom.
That’s what could happen next. Apart from the minister’s wife, the women were ignoring her. During dinner, the snubs were not so obvious, but now that the women had left the men to their port and pipe smoking, Rosalind sat on the horsehair couch, along with the minister’s wife, in solitary splendor.

“I so enjoy needlework,” Mrs. Wright said brightly.

Rosalind smiled encouragingly when the woman faltered. “What do you stitch?”

“I am working on new cushions for the front parlor. I designed the patterns myself.” The woman glanced across the room at the chattering women. She bit her lip, and her hands twisted in her lap.

“I wish I were talented with a needle and thread.” Rosalind felt bad for the woman whose only crime was to sit with her. Perhaps the other ladies feared a contagion of witchcraft. If only they knew. The only thing they might catch from her was clumsiness, for she was a walking disaster according to Lady Augusta.

“I know the rumors aren’t true.” Mrs. Wright glanced at Rosalind and looked away, a soft blush highlighting her embarrassment.

“What rumors?” Rosalind asked, but she already suspected what Mrs. Wright referred to.

“About you being a witch.” The woman’s gaze shot to her embroidered shoes. “I know it’s a falsehood. You do so much for the sick in St. Clare. And I’ve never heard of you selling love charms and spells.” The woman spoke quickly, as if she had to get the words out before an interruption.

“Spells!” Rosalind almost choked on her tea. She coughed and hurriedly set her cup on the oak pedestal table at her elbow.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t wish to distress you!” Mrs. Wright looked as though she might burst into tears, and her raised voice had attracted the attention of the other women.

Rosalind’s lips firmed when she saw Lady Sophia and her bosom friends, Lady Margaret and Lady Suzanna, put their heads together to whisper behind their fans. Their malicious eyes settled on her. Lady Augusta’s perceptive gaze searched the women’s faces. Her brow knitted, then settled into complacency.

“No, not the harpsichord,” Rosalind said.

“Mrs. Radcliffe, would you like to entertain us with some music? And perhaps Lady Suzanna will sing?”

Rosalind breathed again until she saw Lady Augusta’s attention fixed firmly on her. Her lined face had returned to a frown. A sigh escaped as Rosalind wondered what sin she’d committed this time.

“Lady Hastings, there you are. What are you doing all the way over here?” Lady Sophia trilled. She glided toward Rosalind like a ship under full sail. Her silk sack dress was full, with a snug bodice highlighting her creamy skin and other charms.

Rosalind whispered one of the coachman’s curses about St. Christopher’s body parts under her breath. A discussion with Lady Sophia was exactly what she needed at this time. Her ankle and knee throbbed with a persistent demand for attention while her head ached in sympathy.

Lady Margaret simpered. “Do you not want to join us?”

“We wished for quiet conversation,” Mrs. Wright said.

One pointed look from Lady Sophia and the minister’s wife withered like a plucked flower left out in the full sun. Rosalind half expected her to flee, but Mrs. Wright stood her ground, resisting her transparent urge to scamper.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Rosalind stood, not liking the sly exchange of looks passing between the two friends.

“I’ve heard rumors in the village.” Lady Sophia tossed her head, making powdered ringlets bounce against her creamy shoulders.

“You listen to rumors?” Rosalind’s soft laugh drew a frown from Lady Sophia and, thankfully, gave no indication of her inner tension.

“They are more than rumors,” Lady Sophia snapped.

Rosalind’s heart slammed against her ribs, but her smile remained intact. Lucien had warned her, the village children had questioned her, so it was easy to guess the delightful tidbit Lady Sophia wished to share.

Witchcraft.

“Do tell,” Rosalind said in a playful tone, ignoring the panic cramping her stomach. If she belittled Lady Sophia’s words and treated them as nonsense, perhaps they’d cause less damage. Even so, she felt her secure future slipping from her grasp. It was happening again. Soon, people would turn their backs when they saw her coming. Only her station would save her, but she’d become a prisoner, unable to leave the castle. In outlying villages, they still burned witches at the stake, even though authorities frowned on the practice.

“I want a love spell.” Lady Sophia met and held Rosalind’s gaze, daring her to deny the demand.

Lady Margaret gasped while a soft moan came from Mrs. Wright. Rosalind ignored them both.

“Lady Margaret would like one too.”

This time soft color flooded Lady Margaret’s face, but she didn’t gainsay Lady Sophia’s demands on her behalf.

Mrs. Wright drew in a shocked breath. “The rumors are wicked. Wicked, scurrilous gossip.”

“I have no idea how to make a love spell.” Rosalind laughed. “Wherever did you get the idea?”

“You’re a witch. Everyone knows witches sell love charms along with dark spells. The cows on Mansfield’s estate have gone dry.” She thrust a finger at Rosalind in dramatic statement. “Are you responsible?”

Rosalind rolled her eyes just as the music of the harpsichord came to a crashing halt. She picked up her fan and opened it with a snap.

“What’s going on?” Lady Augusta’s strident tones snapped across the parlor.

Rosalind knew she must face the charge without a flinch. She might not be able to stop the gossip in the village, but she could halt it here. “Lady Sophia was kind enough to repeat some unpleasant gossip doing the rounds in the village.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Wright stepped up beside Rosalind. “I’ve never heard so much nonsense in all my life. How could anyone think Lady Hastings is a witch? She’s an angel. Only yesterday my husband commented on how good she is in treating the sick in the village.”

“Have those silly rumors about witchcraft surfaced again?” Lady Augusta demanded. “Stuff and nonsense! I expected better of you all. Lady Sophia, will you honor us with a rendition on the harpsichord? I’d like you to play a lullaby, if you please.”

Lady Sophia’s scowl and flashing eyes suggested Rosalind hadn’t heard the end of the matter. She swept away in a swish of skirts to seat herself at the harpsichord.

Rosalind sat to take the weight off her aching ankle and knee and plied her fan vigorously. Maybe she could fan away her apprehension. “Thank you for your defense, Mrs. Wright.”

“Call me Katherine. Please.” Katherine arranged her skirts so they wouldn’t crease. “Lady Sophia is spreading wicked gossip. I grew up in a village called Little Neston in Cheshire. When I was ten, one of the old women in the village was accused of witchcraft.” Katherine’s voice trembled. “I heard my parents talking. She wasn’t a witch. She was eccentric, but we all have our quirks. Stephen says we must accept each other’s shortcomings.”

Rosalind nodded, smiling inwardly at Katherine’s speech. The minister’s wife never said much, but it was obvious she felt strongly on this matter.

The door of the parlor opened and the gentlemen drifted inside.

“Rosalind, how are you feeling?”

“I am fine, Mansfield, thank you.” She set her fan on her lap.

Charles sauntered up to them, holding his quizzing glass high. “Devilish clumsy, aren’t you?”

“And you’re no gentleman, commenting on the fact.” Rosalind folded her fan with a flick of her wrist and stood.