The Ringmaster's Wife

by Kristy Cambron

  Please . . . don’t let it be me.

  “Oh yes, it was three summers ago,” Lady Denton twittered. “We were so sorry to hear of Lord Brentwood’s passing. Such a legacy your father left behind. And we hope to see you in this part of the country on a more regular basis, Lord Brentwood, though affairs in London threaten to keep you occupied.”

  He nodded. “Yes. Business of our estates is quite good, both in the North Country and in the city. But I regret that managing the duties associated with them has left little time for socializing. And my father’s legacy will live on—as will Hendrick’s. I mean to honor their memory while I’m a guest here.”

  Lady Denton offered a nod and an attentive smile, her breath hanging on the eligible lord’s every word.

  Rosamund watched her mother’s transformation with wonder.

  Showering compliments. Dripping with charm. Why, her very words could have slithered through piles of sugar. It was all, however, contradictory to the way her fingernails were digging through Rosamund’s glove into her forearm.

  “I’m sure you remember Lady Rosamund. She certainly remembers you.”

  Rosamund felt his eyes shift to her.

  “It’s my sincere pleasure to be in your acquaintance again, Lady Rosamund. You’ve certainly grown up, haven’t you?”

  Her mouth went dry in an instant, followed by palms that chose that moment to turn clammy in her gloves. Should she bow her head? Curtsy? Extend her hand to him?

  Every shred of her mother’s careful training in the art of husband-catching had flown right out of her head the instant she spotted Mr. Butler and Mr. Keary in the room. The reintroduction to Lord Brentwood would have been difficult to manage anyway, and now she had to foster small talk with their eyes boring into her back.

  Rosamund swallowed hard and pressed her lips into a smile. “It’s an honor to have you back at Easling Park, Lord Brentwood.”

  She glanced out of the corner of her eye to find Colin Keary holding a brandy glass, though he didn’t look to have taken a sip. He stood tall, owning his spot by the hearth with a devil-may-care ease unusual for a drawing room in Yorkshire. And though no one showered him with a chorus of adulation, he seemed to prefer it over the attention that was being heaped on Lord Brentwood.

  Colin Keary had apparently not been able to locate a razor—or a barber—on his way to the dinner party. He’d made no effort to comb his hair into submission either, unlike young Ward, whose misaligned part showed he’d at least taken some care. But Colin carried himself well, appearing polished even with his collar unbuttoned behind his tie and a tarnished gold watch chain dangling from the front of his vest. And though the other gentlemen were in white-tie formal dress, his manner was as confident as if he’d dressed in a king’s robes.

  Without warning, something shifted between them.

  Colin had turned ever so slightly, noticing how she watched him from across the room, and dared lock eyes with her. Amusement sparkled in his, a hint of a smile not far off.

  It continued as he held her gaze, heating her cheeks.

  The countess’s incessant flattery and Lord Brentwood’s polished acceptance of it faded into the background as the events of the afternoon began to click into place. The double take when he saw her face up close. His questions by the creek. The way he’d managed to have her father’s automobile plucked from the water and returned to the manor without obtaining information about their estate from her . . .

  Colin was telling her, in no uncertain terms, that he’d been in view of the facts from the beginning. How, Rosamund couldn’t know. But his arrogance now, as he seemingly watched the display of emotion cross her face as she figured it out . . . It set the blood to a near boil in her veins.

  Good heavens . . . Why is he here?

  Rosamund looked down at her hands, trying to collect her thoughts. She wished she could calm her racing heart at the same time.

  Does he intend to blackmail me?

  She stumbled ever so slightly off the back of her heel, but righted herself almost immediately.

  “Lady Rosamund,” Lord Brentwood said, “are you quite all right?”

  “I am. Quite,” she lied. Rosamund fought to offer a serene smile, willing courage to surface. “Thank you.”

  Her mother’s eyes grew wide, as if her daughter had missed something vital in the conversation. She clapped her gloved hands together.

  “Well, our Lady Rosamund must be tired after her riding today. My apologies, Lord Brentwood,” she added between clenched teeth. “But as dinner is now served, yes—she’d be pleased to take the arm you’ve offered.”

  Rosamund shot a glance across the room one last time, read the challenge in Colin’s eyes. But she agreed, adding sweetly, “Yes. Of course.”

  The guests flooded into the dining room, chatting and exclaiming over the grand display of towering candelabras, gold-rimmed china, crystal wine goblets, and vases of freesia and ivy that adorned the expanse of the dining table.

  Lady Denton positioned herself in the center of the table and invited their most distinguished guests to sit in the seats at her side. Lord Brentwood’s mother, the Dowager Lady Brentwood, and the local vicar from the peerage on the estate, Reverend Charles, were given seats on either side of her. Rosamund’s father took his customary seat opposite her mother and was flanked by Lord and Lady Edwards of Brockington Hall. They owned the lavish estate of rolling hills and rich farmland to the south, and no doubt relished the opportunity to discuss their shared interest in land bordering Easling Park.

  At a normal dinner party Rosamund mightn’t have cared where she was placed. But the arrangement left her on the round at the end of the table, awkwardly positioned with Lord Brentwood to her right and the Americans on her left.

  She kept her cool through the reverend’s blessing, though her mind drifted, and she wondered just how she’d manage to talk herself out of this mess with the Americans while guests were positioned at all points around the table.

  “You looked almost sick back there. No ill effects from the creek water, I trust,” Colin whispered at her side, pretending to take inordinate interest in the grandiose display before them instead of looking directly at her. “Perhaps a cocktail would’ve helped.”

  “You didn’t seem interested in one either.”

  “I’m not the cocktail type. I took the drink to be polite,” he countered. “But I might have asked after your health if you’d given me the chance.”

  “I’m fine.” Rosamund, too, kept her voice low as a footman moved about behind her.

  Colin swept his napkin across his lap. She did the same with her own.

  “That headband looks awfully heavy. I’m sure it’s the reason for the frown.”

  “It is,” she snapped, stealing a glance at him from the side. “And I despise this thing, if you must know. It’s digging into my head.”

  He cleared his throat over a chuckle, noticed by Ward, who looked about as uncomfortable as she felt. He tipped his shoulders up in question, seemingly unsure what to do with the cloth napkin in his hand. He stuffed it into his shirt collar, then pulled it out again when Colin furrowed his brow and gave a slight shake of the head.

  In contrast to young Ward, Colin seemed relaxed. He got Ward’s attention by clearing his throat and tapped the fork that was the farthest distance from his dinner plate. He mouthed, “Work your way in.”

  Ward nodded, and Colin turned back to her.

  “Poor chap,” he said. “I remember my first state dinner. I felt like he looks.”

  Rosamund wasn’t amused.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” She couldn’t believe she was actually going to say it aloud, but she added, “Do you want money?”

  Colin shook his head. “I came back for my coat.”


  She fired him a warning look, but it only seemed to amuse him further.

  “You still have it, you know. And I’m sure it’s a shock to you, but it’s the best I own.”

  Rosamund surveyed the room.

  The footmen were serving the guests to her father’s right first, so they’d have little time until her mother turned sides and they’d be forced to talk to the party on their left.

  Realizing she’d forgotten to remove her gloves, Rosamund began hastily tugging them finger by finger until they gave way. She laid them in her lap, whispering between clenched teeth, “Talk quickly. Did you follow me?”

  “No. We came on invitation.”

  “Why would you be invited here?”

  Colin paused, then looked her in the eye. “I’m sure it’s quite shocking for you to think an earl would entertain the likes of us, but we had business with your father this afternoon. I hesitate to say that we missed our meeting because we were fishing a certain automobile out of the brook a ways up the road.” He took a sip from his water goblet. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “It’s difficult to be grateful when you lied to me.”

  “I didn’t lie to you,” he fired back, keeping his voice low. “I just thought it indelicate to mention the fact that an earl’s daughter wouldn’t have been caught dead in the situation you were in.”

  “Indelicate?” she whispered, swallowing hard on the sting of his reproach. “Is it not worse to lie to my parents, acting as though we haven’t met?”

  Rosamund answered as forcefully as the occasion allowed. Oh, how she wished Colin were sitting directly across from her so his shin could feel the underside of her shoe.

  “As far as they’re concerned, we haven’t.”

  “If you’re not here to give me away, then why have you come?” she snapped.

  She thought she spied Lord Brentwood glance their way, but he turned back to Reverend Charles without a word.

  “As I said, business with your father. But by the time we arrived for our meeting, we were already into the dinner hour. And due to the inclement weather, His Lordship just invited us to stay on through tomorrow night. Quite nice, actually, to meet your family and”—he paused, eyeing Lord Brentwood—“your future husband, I presume.”

  Rosamund ignored the barb, favoring the opportunity to still see him in the wrong.

  “All that time—you knew who I was and you never said anything?”

  She straightened her back when the footman approached, carrying a generously laden tray of dilled tomato mousse and asparagus feuilleté savories. They each took helpings from the tray, first Rosamund and then Colin, replacing the silver servers afterward and holding their hushed conversation until the service staff had moved on to the opposite side of the table.

  “You are right about one thing. I’m not in the habit of meeting men on the side of a creek. I thought, given my circumstances, it would be best not to reveal who my father is.”

  “And though I knew you on sight,” Colin whispered, leaning ever so slightly in her direction, “I thought it would be impolite to correct you when you gave your name as Rose.”

  “I find it difficult to believe you could be overly concerned with politeness.”

  “We’re in Yorkshire for business. But we’ll be gone after tomorrow, so you needn’t worry,” he said. “We’ll take your secret to the grave.”

  Her first thought had been to blast Colin Keary for showing up at all. But now Rosamund found that she just couldn’t be angry. He’d stepped in to save her. He’d made himself late for business dealings with her father—which just wasn’t done when one had obtained a meeting with an earl. And now, despite her bristling, he was willing to keep the secret of their meeting, no questions asked.

  Her anger faded as humility took hold.

  “No, you’re right,” she countered, softening her voice. “I should thank you for your discretion. I asked for it and you’ve held up your end of the bargain. It’s just finding you both here—” A faint smile edged over her lips. “It was a surprise.”

  Colin exhaled on a sigh. Even shook his head.

  “I know. And I’m sorry. But we won’t cause you injury.” He picked up his fork. “We’re just here to buy an Arabian from your father, then we’ll catch a train and be out of England altogether. Hopefully you can put up with us through this dinner. In the meantime, I’ll try to help Ward know which fork to use so we don’t embarrass you any further.”

  “What did you just say?”

  Rosamund’s shock forced the question out at a decibel that drew notice from across the table. She dropped her fork, and it landed with a high-pitched clink at the base of her wineglass, shimmering the clear liquid, then lay still with a thud against the linen tablecloth.

  “Rosamund, dear. Is everything quite all right?”

  Lady Denton sounded only slightly nervous, and she maintained her mask of a serene smile, but her eyes registered horror at her daughter’s behavior.

  Rosamund turned to look at the stunned faces in the room, feeling like she’d just been punched in the stomach. She scanned the table, taking in the iron set to her father’s jaw and the confused glances on the faces of the rest of the party.

  Requiring space enough to think, she pushed her chair back from the table.

  “Father, you’re selling Ingénue?” she blurted. “That’s why these men are here?”

  “Rosamund, there is a time and place to discuss private matters, and it is not at Her Ladyship’s dining table.”

  His voice was stern, without any wiggle room for her to continue the line of questioning. The only trouble was, Rosamund’s heart was shattering in her chest. Her father had gone behind her back to sell the one thing that mattered most in the world to her—the one link their family had to the older brother she’d lost.

  “We only have one Arabian left . . .,” she began.

  “Come now, Lady Rosamund,” Lord Brentwood whispered under his breath, trying to sate her. “Let’s just enjoy the dinner. Leave the odiousness of business dealings to the men in the study afterward.”

  Lord Brentwood’s position was quite clear.

  But so was hers.

  Seeing that she’d receive no answer from her parents, Rosamund turned instead to Ward and Colin, entreating them with eyes that stung with tears.

  “Tell me, please—is it true what you’ve said? You’re here to buy my horse?”

  “Rosamund,” Lord Denton shouted. “Not now.”

  Her father’s breach of decorum was enough that it brought everything in the room to a complete halt.

  The footmen froze behind the table, still holding trays of meat and vegetables in their gloved hands. The butler shook his head, giving the silent instruction to wait until Rosamund obeyed and the dinner was drawn back in the lines of the appropriate.

  No, she thought, breathing unsteadily.

  Not this time . . .

  Given what he’d said to her that afternoon, Rosamund believed Colin to be the one person who would answer truthfully. He’d acted with honor by keeping their meeting a secret. If he’d thought to protect her reputation once, he couldn’t deny her the truth now—even in the presence of hopelessly rich lords and ladies who couldn’t care less for the impending sale of something as trivial as a horse.

  She turned to him directly. “Please, Mr. Keary,” she pleaded, her voice barely at a whisper. “I need to know the truth.”

  “Yes, Lady Rosamund,” he offered with feeling, the Irish brogue suddenly weighing down his voice. “She ships out in two days.”

  CHAPTER 5

  1893

  CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  “The whole world is calling this the ‘White City.’ ”

  Sally Rivers—waitre
ss and would-be singer—leaned her elbows back on the hostess counter at the elegant Café de la Marine, snacking on a mix of popcorn, molasses, and peanuts from a red-and-white cardboard box. She looked past Mable, out the front window to the crowds of suited gentlemen and Sunday-hat-wearing ladies who passed by over the arched canal bridge.

  “And why shouldn’t Chicago have a name known the world over? It’s our time to shine.”

  Mable pointed toward the flash of midday sun reflecting off the impressive white stucco façade of the World’s Columbian Exposition span of buildings.

  “Look at that flood of people coming over the bridge. I predict we’ll be full up later tonight.”

  It was a lovely sight that greeted them from the windows, with the rounded domes of the Brazilian building and the classical columns of the Fisheries building dominating the view on one side, and the bustle of the marine causeway on the other. They could even peek around the corner and see the Viking—a replica of the Gokstad ship—and Venetian-style gondolas gliding majestically along the canal. The view sure beat the tangles of trolley lines and tall buildings that marred the landscape in the restaurant where they’d last worked downtown.

  To work in the Café de la Marine had a certain air of romance about it, Mable had to admit. With ten finial-topped spires towering against the sky over Lake Michigan, the French Gothic–style building looked more like a storybook castle than a dining establishment. It boasted lofty ceilings with hammered gold filigree tiles, twinkling chandeliers, and awnings over the windows that soared up to the roof on each level.

  Mable shook out a white cloth napkin and folded it into an elegant flat cone shape, working her way through the stack for the impending lunch rush. Before they knew it, a steady stream of patrons would step through the doors, continuing until they closed up for the night. She was scheduled to work a double shift, so she’d be chasing her tail until long after dark.