A Purely Private Matter

by Darcie Wilde

  “How so?”

  Kean examined his fingertips, and quite possibly that portion of himself where some last bit of discretion lodged. Fortunately, from Harkness’s point of view, the actor’s hesitation was short-lived. “Cavendish came from nothing, Mr. Harkness. His mother whelped him in the ditches of darkest Yorkshire. His education was from the vicarage Sunday school, his talent one of those jokes that Nature likes to play on the world. Now, we were not intimates, but I’d drunk with him, and I saw him in a brawl once. My God, it was the closest I’d ever been to witnessing one man actually murder another. The other fellow crawled away a bloody mess, and there in the ruin stood Cavendish, without a mark on him.” Kean clearly didn’t know whether to be awed or appalled. “And that was just with his fists. If Cavendish was going to take a weapon to himself or anyone else, he’d get hold of a good butcher’s knife or a straight razor. A lady’s toy like this”—he gestured toward the blade—“it would only make him laugh.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Charitable Errands

  No one was more rigorously disposed to maintain the quarantine laws of fashionable life, and reject all contact with infected persons.

  —Catherine Gore, Pin Money

  After Rosalind had parted from Devon in the park, she walked home, oblivious to the fading light and the lowering clouds. All she could think of was Devon’s invitation. No, his invitations, and his frank admission that he was trying to move their orbits closer together.

  And yet what would he find when he did come to her orbit? This mass of deceit that was the business of the Seymore family.

  She did not know what to think about that. She did not know what she wanted to think. She did know, however, that she must see the matter through. There were innocent people caught in this tangle. With the exception of Alice, she might not have sorted all of them out yet, but they were there. She could not leave them friendless. When she had spoken to Mrs. Kendricks about the feeling that she might do some good, she meant it. For the first time in her life, she felt she had some genuine power to change lives for the better. Yes, Mr. Harkness would do his best, but Mr. Harkness might be sent away at any moment on other business.

  And if she admitted it to herself, she was a little angry. People were lying to her. People were attempting to use and deceive her. The idea of walking away and letting those persons believe they had gotten away with it rankled her. That might be selfish, and petty, but it was nonetheless true.

  What was also true was that Rosalind knew she could not make a decision about Devon and the life he offered if she believed she had gone to him because she could not manage the life she made for herself. She must finish this thing and be free to go to him, or to stay as she was. She could not give herself reason to believe that she had turned to Devon out of failure.

  Thankfully, that morning when the early post arrived, there was a letter in it from Virginia.

  Dear Miss Thorne,

  I have good news. I have secured you an invitation to the dowager marchioness. She is not at home in the usual way, but she is expecting you at one o’clock.

  Mrs. Cecil Seymore

  Rosalind allowed herself the luxury of sleeping late, eating a good breakfast, and attending to her home, her accounts, and the correspondence. Of course, it was not entirely an ordinary morning. Ordinary mornings did not begin with a knock on the door from a Bow Street patrolman.

  “Ned Barstow, Miss Thorne.” The man touched the brim of his hat in salute. “Sent on express orders from Mr. Harkness. I’m to keep an eye on the door for you . . . an’ here they come.”

  A trio of men in stovepipe trousers, coats and waistcoats hanging open, and ungloved hands did indeed come hustling down the street, waving hands and pencils at the house numbers.

  The newspapers had arrived. Ned Barstow stationed himself squarely on the first step of Rosalind’s stoop, and pushed back his own coat to display the scarlet waistcoat marking him as a “Robin Redbreast” patrolman of Bow Street.

  “Morning, Tom, morning, Lewis,” Ned said amiably. “Come to see the sights, have you? Theater’s that way.” He pointed, with his truncheon.

  I will have to write a thank-you note to Mr. Harkness, thought Rosalind as she retired indoors. She also sent for Mrs. Kendricks to make up an extra cup of coffee and a sandwich for Mr. Barstow.

  Thus guarded, Rosalind had a peaceable morning, but she found herself glancing at the door, looking for Alice, or Mr. Harkness. When neither of them arrived, she found herself frowning, and wondering if something might possibly have gone wrong.

  You’re becoming morbid, Rosalind, she told herself. If there was bad news, you would have heard it already. Nothing travels faster, except maybe gossip.

  Holding firmly to this sensible thought, Rosalind changed into her best and most respectable gray walking costume. She gathered her letters and lists and unearthed an old subscription book from the few weeks when she really had helped Mrs. Lindsay take contributions for her various charities.

  Her first stop, however, was Mr. Clements’s library.

  “Ah! Good morning, Miss Thorne! You are returned already?” cried Mr. Clements as she entered. He also glanced from side to side, the better to ascertain, Rosalind thought, whether the reading room of his library remained empty. “I hope you were not too disappointed in the work of Mrs. Seymore?”

  Rosalind found herself peering closely at the little man’s face to make sure there was no hidden entendre in his remark. If there was, however, it was hidden very well indeed.

  “I could not say, yet, Mr. Clements,” she replied. “I find I need more time to judge.”

  “Then how is it I may help you today?”

  “I am in need of a particular favor, Mr. Clements. I believe you have mentioned that you sometimes acquire books and manuscripts for scholars of antiquities.”

  The librarian laid his hand on his breast. “I have the honor.”

  “I have some letters in my possession. I need to know if they were all written by the same hand. Is there anyone you know who might be able to tell me? I know it is frequently done in novels and plays, but I need more than a rough guess. I need an expert’s word.”

  Mr. Clements cocked his head toward her. For a moment she thought he was going to refuse her, but he just gave a small smile. “I think I know the person. You may have to travel a little, just past the edge of Westminster. The scholar I have in mind is elderly, but is an acknowledged expert on the study of modern manuscripts. She—”

  “She?” said Rosalind.

  “She,” Mr. Clements replied, nodding. “Miss Elizabeth Onslow is her name. She is particularly noted for her authentication of modern manuscripts and her exposure of several prominent fakes. You have perhaps heard of the Orlando deception? She was instrumental in its disruption.”

  Rosalind hesitated. The inquest was tomorrow. There would be no time to make the journey before then. “I admit I was hoping to find someone closer.”

  Mr. Clements shook his head firmly. “If you require a match made of different handwritings, Miss Onslow is the person you need. And you will, I think, like her. Truth be told, I have several times thought I should find a way to introduce you to each other. You are both, in your way, unique, and I feel you would understand each other very well. I can write immediately if you wish, and lay your question before her.”

  It was a risk, but being wrong about the authorship of the accusitory letter would have ruinous consequences. The delay also might have an advantage in that it would open a window during which more of the letters might be discovered.

  “Please do write Miss Onslow, Mr. Clements. It is a matter of some urgency, so I hope we may hear from her soon.”

  “I will make sure she understands this.” He bowed, then he paused. “It is a very sad thing about Mr. Cavendish, is it not?”

  “Very sad,” Rosalind agreed.

 
“I should be very glad to know the one who killed so fine a talent was brought before the authorities. I personally would be glad to assist in such a matter, if the opportunity arose.”

  “I wish you good day, Mr. Clements,” said Rosalind.

  “And a very good day to you, Miss Thorne,” he replied.

  • • •

  Rosalind’s decision to try to meet Lady Weyland had less to do with gathering information regarding the Seymores and more to do with ascertaining how the Weylands felt about their beleaguered cousins. Lord Adolphus had come as a surprise to Rosalind. He seemed firm, quiet, and competent. He was also a welcome guest in a household that openly resented his brother, the marquis. It was possible the murder of Fletcher Cavendish had nothing to do with the tortured line to the Weyland title. It was equally possible the two events were intimately connected. But to judge, Rosalind needed to fully understand both sides of the family. She had met the Seymores. It was time she met the Weylands as well.

  The Weylands, according to Virginia’s letter, resided in the venerable Holbrook Square. The house itself was broad and white and well cared for. The youthful footman who let Rosalind in wore gold-braided livery and a curled and powdered wig. A maid in sober gray who spoke with a soft Russian accent took Rosalind’s card in to her ladyship and then returned to say Rosalind was expected. She helped Rosalind off with her coat and led the way down a carpeted passageway to a private office.

  “Miss Thorne.” Lady Weyland did not rise when Rosalind entered her room. “How do you do?”

  “I am well, thank you, Lady Weyland. It was very good of you to agree to see me.”

  Rosalind’s first impression of the dowager Lady Weyland was that she was very young. In part, that was because she was petite and slender, and her hair beneath her matron’s cap was still quite fair and fine. Her black gown set off her pale skin, and her wide brown eyes seemed fixed in an expression of perpetual astonishment. It was only the lines around her eyes and the creping beneath her chin that gave away her age.

  “Do please come in and sit down.” Lady Weyland waved Rosalind toward a tapestry-backed chair. “I confess, I see very few visitors these days. My health is not what it was, and of course, my time is very bound up in caring for my son. But Virginia wrote in such glowing terms about your charity, I felt I had to make the effort. Tell me, how was Virginia when you saw her?”

  “She was well, although, you may understand, the whole house is a little distressed at the moment.”

  “Ah, yes. I confess I was wondering if you would mention that so unpleasant business. But then,” she said, “that is what brought you here, is it not?”

  Rosalind dipped her gaze, and did her best to raise a blush. “I confess that it is. I am sorry to have tested your hospitality in this way.”

  “I think you have more nerve than I should, entering the house of an enemy.”

  Rosalind managed to keep the expression of her astonishment to a slight lift of her eyebrows. “I had no notion that you were my enemy, Lady Weyland.”

  “I feel that perhaps I should be, as you are a friend to Mrs. Seymore and that branch of the family.”

  So. Despite Lord Adolphus’s amiability, the ill-feeling was not entirely on the side of the Seymores. That was very much worth noting, as was the fact the dowager felt no need to hide it.

  “I understand there is some bad feeling,” said Rosalind. “And I am very sorry for it, but it is not my purpose to increase the difficulty.”

  “I’m sure it is not, but perhaps I may be forgiven if I press you to indulge in at least a little gossip. As I told you, I do not get out beyond my own circle much. What are people saying about . . . about Mrs. Seymore? Do they make much connection between her name and Fletcher Cavendish?”

  “There is some low and idle speculation. I do not pay it any attention.”

  “Then you do not believe it?” Lady Weyland asked.

  “No. I do not.”

  There passed across that tender and doll-like face a look of supreme calculation, and Rosalind had the sudden realization that, for once, she might have been completely mistaken in the character of the woman in front of her. For all her youthful countenance, Lady Weyland was not at all a simple soul.

  “You are speaking the truth,” Lady Weyland murmured. “That is interesting. Lady Bertram may have been right to worry about you.”

  “Lady Bertram spoke to you about me?” asked Rosalind, surprised.

  “She wrote”—Lady Weyland waved her handkerchief toward the desk—“to warn me that you might make an appearance, that you were Margaretta’s creature, and that I should refuse to admit you.” She smiled sadly. “Johanna believes that if she demonstrates sufficient worry and care for my delicate person, I will strive to influence my son in her favor.”

  “Lady Bertram has some ambition.”

  “Lady Bertram should learn to take matters into her own hands rather than waiting for others to die,” snapped Lady Weyland. Rosalind knew she should drop her gaze to her hands again, which was the universal parlor signal for polite discomfort with an indecorous statement.

  She did not. “That is a difficult lesson for some women to learn. We are taught, are we not, that it is for others to act for us? But not all of us have had that luxury,” Rosalind said.

  “You have some understanding, Miss Thorne. No. It has always been my burden to act for my son, the marquis. I shoulder that weight willingly, although it has meant that I must retire from the society I used to so delight in.” Lady Weyland sighed. “But we make these sacrifices and we make them freely, otherwise what are we for?” She waved her kerchief again.

  Rosalind’s brow wanted to furrow. Something stirred in her memory as she watched Lady Weyland, but Rosalind could not put her finger on what it was. There was something familiar in her elegant movements and in the ring to her voice. One thing Rosalind was certain of, however, was that Lady Weyland wore her fragility as a mask. The dowager marchioness knew people mistook her, and she used it.

  “But I do not mind so much,” Lady Weyland was saying. “These modern gatherings—with their crushing crowds and waltzes and gallopes—they are nothing like those we knew in the old days. They are giddy but not daring. There is no adventure, no heart to them . . .” She smiled fondly at her own memories. “But you are a daughter of the modern age. Perhaps I shock you?”

  “Not at all, Lady Weyland,” said Rosalind. “It is something I would have liked to have seen.” Which was not true, but this time Lady Weyland did not seem to notice. That look of calculation flickered across her features again.

  “Will you come meet my son, Miss Thorne?” She stood, her stiff black skirts rustling. “He says he is very dull this morning, and I know he would welcome some fresh conversation.”

  “I would be very glad to,” Rosalind said at once. She hoped that her relief did not show. Sir and Lady Bertram’s fortunes rested entirely on the marquis’s health and attitude toward them. If Rosalind could meet him face-to-face, it would be of great assistance to her inquiries, and her understanding of these unhappy families.

  Lady Weyland led Rosalind down a long, graceful gallery hung with all manner of paintings in the Dutch and Italian styles. Some were portraits, but many were landscapes or classical scenes. Rosalind kept her eyes on her hostess as she moved, trying as hard as she might to discern what point made the woman seem so familiar.

  When they reached the door at the end of the gallery, Lady Weyland knocked softly. “Darius? Darius, my dear, I’ve brought a visitor.”

  “Come in,” answered a wavering voice.

  Lady Weyland opened the door softly, as if she was afraid to let out too much air, or perhaps let in too much light.

  The curtains had been tightly drawn so the room was shrouded in twilight. Despite the warmth of the day, a huge fire blazed in the marble hearth. Rosalind remembered what Lord Adolphus had said
about his brother’s love of antiquities, and the room bore him out. The walls were lined with cabinets, and in each cabinet stood collections of precious objects. In one stood dozens of china figurines; in another they were bronze or copper. In yet another were painted miniatures, and in another, an array of knives and short swords that ranged from the crude to the breathtakingly elegant.

  In the midst of this grand collection, a thin young man lay on a chaise longue. The skin of his face was drawn tight across his bones. His eyes were huge and clear and his mouth was very red in his pale face. The whole effect was so striking, Rosalind felt like she were looking on an elf knight from an ancient ballad rather than a flesh-and-blood man. A round table with a shapely alabaster vessel had been set before him, where his eyes might easily take in the sight of it.

  “Who is this, Mother?” he asked. His high, light voice held a ragged edge. It was that edge that reminded Rosalind that the marquis’s illness was real. The rest of this place was so dramatic, she had for an unworthy moment wondered if the invalid was exaggerating his malady for effect.

  “Darius, this is Miss Rosalind Thorne. Miss Thorne, my son, Darius, Lord Weyland.”

  Rosalind made her curtsy and the marquis nodded in reply. “Pray excuse me for failing to rise, Miss Thorne. I am not having one of my better days.” He waved toward the chairs situated on either side of the round table. “Will you sit and stay awhile? I so seldom see anyone beyond my family.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Rosalind took the chair indicated.

  Lord Weyland shifted uneasily. “I’m sorry, Mother . . . the pillow . . .”

  “Oh, yes, of course dear.” She ran to the couch and adjusted the awkward cushion. “Is that better? Do you need anything else? I can send the girl for a cool cloth . . .”

  “No, no, there’s nothing. Except a little wine and water, and surely we should send for some tea for Miss Thorne . . .”

  “Please, do not trouble yourself,” Rosalind said.