A Purely Private Matter

by Darcie Wilde

  “William,” said Rosalind for her.

  “Yes. Then, the maid came and told me that William was at the door. He wanted Sir Bertram, but he’d gone to bed, so what should she do? He was not in very good shape, she said.

  “Of course he was drunk. I had him brought into the sitting room and got a pot of strong coffee made up for him and sat with him while he drank it. We talked and . . . I was tired. I was sad. I saw how Sir Bertram was playing on the worst of his weaknesses and how the struggle between trying to do what his family wanted and what he knew to be right was killing him.”

  “You told him you loved him.”

  “Yes, as it happens. I did.” Virginia picked up her embroidery hoop and stared at its bouquet of spring flowers. “I told him I expected nothing. I would make no trouble. I know I am a plain woman. I’ve no gift for attraction and no money and . . . well, set that aside. I also told him he should know that Margaretta was loyal to him, that Bertram was just trying to get him to declare her child a bastard because of the title. I knew this would mean an end to any thought of divorce, but I wanted him to know the truth.”

  “Did you tell him you wrote the letters?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “And I told him I was sorry I had done so.”

  “Why?”

  She laid her needlework back down and met Rosalind’s gaze. This time, her eyes were dry and quite clear. “Because, Miss Thorne, after much reflection and many tears, I decided I would rather be able to live with myself than gain William’s hand by such low deception.”

  “What did he do?”

  Virginia laughed a little. “He stared, for a long time. He . . . took my hand and he held it. We were both shaking. I was on the point of tears. Then he kissed my hand and he left.”

  Left and went to his club to drink, because he didn’t know what else to do. Left to stagger around town looking for the wife whom he did not love and who did not love him. He left to become dizzy and drunk, trying to understand what had happened, and who he should believe and what it all meant. He had thought his wife had betrayed him, and then learned to his shame that it was his brother who had truly done so, and he didn’t know what to do.

  “And you are sure that Sir and Lady Bertram were home all night?” Rosalind asked. “Neither one of them went out?”

  “I am sure,” said Virginia firmly. “I did not go to bed at all. I sat up with my tears. You can ask the servants if you need to.”

  “No. I believe you.”

  Virginia nodded. “Miss Thorne, you should probably know this. I have hired an attorney for William. He didn’t want me to, but I did anyway.” She smiled at the surprise on Rosalind’s face. “I’m a widow, Miss Thorne, it gives me certain freedoms. William also told me to keep silent about . . . my feelings and what I have seen. But if it means I will save his life, I will say and do whatever is necessary.”

  “I know it,” Rosalind told her. “Give me a day or two more. If no other way can be found, then I will go with you to speak with the attorneys.”

  “Thank you.” Virginia reached out and the two women clasped hands and for a moment, held on tightly. “What will you do now?” she asked.

  “I will do my best to try to find that other way.” Rosalind stood up but as she reached for her basket, she paused. “Virginia? Where are Sir and Lady Bertram now?”

  “Oh,” she sighed. “The dowager marchioness is having what she calls a little entertainment for her particular set, and Sir and Lady Bertram have decided, of course, they cannot neglect her.”

  “Why aren’t you there?”

  Virginia smiled. “Great heavens, what would I do at one of the marchioness’s gatherings? I have no money to lose at cards.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Matters Overseen and Overheard

  During the summer months, it is much frequented as a promenade, but there is not at present sufficient traffic to afford the prospect of much profit to the proprietors.

  —Samuel Leigh, Leigh’s New Picture of London

  Sunday dawned bright and clear, and hot. Rosalind took herself to church and sat in the pew.

  What do I do? she asked as she stood and knelt and sang and kept her eyes on the priest without hearing a single word of his sermon.

  Because now that she knew about the dowager marchioness’s card parties, about her past and something of the nature of her “particular set,” she knew of whom she could ask the last few questions that just might tie the remaining threads together.

  The problem was, it would mean tugging on the one connection she had privately sworn she would never use.

  What do I do?

  She was still asking that question when she returned home and changed into her lightest walking costume. The brooding slowed her usual efficient manner of dressing, so Rosalind came down the stairs only a few minutes before Mrs. Kendricks announced that Lord Casselmain had arrived.

  “Miss Thorne, I’m hoping you can convince Louisa to talk,” said Devon as he waited for Mrs. Kendricks to help Rosalind on with her pelisse and bonnet. “We’ve got her out of her room, but it took both myself and Mrs. Showell to do it, and she’s done nothing since but sit and pout. Truth be told, I’m a little worried about her.”

  “Don’t be,” Rosalind told him. “It’s only two days since the funeral. She and her friends will calm down, especially once she realizes how deeply uncomfortable black bombazine is during a hot spell.”

  “Hmm. I had not thought about that. As usual, Miss Thorne, you are a step ahead.” Devon offered her his arm and she took it, grateful for her bonnet’s full sides so he could not see the uneasy expression on her face.

  What am I going to do?

  Mrs. Showell had not been exaggerating. Louisa had indeed put on full mourning, complete with a black lace veil and net gloves. Devon helped Rosalind into the phaeton beside her.

  “I’m so very sorry for your loss, Louisa,” said Rosalind.

  Louisa made no answer, except to pull out her black handkerchief and lift her veil just enough to apply it to her nose.

  Devon climbed onto the box and touched up his matched chestnut bays. The horses set off at an even trot.

  “How is Mrs. Showell today?” she asked Louisa.

  Louisa turned her veiled face away. Rosalind bit her tongue, and reminded herself of her resolve to let time and the summer sun do their work. Despite this, she had a momentary and utterly uncharitable urge to shout at the girl and shake her for her ridiculous theatrics.

  He would have laughed at you! He cared for no one!

  Except that was not entirely true. He had, in his way, cared for Mrs. Seymore. But why? What was Margaretta to him?

  And what was she to the dowager marchioness?

  • • •

  The Waterloo Bridge had opened earlier in the season to great pomp and ceremony. The Prince Regent himself had been there. Bands had played and the lifeguards had marched on parade. No such ceremony was occurring today, but because the bridge was new and interesting it was a popular promenade. On a hot and sunny day such as today, the fashionable enjoyed driving or walking along its shining white span and telling each other various facts about its construction.

  Louisa, of course, declined to get out of the carriage. Devon rolled his eyes, but impatiently agreed she could stay in the company of his man and the horses. He gave Rosalind his arm and they walked away to join the other promenaders. As they did, Rosalind nodded back behind them, so Devon could turn to see Louisa in the carriage, itching and fidgeting and tugging at the shoulders of her dress.

  Devon smiled and they walked on. The breeze off the Thames was most refreshing and they watched the sailing ships and the rowboats and nodded to the people they knew, and Rosalind could not think of anything to say beyond the simplest of small talk.

  It was not long before Devon, evidently, had had enough.

 
“How goes the matter of Mrs. Seymore?” he asked.

  Rosalind stared straight ahead, keeping the shield of her slanting bonnet sides between them. “Not as quickly as it needs to, I’m afraid. I thought yesterday I had made some progress, but it turned out to be nothing at all and . . . Devon, I need to ask you about something. I don’t want to. I never would except there’s no time . . .” Her sentence, and her determination, trailed away.

  He walked in silence for a long time, swinging his stick. But when he spoke again, it was softly and seriously. “How can I help?”

  Rosalind took a deep breath. She could still pull back. She did not have to make use of this man in this way.

  Why? Why am I doing this?

  Because I want to see what he will do. I want to see how far he will go. I need to know . . .

  I need to . . .

  But Rosalind found she could not finish the thought.

  So instead, she told Devon about her trip to Woolcombe, about the threads of money and blackmail that ran through all the events surrounding the murder of Fletcher Cavendish. She told him that Sir and Lady Bertram had most certainly not done this thing. She told him that Mrs. Cecil Seymore had fallen in love with her brother-in-law and had tried to interfere with his marriage.

  She also told him of the dowager marchioness and her illicit gambling, and how Fletcher had been sure he could get the money he needed, from somewhere close at hand.

  “Do you think Cavendish meant to get it from the marchioness?”

  “Yes. I think he threatened to reveal her secrets if she did not give him what he needed.”

  “But in order for Bow Street or an attorney to take this idea at all seriously, you need proof that she has secrets to be revealed.”

  “Yes,” admitted Rosalind. And it has to be better proof than just Lord Adolphus’s hundred pounds and his desire for his mother not to be troubled any further.

  Devon sighed. “I’m sorry to have to disappoint you, Rosalind. The dowager marchioness may have secrets, and they may be dark ones, but giving private gambling parties is not going to be among them. It is not entirely legal, but you may trust me when I say that there would not be more than a fine attached, and next to no scandal at all.”

  “It’s not the parties I’m wondering about,” she said. “But . . . it’s what they might relate to in regards to the marchioness’s conduct. Miss Onslow said the late marquis was older than she was. She also said that the dowager was notorious in her youth. She . . .” Rosalind stopped. She swallowed. “There is something about her that bears a striking resemblance to Mrs. Seymore.”

  Devon stopped them. He turned to face her. “Do you think that Mrs. Seymore is the dowager marchioness’s natural daughter?”

  “I think it’s possible,” Rosalind said. “I think that all this talk of Mrs. Seymore and the legitimacy of her child may have its origins not only in Mrs. Seymore’s behavior, but her background. I wanted to know—”

  “M-miss Thorne!” called a woman’s voice. “I th-thought that was you!”

  Rosalind stopped and turned so abruptly, she and Devon collided with the couple behind them, and had to spend the next several moments apologizing and ascertaining that no one was hurt. When the other couple moved on, Rosalind was able to see a man and a woman standing arm and arm by the bridge rail.

  It was Penelope Vaughn who hailed them, and with her stood Lord Adolphus.

  Rosalind pasted a smile over the shock on her face. Hoping she did not look anything like as awkward as she felt, she led Devon over to them.

  “H-h-h-how nice to see you,” said Miss Vaughn. “How are you t-t-today?”

  “Very well, Miss Vaughn.” Rosalind made her curtsy. “Lord Adolphus Greaves, allow me to introduce Devon Winterbourne, Lord Casselmain.”

  The men bowed and agreed it was very good to meet each other. Fortunately, like Rosalind, Devon had a lifetime’s worth of practice keeping his thoughts out of his face and he betrayed no hint that he and Rosalind had just been discussing murder and Lord Adolphus’s family in the same breath.

  “A very fine day, is it n-n-not?” said Penelope. Her hands remained looped around Lord Adolphus’s arm. “Are you enjoying the v-view?”

  Rosalind agreed it was and said that they were. Devon spoke lightly to Adolphus, asking where his lands were, what he thought of the prospects of the shooting for the coming autumn, a bill in Parliament, all the commonplaces. But Rosalind had to fight to keep her gaze from drifting to Miss Vaughn’s hands. Penelope was not wearing gloves, which was unusual, and a little improper. But what she was wearing was a ring of sapphires and diamonds.

  And she wore it on her left hand.

  Penelope caught the direction of her gaze. She lifted one finger to her lips and smiled. Rosalind nodded once and smiled to indicate her congratulations.

  “As delightful as this is, I’m afraid you must excuse us,” said Lord Adolphus. “I promised to have Miss Vaughn home to her father before four o’clock. You will excuse us, Miss Thorne? Lord Casselmain?”

  They all said their farewells and strolled away in their separate directions. But Rosalind could not help thinking to herself, Lady Bertram is going to be devastated. What will they do now?

  • • •

  “Rosalind,” said Devon, lifting her out of her private, and not entirely pleasant, thoughts. “Before we met your friends, you were going to ask me another question. What is it?”

  For a moment, Rosalind considered letting the matter rest where it was. Prying information out of Devon was distasteful in the extreme, and her spirits were already depressed. But Rosalind found herself looking over her shoulder at Lord Adolphus and Miss Vaughn, as they strolled arm-in-arm down the bridge. She also thought about Virginia sitting alone in her workroom, determined to do the right thing even when it meant the ruin of all her hopes. Rosalind felt her hesitations fall away. The captain’s life was at stake, and so were the other lives around him. If she turned delicate, they might all be lost. Rosalind found she was not ready to take that risk. If Devon could not understand . . .

  Well, perhaps it is better if we both know that now.

  “I wanted to know if your brother Hugh ever attended any of Lady Weyland’s parties, and if, perhaps, there were any rumors about her having had an affair, or affairs.”

  “Is that why you agreed to come out with me? Because you needed to ask this question?” Devon’s voice was light, conversational. Rosalind did not look to see his expression. She did not want to know.

  “No,” she told him, and tried not to be irked at the question. He has every right to ask under the circumstances. “I came out because I wanted to see you, and Louisa.”

  She did not look. She would not look. She did not want to watch Devon’s face while he tried to decide if he believed her.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “My brother did go to some of Lady Weyland’s parties. They were famous once upon a time and . . . there was always somebody there willing to let him play on credit or for things such as a watch or a stick pin or such.”

  Rosalind bit her lip and tried not to feel she had betrayed them both by making him speak of this.

  “As to whether or not she ever had an affair, or an outside child, I don’t know. But if you ask it of me, I may be able to find out.” He paused. “Are you going to ask it of me?”

  “I don’t want to,” she told him again, and did not bother to disguise the pleading in her voice. “I would not, only there is no time. The trial could be as early as tomorrow.”

  “Yes, of course,” Devon murmured. He also stopped and gazed upstream at the crowd of boats and barges. Rosalind tried to breathe and hold her peace. Devon would make up his own mind. Or not.

  But all he said was, “We should probably get back. I’m sure Louisa has roasted long enough. If I bring her home in a faint, Mrs. Showell will never forgive me.”

 
; “Yes, of course,” said Rosalind, and inside, her heart cracked, just a little.

  CHAPTER 37

  Venturing into the Past

  He smiled but to deceive: He courted but to destroy: and by his studied and disguised reserve prevented suspicion.

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

  for Criminal Conversation

  Rosalind and Devon did not bother with polite chatter as they returned to the phaeton. Devon helped her in next to Louisa and closed the door. Their eyes met, and still they said nothing.

  I’m sorry, Devon. I’m sorry, Mrs. Kendricks, she added ruefully. I’m sorry, Mrs. Showell.

  I’m sorry.

  Fortunately, the drive back to Little Russell Street was a short one and not without its bright moments.

  “I have decided to put off mourning.” Louisa threw back her veil. “I know Mr. Cavendish would want us to carry forward in our lives with grace and dignity, just as he would.”

  “I’m certain of it,” said Rosalind solemnly. She also handed Louisa a fresh handkerchief so the girl could mop her indecorously streaming brow.

  The clots and clusters of newspapermen on the walk beside Rosalind’s door had all but cleared. This, Rosalind knew, was a temporary reprieve, and the moment the trial was announced, they would all be back in force. She tried not to blush as she saw them taking note of who she was with and scribbling it all down in their books.

  “You could come stay at the house until this is over,” murmured Devon as he helped her from his carriage. “With Mrs. Showell and Louisa . . .”

  But Rosalind shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m fine. Bow Street has put all of them on notice.”

  And we both have too much thinking to do. She kept her eyes straight ahead, because she did not know if she would see some trace of relief on Devon’s face.