A Purely Private Matter

by Darcie Wilde

  “He liked to take me to the gaming houses for similar reasons. He loved to see the aristocrats at their worst and laugh at their follies. They were greater actors than any on the stage, he said. He borrowed dresses for me from the theaters he played at, and added paste diamonds and taught me how to talk, and either no one noticed or no one cared that I was not what I seemed.” She spread her hands. “You wondered, I know, how I learned to comport myself as a lady? That was the result of Malcolm’s little jokes.”

  Mrs. Seymore was a keen observer. Young Margaretta Coyningham would have been the same. Rosalind could imagine her standing by the wall at the salons, watching the grand ladies charm the gentlemen, and watching how the gentlemen competed for their favors. How they spent more freely, boasted more wildly. Promised more outrageously.

  And that explained the resemblance between Margaretta and the dowager marchioness. It had never been a blood relationship. It was a similarity of mannerism. Because Margaretta had learned how to behave by watching Lady Weyland.

  “And that was how Fletcher . . . Malcolm . . . knew Lady Weyland?” asked Rosalind. “He was invited to the private parties given by her and her friends?”

  Mrs. Seymore nodded.

  “And that’s how you started getting some money?”

  “I’m a good gambler, and I was able to hold on to what I won, at least sometimes,” she added ruefully. “Enough times. This was also, as you’ve realized by now, where I met the captain. He and Sir Bertram used to go and drink and gamble and”—she waved her hand—“so forth. I don’t think Sir Bertram enjoyed them much, but it helped keep him close to the marchioness, which was all-important to him. William loved the pomp and the lights, and of course, ever the sailor, he never missed a chance to throw his money away.”

  “You were not in love with him then?”

  “I didn’t even think much of him. But he was asking to marry me. I was grateful to Malcolm for the story of my orphaned state, since it meant he would not try to speak to my father, or my mother. Malcolm used to abuse William terribly when we were alone. He said I was made for far greater things. He even promised to marry me himself if William wouldn’t leave off. I didn’t believe him, but I liked hearing it.”

  “Did you know Lady Weyland was one of his lovers?”

  Margaretta shrugged. “Probably. There was such a parade, I didn’t pay much attention to who they were as individuals. Until, of course, the one night.” She began straightening the items on her table, lining up the perfume bottles and silver and ivory cosmetic boxes neatly beneath the mirror.

  “What happened?” asked Rosalind.

  “My mother was gone for a few days to help her brother. His wife had a fever. That left me to mind the houses.” This matched what Mrs. Coyningham had said. Rosalind nodded in encouragement. “Malcolm, Fletcher, knew I was alone there, and he . . . decided to take advantage.

  “One night, Fletcher came back from the theater with not just a woman but a lady. Lady Weyland, as it turned out. I knew her from the parties. He was, I think, giving her a thrill. What do they call it when the wealthy go down into the poor neighborhoods to drink and gawk? Slumming, isn’t it? He was taking her slumming in my mother’s house.” She lifted the silver hairbrush and laid it down next to the hand mirror. “Well, I was in the kitchen with my notebooks when I saw a gaudily dressed man ride past the window. I don’t know how he knew where to find them. I suppose somebody must have overheard their plans or paid a footman. Some such. At any rate, I assumed he was after Malcolm, and whoever he was with. I ran out the back door to make my way around to the house so I could warn them, and help bundle whoever the lady was out.”

  “That was . . . remarkable of you.”

  She lifted her eyes to their reflection in the mirror. She was tired. The glow that was supposed to accompany the quickening of her child was absent from her worn face. “I know it is difficult to understand, Miss Thorne, but Malcolm was the only real friend I’d ever known. When I was with him, there was a chance I might become something more than myself. That meant more to me than any of his faults, or affairs.”

  “I do understand.”

  The look Mrs. Seymore shot her was skeptical, but she said nothing. “But I was too late. Just as I was about to pull open the door . . . I saw the man fall from the window.”

  “And no one else saw?”

  “It was three in the morning, and our house stood apart from the neighbors then. I was stunned beyond speech or movement and then Malcolm came barreling out. He grabbed me, shook me . . . convinced me to help him remove the body, and say nothing.” She sighed. “And before you say it, I know now that was foolish. But we were young, and we were nobodies, and there was a peer of the realm dead at our feet. Who would believe we didn’t deliberately do him harm?”

  “So you knew who it was?”

  “I’d seen him on Lady Weyland’s arm, and even if I hadn’t, well”—Mrs. Seymore shrugged—“there she was standing at the window, her hands clapped over her mouth to try to keep from screaming.”

  Rosalind’s breath caught in her throat. “It was Lady Weyland? You saw her? You could swear to it?”

  “The lamp was lit. I saw her clearly.”

  “When was this? What year?”

  Margaretta paused. “Seventeen eighty-seven. I remember, because I’d just turned nineteen.”

  Events and conclusions tumbled together in Rosalind’s mind. Her heart constricted and her throat went dry. Was it possible . . . Could it be . . .

  “Stay where you are, Mrs. Seymore,” Rosalind said urgently. “Remain at home. See no one. Speak to no one. Keep your nerve steady.”

  “But where will you go?”

  “The circulating library. There is something I need to look up.”

  Mrs. Seymore hadn’t seen it. She wasn’t looking from the right angle. To her, that night was about so many overwhelming things. It was about herself as a girl, moving a corpse, saving a friend, about denying that Malcom—Fletcher—could have deliberately harmed this old, vicious man. It was about taking her money and running away, about deciding to make a bargain with a man she’d fascinated, about the rest of her own life.

  Margaretta hadn’t truly stopped to think about what she had done, and exactly what it might mean for the sons of the lady who had stood at that window and tried not to scream.

  CHAPTER 41

  The Importance of Careful Research

  I desire to point out the grotesque anamoly which ordains that a married woman shall be “non-existant.”

  —The Honorable Mrs. Caroline Norton, A Letter to the Queen

  There was, Rosalind knew, quite literally not a moment to waste. The evening was growing late. She ran down the stairs, past a startled Mrs. Nott, and out into the street. The crowd of newspapermen fell back as she darted between them.

  They also may have laughed. Rosalind decided she would not worry about that.

  “Mr. Barstow,” she gasped. The patrolman was standing by the hired carriage, keeping one eye on the newsmen and one eye on the driver. “I need you to go find Mr. Harkness and tell him to meet me at Little Russell Street as soon as possible.” She tore open the carriage door and climbed inside before he could move to help her. “Where to, miss?” called her driver with a laugh. Clearly this was more fun than he’d had in a long time.

  “Mr. Clements’s Circulating Library,” she called back. “As quick as you can!”

  • • •

  The driver did his best. Indeed, he took several corners so sharply, Rosalind feared the carriage would overturn. She clutched the squabs and clenched her jaw, and reminded herself that she’d asked for this.

  Despite all these efforts, it was full dark by the time the driver drew the horse to a halt in front of Mr. Clements’s library. The shutters had been closed over the windows, and the curtains drawn on the door, but lamplight still gleamed on the
other side.

  Rosalind, defying a lifetime’s training, ran to the door and hammered on it.

  “Mr. Clements!” she cried. “Mr. Clements!”

  `There was a moment’s shuffling and thumping but then the shade over the door was drawn back and Mr. Clements’s face peered out through the glass.

  When he saw who it was, his eyes flew open wide and he at once unlocked the door.

  “Madre de Dios!” he cried as she barged past him into the dim reading room. “Miss Thorne! What is the matter?”

  “I am so very sorry, Mr. Clements,” Rosalind told him. “But I need . . .” She stopped and drew in a long, shuddering breath. “This is most extraordinary, I know, but have you a peerage list here?”

  “Yes, of course,” he answered reflexively. “What is the matter, Miss Thorne?”

  “Something has gone very wrong, Mr. Clements, and I’ve need of this information at once.”

  The librarian’s face hardened into grim and soldierly lines. He vanished into his back room, just long enough for Rosalind to pace once between the counter and the door. When he reappeared, it was to lay a heavy volume on the counter beside the lamp and the cash box.

  Rosalind murmured her thanks and leafed quickly through the fat volume until she found the pages dedicated to the Marquis of Weyland.

  It was clearly an older edition, because the first name read:

  Greaves, Arthur Septimus Maxwell Finch, Marquis of Weyland.

  Rosalind slid her finger down the article, past the date of birth, the title, the schooling, and the marriage, until she came to the bottom.

  Sons:

  Greaves, Darius Septimus Maxwell Headly Finch, Earl of Hadworth . . . She skimmed past the other titles and the names of his parents.

  Born, she read, 1784.

  Too early. Her hands had gone cold. Rosalind grit her teeth, and turned the page.

  Greaves, Adolphus James Hector George Finch, she read.

  Born, she read, 1787.

  There it was. Lord Adolphus had been born while Lady Weyland was having an affair with Fletcher Cavendish. Rosalind pressed her hand against her mouth. If anyone wanted to, they could call his paternity into question. If illegitimacy could be proved, or at least proved enough, then Adolphus could no longer inherit the marquisate.

  Rosalind closed the book.

  “Thank you, Mr. Clements,” she whispered as she handed it back.

  “Are you well, Miss Thorne?” the librarian asked her anxiously. “Do you need to sit down?”

  Rosalind laid her palm against her cheek and was not surprised to find it quite cold. “No,” she said. “But I do need to go home. Don’t worry. A friend is waiting for me.”

  These words and a small smile were enough to placate Mr. Clements. He did, however, insist on walking her to the door, and handing her into the carriage.

  “Little Russell Street,” he told the driver as he handed the man a fresh coin. She did not protest either the instructions or the gesture.

  The possibilities and problems rattled through Rosalind’s mind as her carriage jostled across the ruts and cobbles. If Sir Bertram ever found out the things she had, he could take Lord Adolphus to court. It would be an uphill battle, and an expensive one, but it could be done. That envious, impractical, stubborn man could file suit and strike Adolphus from the succession for the marquisate.

  And Lord Adolphus had to know this was the case. And so did Mrs. Seymore.

  And so did Fletcher Cavendish.

  Lord Adolphus had money, or at least he could get it. Fletcher needed money to give to Mrs. Seymore. Fletcher had known Adolphus could be his son. He’d held this information back, saving the secret like the last jewel in his case to throw down on the table in a grand gesture.

  Lord Adolphus admitted he’d gone to the theater that night. He was a small man, a much better fit for Mr. Kean’s clothing than Mr. Cavendish’s. He had ready access to all his brother’s lovely antiques, including the cabinet filled with all manner of knives and swords.

  “Here we are, miss.”

  Rosalind blinked. The driver was undoing the carriage door. She hadn’t even realized she’d closed her eyes, or that the carriage had stopped. She climbed out slowly. She remembered to thank the driver and, stiff and shaking, climbed up the steps to her house.

  She fumbled for her keys and let herself inside. There was a light burning in the hall, and another in the parlor. Rosalind frowned.

  “Mrs. Kendricks?” she called as she pushed open the parlor door.

  A woman rose from the chair by the hearth, but it was not Mrs. Kendricks.

  “Miss Th-th-thorne,” said Penelope Vaughn. “I’ve c-come to ask you. P-please. Stop this.”

  CHAPTER 42

  The Many Victims

  of a Misspent Life

  Love may vacillate. Hate knows its own mind.

  —Catherine Gore, The Debutante

  “Miss Vaughn!” Rosalind exclaimed. “What brings—”

  But Penelope cut across her words with a curt gesture. “You already know,” she said. “I—I am here to stop you before you h-harm the best man alive.”

  “That is not what I want,” said Rosalind softly. “Sit down, please. We are both upset. Let me ring for my housekeeper to bring us some tea.”

  “She is not here,” said Miss Vaughn.

  Rosalind froze in the act of reaching for the bell. “She is not?”

  “No. I’m afraid I told her you and I had been at dinner together because you had wanted to talk to me about the m-m-matter of C-captain Seymore, and you had taken ill. She is now somewhere between here and m-m-my father’s house,” Penelope added. “I w-will have to think o-of something to tell h-him later.” She smiled wanly. “Sh-she is v-very devoted.”

  “Yes. She is.” Rosalind let out the breath she’d been holding. “Miss Vaughn, if you have come all this way, you must know that Lord Adolphus has done a great wrong.”

  “I know everything,” said Penelope. “And it does n-n-not matter.”

  Rosalind looked at the plain, intelligent young woman, standing so tall and dignified in the shadowed room.

  “Perhaps not today,” Rosalind said. “But it will. Miss Vaughn, I know what it is to live with secrets. You cannot bury them deep enough. They will be resurrected.”

  “I-is it m-m-money you want?” Miss Vaughn countered. “I—I have enough of my own and will pay.”

  “I do not want money.”

  “Th-then l-let me implore you, Miss Thorne.” Penelope paced restlessly in front of the hearth. “What good does this do? To whom does it really matter? Cavendish is dead and the only persons who mourn him are a lot of silly schoolgirls. Adolphus is alive, and he is a good man. He is spending life and fortune to make this society of ours a better one.”

  But Rosalind shook her head. “Do you want to know why it matters? Come with me to meet the woman who is getting ready to flee the city for the sake of her child. Come to the prison and meet the innocent man who will hang for no greater crime than being a fool. Come with me . . .”

  “He—he loves me, Miss Thorne,” said Miss Vaughn. “He is all that I have.”

  “I am sorry,” Rosalind told her. She moved forward, her hand out, but Penelope shrank back.

  “I thought you understood,” Penelope whispered. “Y-you know. Th-those of us who must live in the haut ton are living in a straitened jacket. If we do not fit the shape and expectations imposed on us, we suffer. I am an ugly girl, Miss Thorne, and my stutter makes people think I am a deficient in my senses. I have my fortune, and that’s all, and if you knew . . . if you knew the kind of men who have offered to take me off my parents’ hands . . . I never for a moment thought I would find a man who would respect my mind, my character, as Adolphus has done. He wants a helpmeet. He wants me. His title, my money, the way we fit together, we
could be great and show the whole world what might be done.

  “His family is a bad one. That is not his fault. But if you open their weaknesses to public gossip, he will be ruined along with them.”

  And so will all your hopes for a future where you can snap your fingers in the face of society, where you are not pitied anymore, where you are free and strong and sought after.

  Rosalind remembered standing in the darkened garden as a young girl. She remembered seeing her father through the carriage window as he turned away. She remembered her godfather explaining, in detail, all her father’s crimes, and what they meant to her, and would mean for the rest of her life.

  She remembered folding Devon’s letters away, unable even to read them.

  It wasn’t fair. It was never fair. And all Penelope was asking was that Rosalind help her as Rosalind herself had been helped. Penelope only needed a few secrets to be kept, so that she could have a good life.

  Except those secrets will not be kept. Rosalind remembered Miss Onslow, and Samuel Tauton, and Mrs. Coyningham, and even Mr. Clements.

  And Charlotte. And Father. And me.

  One day, someone would come to this woman. It would be when she was Lady Weyland, and had money and power. They would need something—something that was so important to them that they did not care who they broke to get it. They would tell Penelope a story of the sins of the past, and she would have to decide whether to pay or to fight, not just once, but again, and again.

  That was the life Adolphus was leading Penelope to—one that need and love would make, but could not hope to save.

  “Where is Lord Adolphus, Penelope?” she asked. “What is he doing while you’re delaying me here?”

  Her mouth twitched. “A-a-actually, he is enduring another of his mother’s foul parties. H-he thinks I—don’t know, but I do. He w-wanted to protect me from all of this. Th-that’s why he insisted we keep our engagement secret until he inherits the title. Th-then we are free.”