by Darcie Wilde
“An affable affray to light afire betting books in White’s and Brook’s,” said Faulks. “And you may not quote me on that, Miss Littlefield.” He reached out and closed Alice’s notebook firmly. “That is a bon mot of my own composing and I don’t care to hear myself repeated all over the gossip sheets.”
“Besides,” said Alice, “you’ll need it for your own use when you’ve a wider audience than a couple of spinsters.”
Faulks laid one manicured hand over his breast. “I would never use such a vulgar epithet when describing two such excellent ladies. But otherwise, you are correct.”
“Excuse me, miss.” Mrs. Kendricks entered, carrying a silver tray with a single letter in its center. “This just came, by hand. The boy said he was to wait for a reply.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kendricks.” Rosalind picked up the letter and looked at the direction. “You can stop craning your neck, Alice. I recognize the hand. It’s from Tamwell House.”
“Is it?” Alice opened her book and began writing again. “That means Honoria Aimesworth and her mother are finally back from Switzerland? They left so very suddenly last year . . .”
“Alice,” said Rosalind sternly. “Leave this one alone. You know very well that Aimesworths have been back for months, and spent a quiet Christmas at their country house.”
“I do know it,” said Alice. “I was just wondering if you did.”
“Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?”
Alice bit the end of her pencil and made no answer. Rosalind frowned.
“How stimulating it is to see a professional engaged in the delicate cut and thrust of social intercourse.” Mr. Faulks rose to his feet. “I could watch all day. Alas, however, I have business of my own and must bid you ladies adieu. Miss Littlefield, is there anywhere I may drop you?”
Alice hesitated, apparently debating whether Rosalind might be convinced to yield more information. This time, however, discretion proved the better part, and Alice also rose.
“Thank you, Mr. Faulks. It seems I also have work to do and should go at once to my paper’s offices.”
“My carriage and my person are entirely at your service, Miss Littlefield. If I may?” He rang the bell for Mrs. Kendricks and requested his hat and cape as well as Alice’s wrap. “Adieu, Miss Thorne.” He bowed to Rosalind.
But although Mr. Faulks turned to go, Alice didn’t move.
“I’ll be there in a moment. I’ve dropped my pencil.” Alice said this directly to Rosalind and so missed the significant way in which Mr. Faulks glanced from her to their hostess before he retreated into Rosalind’s small foyer.
“Rosalind,” Alice said as soon as the parlor door shut, “if you are going to be spending any time with the Aimesworths this season, you should know you will probably be seeing a great deal of Devon Winterbourne. Only, he’s Lord Casselmain now.”
Rosalind did not blanch. She had too many years of practice at self-control for any such display.
“I knew, of course, his brother had died,” she said softly. “But why should he be connected to the Aimesworths?”
“There are rumors in the air beyond the ones regarding Almack’s, and they’re linking Lord Casselmain with Honoria Aimesworth.”
Rosalind lowered herself gracefully into her chair. She was certain Alice noted how she kept her hand pressed flat against the table to prevent it from trembling.
“It, of course, can mean nothing to you personally,” Alice prompted her. “But it is always good to be informed.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly. You needn’t be concerned about me.”
“Only I had thought you once cherished a certain preference for Lord Casselmain.”
The smile that turned up the corners of Rosalind’s mouth was entirely artificial. She was sure Alice saw that, too. “Once. For about an hour, I think, when we were both younger and my social standing was rather different.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll consider staying away from Tamwell House?” Alice asked.
“I might, but as things are . . . Lady Aimesworth has been generous in displaying her gratitude for my assistance in the past.”
“You mean with helping smooth things over when Honoria got jilted by Phineas Worth.”
Rosalind didn’t bother to answer that. “If she invites me for even part of the season, I may not be able to turn her down.”
“I do understand.” Alice pressed Rosalind’s hand once. “Good luck. Be sure to call on me if you need anything.”
“I will, dear Alice. Thank you.”
They made their farewells and Alice took herself off after Mr. Faulks. Rosalind Thorne stayed as she was for a very long time. It was only when she was certain her hands had stopped shaking that she picked up the new letter and broke its seal.
Darcie Wilde is the author of the Regency Makeover Trilogy of e-novellas as well as A Useful Woman, a Regency-set historical mystery series inspired by the novels of Jane Austen. Her book, Lord of the Rakes, was a 2014 RT nominee for best First Historical Romance.
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