And this was the first time she had had to face a banker from London.
Rosalind straightened her muslin cap and smoothed the skirt of her gray morning gown. He would not go away if she just kept hiding in here. She had to meet him, work out some sort of payment plan for Allen’s loans.
Oh, she was just going to strangle her brother when next she saw him!
She squared her shoulders and marched down the stairs to the drawing room.
Rosalind had never given much thought to what bankers should look like, but if she had, it would be much like this man. He was very tall, very thin, and very pale—pale skin, pale blond hair. He wore a plain dark blue coat, and a stiff white cravat tucked into the front of a black waistcoat. He stood across the room, examining a collection of small porcelain figurines and boxes arrayed on a tabletop.
“Mr. Richards?” she said, drawing herself up to her full, tall height and walking toward him, her hand outstretched. “I am Mrs. Rosalind Chase.”
Mr. Richards straightened from his examination of the bibelots, a monocle falling from his eye. “Mrs. Chase,” he said, and bowed briefly over her hand. “I was really hoping to speak with both you and Mr. Silas Lucas.”
“My uncle is quite elderly now, and not in the best of health.” He seldom leaves his home in the country. But I assure you that, as co-guardian of my brother, I have the authority to speak to you myself. Please, won’t you be seated?” She gestured toward a pair of chairs.
“Of course, Mrs. Chase,” Mr. Richards said, clearly still reluctant. He sat down, and placed a large black leather portfolio across his lap. From it he withdrew a stack of papers. At the bottom of the top sheet Rosalind saw, with a sinking of her heart, the bold slash of Allen’s signature.
“These are the documents pertaining to Mr. Lucas’s loan,” Mr. Richards began. “As you see here, Mrs. Chase…”
He went on in this vein for some time, spouting different legal terms and quoting figures.
A suspicious throbbing began above her left eye, until she had to say, “Please, Mr. Richards. Could you please just tell me what I must do to repay this loan?”
Two hours later, when she collapsed onto the settee in her office, Rosalind was very sorry she had asked that question. She had indeed worked out a repayment plan with Mr. Richards and his bank, but it was not going to be quick or simple. The school was prosperous, yes, but it could not long support such debts. The building and grounds of the Seminary also required upkeep, not to mention the wages of the teachers and servants.
Her head ached in earnest now, as it had so often of late. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples.
“Oh, Allen, Allen!” she groaned. “What were you thinking of? Where did I go wrong?”
But she knew in her heart that it was not her fault. She had tried hard to teach him the values of education and thrift. He had fallen in with a bad example of behavior in London.
He had fallen in with Lord Morley and his crowd.
At the thought of that name, her head pounded harder. She could not think of him now! She had to conserve her energy for what truly mattered—finding a solution to her financial dilemma.
She pushed herself up off the settee and went over to the desk to pull out her ledger books. One detailed the school’s finances, the other the profits from A Lady’s Rules.
“I will just have to write more books,” she murmured, and reached for her pen and ink. “A Lady’s Rules for Fashion? A Lady’s Rules for Garden Design?”
As she sharpened the tip of the pen, her gaze fell on the new pile of letters on the edge of the desk. The morning post. Molly must have left it there when Rosalind was in the drawing room with Mr. Richards.
She did not really want to face correspondence on top of everything else, but the missive on top appeared to be a letter from her school friend, Georgina Beaumont, now the Duchess of Wayland and cutting a dash in London. Georgie would surely have gossip to cheer her! Reading of her adventures always lifted Rosalind’s spirits.
Rosalind pulled the post toward her, anticipating a respite from her woes. But the letter just beneath Georgina’s was a missive from her publisher.
“Oh, thank heaven!” she whispered, breaking the wax with her letter opener. “There is sure to be a bank draught.”
There was a draught—yet it was not nearly large enough. It was only half what her previous payments had been. Appalled, she put aside the bank draught and read her publisher’s letter.
“We apologize for the unexpectedly small sum,” it read. “Unfortunately, sales of A Lady’s Rules have inexplicably dropped. We would be very happy to look at any other manuscripts you may have to offer. Yours, etc….”
“What!” Rosalind screamed out, and dropped the paper as if it burned. “Sales have dropped? What can this mean? Everyone wants to read A Lady’s Rules.”
Did they not? They had become so very popular.
This was the worst possible time for something of this nature to happen. She was counting on that money—she needed it. She had known that the popularity of A Lady’s Rules would one day wane, but not so very soon. Not now.
Lights exploded in her brain, pounding at the inside of her skull. Rosalind pushed the letter away, not caring when it fell to the floor. She felt so—trapped. Unable to break out of this dilemma. It was even worse than it had been when her husband died, and she discovered that his estate was far smaller than she had thought.
She needed some air.
Tucking Georgina’s letter into the pocket of her morning gown, Rosalind stumbled out of the office, across the empty foyer. She pulled open the front door and walked blindly out into the garden.
At first the pale sunlight hurt her eyes, made her headache worse. But the breeze was cool and clear, the garden an early spring pale green. Slowly, as she filled her lungs with its country freshness, she felt calmer. More in charge of herself.
She sat down on a marble bench beneath a spreading oak tree, and pulled Georgina’s letter from her pocket.
Her hope for distraction was not in vain. Georgina’s usual effervescence, which had carried them through some difficult school days, came across in her words. Rosalind soon found herself smiling at Georgina’s stories of her young daughter and baby son, her sister-in-law’s come-out, gossip about her friends, including their fellow school friend Elizabeth Hollingsworth, who was traveling in Italy with her husband and twin daughters. Rosalind even laughed aloud at a particularly spicy tale of a certain Lord Bunberry and Mrs. Brown-Perkins, even though she knew she shouldn’t.
Her laughter faded at Georgina’s final paragraph, though.
“And, in closing, my dear Rosie, something most odd is happening. You know of A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior, that amusing little book everyone has been so wild to follow of late? Even I have improved my etiquette! Well, Lord Morley and some of his cronies have been behaving just so badly of late. It is as if they are trying to break every rule. Everyone is absolutely agog to see what they will do next. I will write more of this later, for I think it will grow even more interesting.”
Morley! Rosalind wanted to scream that name to the wind. It was always Morley, popping up whenever she was most vulnerable. Ruining all her plans, her good work. He was becoming the bane of her life, setting himself up against every civilized tenet that Rosalind stood for.
She tightened her grip on the letter, crumpling it into her fist. There was just one thing to be done. She had to go to London.
Chapter Eight
“A crowded ball is not the proper sphere for private conversation.”
—A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior, Chapter Three
T he Portman ball was quite the crush. People thronged along the silk-papered walls, lined the staircase to the ballroom, jostled across the corridors in order to greet Lord and Lady Portman and proceed into the soiree. The crème de la crème of Society was arrayed in all its glittering, silken splendor.
And they all turned to stare when the butle
r announced, “Viscount Morley.”
There was a tiny pause, a sort of collective murmur before talk resumed in one great rush. Lady Portman and several of her friends rushed forward to greet him.
It was slightly disconcerting. Michael was used to a certain amount of attention, as any unmarried heir to an earldom would be, but not this much attention. It was gratifying, too. At least he knew his wager was going well. People still associated with him, indeed fawned on him, even though he tried to break all of A Lady’s Rules whenever possible.
Well, not all of them. There were still two or three he had not gotten around to. But it was early days yet. Surely, given time, everyone would see how absurd such rules were. Even Violet, who had been watching him with narrowed, disapproving eyes of late. Ever since his rule-breaking had begun in earnest.
His sister, his sweet, pliant sister, was clinging tenaciously to every strict tenet that she had learned at that blasted school. Every conversation, it was Mrs. Chase this, and Mrs. Chase that, Mrs. Chase says this, Mrs. Chase does that.
Always Mrs. Chase. The rule-following Mrs. Chase.
He frowned as he thought of her again. The memory of Mrs. Chase came into his mind at the most inopportune moments, ever since that strangely intimate scene in her office. He would be at the theater, and an actress’s red hair would remind him of the ringlet that had escaped from Mrs. Chase’s cap. He would be riding in the park, and a whiff of some springtime scent would make him think of her perfume, so green and fresh when he leaned close to her. He was even at a prizefight, and—well, he was not sure what had reminded him of her at that violent scene, but he had thought of her nonetheless.
It was absurd. Ridiculous. Mrs. Chase was a stern, cap-wearing schoolmistress, who looked at him with the highest disapproval. She had even given him a copy of A Lady’s Rules! She was not at all the usual sort of woman he was drawn to—blond, giggling, vivacious, petite. Mrs. Chase was a tall, redheaded Valkyrie.
Yet there it was. He could not cease thinking about her—even now, at a grand ball, surrounded by females. Her ice blue eyes lingered in his mind. It was almost as if she watched him across the miles, disapproving of him.
He shook off the thought of Mrs. Chase, and turned to Lady Portman. “Good evening, Lady Portman,” he said, bowing low over her gloved hand. He lingered over it just an instant more than was proper, mindful that the rules required the merest airy salute. “You have quite outdone yourself this evening. Your ball is the event of the Season.”
Lady Portman gave a gay little trill of laughter, and tapped him on the arm with her folded lace fan. “You flatterer! I am sure it cannot be the event of the Season, but it has surely moved closer because you are here, Lord Morley. Perhaps you could read us one of your new poems after supper?”
“Oh, yes!” Lady Portman’s friend Mrs. Eastman cried. She laid a beseeching hand on his other arm. “I so admired ‘The Onyx Vase.’ It was so—evocative.”
Lady Clarke, whom Michael last recalled seeing in the drawing room of Mrs. Chase’s Seminary, slid up to them in a flurry of orange silk and fragrant plumes. “I am still partial to ‘Alas, fair cruelty,’ myself,” she said, with a secretive little smile.
Lady Portman moved closer to him, tightening her clasp on his arm. She gave a glare to the other women surrounding them. “Right now, though, Lord Morley, let me introduce you to some of the other guests. So many of them are literary-minded, and are so eager to greet you.”
She led him farther into the crowded ballroom, while Lady Clarke stared after them with smoldering dark eyes. In truth, Michael was rather glad to be borne away from the woman. She was becomingly annoyingly persistent of late, sending heavily scented missives to his lodgings. Ever since he had begun to break the rules, in fact.
He stopped to speak to various acquaintances, to talk of other balls, routs, plays, and exchange on dits about people who were not here. As Lady Portman and her circle spoke of a certain Madame Varens who was performing at Drury Lane, Michael took a glass of champagne from a passing footman’s tray and gazed about him at the throngs of people.
As he was taller than most of the crowd, he could see over the ocean of dancers, the sea of potted palms. Near the invitingly half-open French doors was another knot of people, much like the group that had greeted him on his arrival, with one great difference. Most of this gathering were men, and they clustered about two tall, redheaded women.
One of them had her back to him, but the one who faced him he recognized as the Duchess of Wayland, and he immediately understood the draw for those men. The Duchess of Wayland, nee Mrs. Georgina Beaumont, was a vivid beauty, a famous artist in her own right, and, since her exalted marriage, a leader of Society. Michael had talked with her about art and writing before, and liked her very much, even though he had been oddly unmoved by the renowned “green fire” of her eyes. Tonight, she was like a brilliant, exotic bird of paradise amid pastel sparrows with her bright blue gown and sparkling sapphires.
The woman who was turned away from Michael looked as if she could prove to be no less beautiful, even if she was less colorful. Her hair, a river of red ringlets, was piled atop her head and anchored with a bandeau of pale sea green silk twisted with seed pearls. Her tall, slender figure was set off perfectly by a gown of pale green satin that just barely skimmed her waist and the long length of her legs. She tilted her swanlike neck as one of her companions spoke to her, and one long curl slid over her shoulder.
Michael was drawn to her, this mysterious, sea-clad woman. She seemed an oasis of serenity in the overcrowded ballroom, a poised, elegant, gardenia-like blossom that promised sanctuary from all the empty chatter, the high-pitched laughter, the hands pulling at his arms.
He murmured some excuse to Lady Portman, and made his way across the room, drawn by the woman in green. It was not an easy endeavor; he was stopped numerous times, obliged to make polite conversation. Yet finally he was able to break free, to skirt around the edge of the dance floor. He was very nearly to the crowd by the French doors, when the woman turned.
Michael almost dropped his champagne glass. Standing not fifteen feet away from him in the Portman ballroom, clad in that shimmering satin and pearls, was—Mrs. Chase.
For one off-guard instant, he was filled with a deep flush of pleasure—pleasure at seeing her again, when she had been so much in his mind of late. And she was more beautiful than he remembered, her hair a glory when released from those hideous caps.
Pleasure was quickly swept away by cold shock, and Michael impatiently shook his head, certain he was hallucinating. Mrs. Chase could not be here. He must be dreaming, hallucinating.
He closed his eyes quickly, and opened them again. She was still there, and she was undoubtedly Mrs. Chase. She was watching him, her head tilted quizzically as if she could not believe he was there, either.
Then her gaze narrowed, and her lips pinched together.
Yes. It was assuredly Mrs. Chase. Michael pushed away his bemusement, and pasted on a wry half-smile. He could do nothing but go forward. “Mrs. Chase,” he murmured to himself. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Whatever was she doing here?
Rosalind stared around her at the teeming ballroom. Once, long ago, when she had been a young girl, she had daydreamed about such scenes. Had imagined herself in beautiful gowns, surrounded by handsome swains who flattered her and flirted with her.
The tableau she found herself in now was indeed very close to those old dreams. Her sea green gown was exquisite, and there were more handsome gentlemen than she could count. When she first stepped into the ballroom at Georgina’s side, she had felt giddy, dizzy, almost overcome by the color and noise of it all—so very different from her daily life.
But too much time had passed since her girlhood dreams; too much had happened. The dreamy daughter of the local vicar had grown up, married, been widowed, struggled to build up her own school. She was no longer as starry-eyed as she had once been. She saw this crowd for what it was, a see
thing cauldron of gossip and decadence beneath a veneer of frothy glamour. For a brief while, though, rules—her rules—had held them in check, at least outwardly.
She was not here to make merry, she reminded herself. She was here merely to discover what had made the popularity of A Lady’s Rules wane, and to set things right. When she had done that, she would leave her borrowed finery behind and return to the quiet life of the Seminary.
That was truly all she wanted. Truly, she told herself, even as she sipped at the sinfully delicious champagne and listened to Georgina relate a scandalous on dit to her gathered friends. London life had no interest for Rosalind, really it did not.
She told herself this even as she scanned a gaze over the dancers, trying to detect any infraction of the rules that could be causing diminished sales. She saw nothing there—everyone was wearing gloves, and holding their partners at the prescribed distance. When she had first entered the Portman mansion, she had noticed one or two tiny things—a couple laughing too loudly, a man who had had a bit too much to drink—but nothing to give any alarm.
She had not yet seen Lord Morley or any of his cronies, though. That might explain all the good behavior this evening.
“May I fetch you another glass of champagne, Mrs. Chase?” the gentleman beside her asked.
Rosalind looked down with surprise to see that her crystal flute was empty. However had that happened? She never overimbibed. Then she noticed that she was indeed a bit light-headed. “Oh, no, thank you,” she answered, with a small measure of regret. It was very good champagne. “Perhaps a lemonade, though.”
“Of course! I shall return forthwith.”
Rosalind wasn’t sure he could return “forthwith” in such a crush, but she smiled at him gratefully, and half-turned to watch him thread his way through the crowd. She handed her empty glass to a footman, and resumed her inspection of the dancers and the crowds that clustered about the edges of the room.
Amanda McCabe Page 6
