A Purely Private Matter

by Darcie Wilde

  Devon asked after a mutual acquaintance of theirs.

  Rosalind remarked that the Cheshire cheese was excellent.

  Devon agreed.

  Both were relieved beyond measure when the gong sounded the end of the interval and they could turn their attention to the stage again and have an excuse to stop trying to make polite conversation.

  The performance concluded with no fewer than seven curtain calls. Flowers showered from all directions to land at Fletcher Cavendish’s feet as he bowed to the audience, to his leading lady, to the musicians in the orchestra, to the ladies leaning over the box rails and holding clasped hands out to him. Rosalind suspected it was only Devon’s presence that kept Louisa from behaving in a similar fashion.

  She had no opera glasses with her, so all Rosalind could see of Mr. Cavendish was a broad man in a flowing cloak. He towered over his fellow actors, so she must assume him to be built on the grand scale. His hair was a sandy brown and his nose prominent. More than that she could not say.

  At last, the curtain lowered itself a final time and the crowd began its slow but inexorable press toward the passageways and stairs. Mrs. Kendricks arrived with Louisa’s maid and Devon’s manservant, and a withered, white-haired man in a plain green coat who bowed deeply.

  “Miss Thorne?” he murmured so low that Rosalind could barely hear him over the rustle and laughter of the departing crowd. “I am sent to escort you to the King’s Arms. If you would be so good as to come with me?”

  “Are you sure you can’t break your engagement, Rosalind?” asked Devon.

  “It’s impossible,” she answered, and she tried not to see how Mrs. Kendricks’s face fell at this. “But thank you for allowing us to join you and Louisa. It was a delightful evening.”

  Devon, though, lacked the will or the capacity for one more polite lie. He simply bowed, then turned to take Louisa’s arm and shepherd her away.

  “Well, I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed such a free and unrestrained evening,” announced Alice as she stood still to allow Mrs. Kendricks to fasten her simple gray cloak around her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, Alice.” Rosalind smoothed down her own cloak and checked to make sure she still had her fan, gloves, and reticule.

  “What’s worrying you, Rosalind?” asked Alice as they signaled to the servant they were quite ready to accompany him. He led them down the grand staircase and across the lobby.

  “I don’t know for certain.” The night had remained fine, thankfully, and they were able to make their way through the crush of people and carriages with only the usual fuss.

  “All right,” Alice said. “We’ll try something simpler. Who was it you saw that sent you running out of the box?”

  Rosalind bit her lip and considered lying, but she dismissed that thought almost as soon as it formed. Alice would be alert to any attempt to put her off. “I thought . . . I thought it was Charlotte.”

  “Oh, Rosalind!” Alice seized her hand. “After all this time?”

  “I know, I know. It was most likely my imagination. But this was the second time in the past two days.”

  “Do you want me to ask some questions at the theater? Or George could. There’s several ushers who are willing to talk more than a little. The major keeps a fund for encouraging them.”

  Rosalind smiled. “Thank you, but I think we may save you and George for more important work. If Charlotte wants to find me, she will.” She tried to put at least some conviction into her voice as she said this, but from the expression on Alice’s face, and even more from that on Mrs. Kendricks’s, she knew she did not succeed.

  CHAPTER 7

  Dining in Private and Comfort

  A man of fascinating manners and accomplishments, of enticing habits and appearance; but I fear of unchaste and vicious passions.

  —The Trial of William Henry Hall vs. Major George Barrow

  for Criminal Conversation

  The valet conducted Rosalind, Alice, and Mrs. Kendricks through the ladies’ entrance of the King’s Arms, and from there through the ladies’ parlor, up the narrow and enclosed stairs that led to the private dining rooms and sheltered them from the view of the gentlemen dining in the open front room.

  Rosalind had heard that in Paris it was considered quite unexceptionable for respectable women to dine in public quite casually in all manner of cafés and places called “restaurants,” which were a sort of public eating house. She wished heartily for the day this sensible custom might be adopted in London. Until then, the dance of gentility must be danced, whether the dining rooms were in grand hotels or public houses.

  They were admitted at last to a tidy little parlor room. While Mrs. Kendricks helped them off with cloaks and bonnets, the valet adjusted the lamps.

  “Mr. Cavendish sends his compliments and hopes you will find the room quite comfortable,” he told them. “He requests you make yourselves entirely at home and hopes you will accept an offer of tea or sherry wine.”

  This little speech was delivered without any perceptible shift of his features, or lifting his eyes above the level of the floor. Rosalind presumed that discretion was a prime attribute of anyone in the employ of such a man as Fletcher Cavendish.

  Tea was duly requested and delivered, and while Rosalind settled on the sofa to sip hers, Alice wandered about the room. Rosalind could tell her friend was missing her notebook and focused entirely on memorizing every detail of the parlor to reproduce later in one of her columns.

  She had not yet finished with this absorbing occupation when the door was thrown open and their host strode through.

  “At last! Miss Rosalind Thorne? Permit me to introduce myself. I am Fletcher Cavendish and I do most humbly apologize for taking so long to come to you.” The actor took her hand and bowed crisply over it.

  “There is no need for apology, Mr. Cavendish. I understand an actor has many people to speak to after a performance.”

  “Too true, too true, but none I wished to speak with more than yourself, and . . .” He turned his deep and shining eyes to Alice.

  “May I present Miss Alice Littlefield?” said Rosalind.

  “Miss Littlefield, I am delighted.” Mr. Cavendish bowed over Alice’s hand as well, and Rosalind was treated to the unusual sight of Alice being disconcerted by the gesture. Mr. Cavendish did not linger, but turned at once to his valet.

  “Hunter, help me with this coat. Our dinner should be arriving momentarily . . .” Just then there was a soft knocking at the door. “On cue! Splendid! Enter!”

  The manager and a small army of servants in the hotel’s blue livery flooded the room, bearing table and chairs, cloth and a stream of covered dishes, both silver and porcelain. Much to Rosalind’s relief, when the covers were lifted, they revealed a feast far more substantial than fruit and cakes. When the final server bore in the enormous country ham, her stomach made a most unladylike sound.

  “Excellent!” announced Mr. Cavendish. “My heartiest thanks, Mr. Beers. You have outdone yourself. Ladies, pray, will you join me?”

  The ladies would. Mrs. Kendricks, of course, assumed her station in the corner, where she could be ready if her mistress or Alice required anything more personal than a second helping. Rosalind used the fuss of having her seat drawn in and accepting the napkin and answering inquiries as to what dainty she preferred to begin with to observe the actor who presided over the table with such skill and evident relish.

  Up close, Mr. Fletcher Cavendish was shorter than she’d expected, but that did not lessen the impact of his presence. He was dressed plainly, in a black coat and burgundy waistcoat and a simply tied cravat. The only ostentation about him was the outsized double-cut diamond ring on his right hand, and the pearl stick pin in his lapel. His face, though, was molded and sculpted into a state of patrician perfection that would have dropped Michelangelo to his knees. Seldom had Rosalind been in the presence of
a man where good looks combined so forcefully with ease and confidence. Mr. Cavendish engaged in nothing beyond the simple actions of directing the servants, carving the ham, and laying the slices on the platter, and yet Rosalind found it impossible to look away from him. I believe I may owe Louisa an apology.

  “There now, Miss Thorne.” Mr. Cavendish handed a plate of ham, potatoes, and greens, all laced with parsley sauce, to his man, who in turn placed it in front of her. “I trust this will be to your liking. Miss Littlefield, what may I help you to?”

  “Oh, just the same if you please, Mr. Cavendish,” said Alice cheerfully. “May I ask if one of the people who delayed you so was Lord Sawbridge? I noticed him and a large party in his box tonight.”

  “Indeed, his lordship was kind enough to say a few words in praise of our efforts tonight.” Mr. Fletcher added greens and sauce to Alice’s plate.

  “They say he’s very interested in the theater. There’s even some talk, I’m sure it’s flummery, that he might be opening his own.”

  Mr. Cavendish finally seated himself and filled his glass from the bottle of red wine before handing it to his man to serve the ladies.

  “Miss Littlefield, you will forgive me if I say I know when I am being prodded. Our director does it often enough. I also am a habituated reader of the society columns. Therefore, confess it.” He pointed one well-kept finger at Alice. “You are the infamous A. E. Littlefield of The London Chronicle.”

  Alice shrugged. “You’ve caught me out. What will you do?”

  Mr. Cavendish’s deep gaze slipped sideways to linger on Alice.

  “First of all, I will be very careful with my words.” Mr. Cavendish raised his glass just far enough that he was looking at her from over the rim. For the first time in many years, Rosalind watched a flush creep across her friend’s fair cheeks, and absurdly, she felt the better for it. If Mr. Cavendish’s charm could affect Alice, she had less reason to be ashamed of her own response.

  “I will also congratulate Miss Thorne on her intelligent choice of companion. I could not now dare do any ungentlemanly thing, lest it be proclaimed across London in the pages of your newspaper.”

  “It was Miss Littlefield who introduced me to Mrs. Seymore,” Rosalind informed him, at least partly to take his formidable attention off Alice, who was showing distinct signs of becoming badly overheated. “You may be assured of her discretion on this matter.”

  “On this matter,” Mr. Cavendish said with only a hint of a drawl. “But this matter may touch on many others. Still, as I invited you to bring the companion of your choosing, I must accept the consequences. To business then.” He saluted them both with his glass and took a gulp of the wine. “You are, Miss Thorne, aware that Mrs. Seymore’s odious little husband has decided to bring suit against me for criminal conversation.”

  Rosalind felt her eyebrows arch. “You state this quite matter-of-factly, Mr. Cavendish.”

  Mr. Cavendish laughed. The hearty sound sent a shiver up Rosalind’s spine. She decided all at once she did not like the free and easy charm which he spread so lavishly about him. It smacked of a personal carelessness.

  Which was ridiculous.

  “Miss Thorne,” said Mr. Cavendish. “For me, being threatened with criminal conversation is a matter of routine. Captain Seymore’s suit will not be the first of this season, let alone this year. Of course, most of them are attempts to extort money or gain notoriety, and my attorneys make short work of them. Occasionally, there is an injured party.” Here he paused and smiled into the distance, so that they could see him reliving some pleasant, private memory. “But those men are generally willing to accept a settlement along with my hand on my heart that I will never trouble their hearth or home again.” He laid that hand upon that heart, and all at once his face was as set and solemn as any man called to swear upon the Holy Bible.

  “But it is not for you to actually regret such injuries?” murmured Rosalind. She supposed it was refreshing that this man was willing to speak openly, and was a little disappointed at her own immediate urge to stiffen her spine and purse her mouth in disapproval.

  Mr. Cavendish laughed again, and again the warm and annoying shiver traveled up Rosalind’s spine. “If a man cannot keep his wife’s affections or attentions, he has only himself to blame for what happens.”

  That dislike Rosalind had felt before suddenly seemed to be upon firmer foundation.

  “Did Captain Seymore have reason for his particular complaint?” prompted Alice.

  “If he did, Miss Littlefield, it was not my doing.”

  “But you do know Mrs. Seymore?”

  “Very well,” he said amiably, but without any detectible hint of deeper meaning. “We met, as she may have told you, when we were both much younger, before I became the Great Fletcher Cavendish.” He raised his hand in dramatic pose. “I was an actor in a traveling troupe, marching up and down the length of England. We played at every country fair and cow barn that was willing to have us, and I counted myself lucky that I was being paid rather than having to pay for the privilege. A friendship was formed, and Seymore knew of it when he swooped in to marry Margaretta.”

  “What did you think of the marriage?” asked Rosalind.

  Cavendish considered this, and as he did, Rosalind saw the actor’s confident mask slip to show the man beneath. That man, she decided, was uneasy. “I think it is no surprise Seymore is having troubles,” he said. “He has bound to himself a gracious muse, but he has neither the temperament nor the skill to keep her.”

  “Then why did she marry him?”

  The mask slipped again, and this time Rosalind saw a flash of anger, bright and hard as the flash of the diamond on his ring, and just as quickly gone.

  “He promised her all manner of things. Security and honor, to begin with. He was on the rise in the Navy then, and looked fair to prosper. He was older as well, with very good connections, which is always attractive.”

  “Have you seen the accusatory letters sent to the captain?”

  “Only one. Seymore has the rest under lock and key somewhere.”

  “And what do you think of that one?” asked Rosalind.

  Mr. Cavendish shrugged again. “It would do for the provinces but would never play in the capital. Whoever this aspiring troublemaker is, he’s a rank amateur.”

  Rosalind thought of Mr. Fullerton and his drawer of correspondence and keepsakes, and found herself in agreement with this assessment.

  “Mr. Cavendish,” she said. “If you are not concerned about the suit, or the potential for scandal or blackmail against yourself, then may I ask why you extended us this most kind invitation?”

  Mr. Cavendish smiled in acknowledgment of her pointedly polite turn of phrase. “I wished to satisfy myself that you were the genuine coin of the realm, Miss Thorne. I may not be on such a footing with Mrs. Seymore as her husband believes, but Margaretta is dear to me. She is in a bad situation, and I do not want to see it made worse.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m glad that you do.” Mr. Cavendish shifted himself in his chair, his voice falling soft and low, almost a lover’s tone. “Because we all have secrets, Miss Thorne, and connections that might surprise our friends if they were made publicly known. If I suspect that you are playing Margaretta false in any way, I will do everything in my power to blacken your name from here to the Antipodes and back again.”

  Fear lanced through Rosalind, but only for a moment before it was blotted out by anger. She bit both emotions back. The threat was real. This man could say whatever he wanted and it would be repeated across the length and breadth of London. Alice, whom she’d brought to be her witness, would become her accomplice. She might be a member of the club of the journalists, but her voice would be no match for Cavendish’s and they all knew it.

  Cavendish settled back in his chair and saluted them once more with the wineglas
s. “Now, I do apologize for speaking to you so frankly.” The conciliation in his voice did nothing but grate against Rosalind’s nerves. “But I wanted you to know that I am serious in this matter.”

  Whatever Mr. Cavendish meant to add, however, was interrupted by a sudden, tremendous banging against the door.

  “Where is he!” shouted a voice in the passage outside. “Where is that blaggard Cavendish?”

  CHAPTER 8

  The Arrival of the Captain

  The plaintiff himself being at this time, in a highly respectable situation in a military department cultivated and perhaps encouraged, but innocently, an intimacy with the defendant.

  —The Trial of William Henry Hall vs. Major George Barrow

  for Criminal Conversation

  Mr. Cavendish uttered an oath, and was on his feet in the next instant.

  “Cavendish!” Something slammed hard against the door, rattling it in its frame. “Cavendish!” A fist pounded furiously. “Come out, you dog!”

  The actor put himself between the table and the door. At the same time he gestured for Rosalind and Alice to stay where they were. Behind his back, Alice and Rosalind exchanged swift glances. Alice calmly plucked the fish knife from her place setting and tucked it underneath her napkin. Rosalind moved the heavy wine bottle a bit closer to hand.

  Mr. Cavendish threw back his shoulders, and at once, his attitude shifted entirely from a gentleman of leisure to a soldier marching into battle. In one strong but fluid motion, he threw open the door. The abrupt motion caused the beefy red-faced man on the other side to stumble into the room, despite the pair of liveried footmen hanging off his shoulders.

  Rosalind glanced at Alice, and Alice nodded. This then was Captain Seymore.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Cavendish,” gasped one of the men who was attempting to get his arms around the captain’s shoulders. “We tried . . .”

  “It’s all right, Davies.” Mr. Cavendish waved both footmen back with a single grand gesture.