A Purely Private Matter

by Darcie Wilde

  The gilded entrance hall was every bit as crowded as the lane outside. A steady stream of persons in silk and jewels made their way up the two massive stone staircases, each one comprised of three separate flights. Mrs. Kendricks took charge of their cloaks and handed over their shawls. Rosalind handed their tickets to a liveried attendant, who examined them minutely. He was in the act of bowing the two women toward the right hand stair when a man’s voice stopped them all where they were.

  “Miss Thorne. I thought that must be you.”

  Rosalind turned, slowly, in order to be sure her face was completely composed when she looked up to see Devon Winterbourne, Duke of Casselmain, approach and make his bow.

  “Lord Casselmain,” Rosalind murmured. “How lovely to see you.” She curtsied, as did Alice.

  Devon Winterbourne, the eighth Duke of Casselmain, was a tall man, rather lean for his height, but neatly made. His hair was very black and his eyes a striking pale gray. His black coat and white silk breeches fit his well-knit frame exactly. Rosalind ruthlessly suppressed the urge to adjust her cashmere shawl to cover her burgundy and lace gown a little more. The dress had belonged to Rosalind’s mother, and she was torn by a sudden fear that Devon would recognize it.

  But Devon wasn’t looking at the dress—he was looking directly into her eyes, and that was even more unsettling. Devon Winterbourne had been Rosalind’s first love. She had once confidently and eagerly expected he would ask her to marry him. But then Rosalind’s father had deserted his family, taking her older sister with him. Her mother had lost her wits, and Rosalind had been forced to find ways to support them both. Even that might not have been enough to end things, but then Devon’s profligate older brother, Hugh, fell from his horse and broke his neck. Suddenly, Devon was no longer the solemn younger brother of the Winterbourne family. He was the Duke of Casselmain.

  Alice’s helpful kick against her ankle reminded Rosalind she was staring.

  “I did not realize you’d be here this evening,” Rosalind remembered to say.

  “He’s with me,” announced a young girl who came up to take Lord Casselmain’s arm. “I nagged him until he agreed. I could not miss the chance of seeing Mr. Cavendish onstage.”

  “Hello, Louisa,” said Rosalind. Louisa Winterbourne was Devon’s cousin. A cheerful, petite girl, she shared his black hair, sharp features, and gray eyes. Louisa was also the oldest of four daughters of a branch of the family that was rather less than well off. Devon was allowing her to stay in his town house for the season, with her firm aunt, Mrs. Showell, for a chaperone. He provided the use of his carriage, and his wallet, to allow Louisa to try her chances on the marriage mart. Word had reached Rosalind that there had been offers, spurred by the fact that Devon was also supplementing the vivacious girl’s dowry. Louisa, though, did not appear to be in any hurry to relinquish the fun of being a debutante just yet.

  “Are you one of Mr. Cavendish’s admirers, then, Louisa?” Rosalind asked. “Is he as good as they say?”

  “Is he . . .” Louisa fairly gawped at her. “Have you not seen him yet? Oh, Miss Thorne! How I envy you! You have so much to discover!” With this, Louisa launched into full-throated, if high-pitched, praise of the handsomeness, the sensitivity, the perfection of Mr. Cavendish’s performance. Louisa had seen his Romeo, his Hamlet, his Faustus, his Jack Absolute, and seemingly, a score of other interpretations, including of course, the dashing Montgomery Fitzhugh in Stand and Deliver.

  “And did you faint?” inquired Rosalind.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Louisa sniffed. “I might have missed the performance. Oh, I see you smile at me, Miss Thorne!” the girl added loftily. “But I am certain the moment you hear him speak, you’ll be lost yourself. You’ll join us, won’t you?” The lofty attitude dissolved in an instant. “You and Miss Littlefield both. I want to be there when you see him for the first time. Say that you will. Devon, she must, mustn’t she?”

  “That is for Miss Thorne to decide.” Devon did not turn his attention from Rosalind even for a heartbeat. “She and Miss Littlefield are of course entirely welcome.”

  Louisa was not above the occasional social deception, nor was she ignorant of the relationship that had formerly existed between Devon and Rosalind. Rosalind, though, detected no hint of matchmaking here, just the enthusiasm of a young girl for a favored performer.

  The same could not be said for Alice, who regarded Rosalind with a shrewd gaze, nor Mrs. Kendricks, who was quite openly bestowing a fond and longing look upon the duke.

  Then there was Devon himself. He’d returned to her life during a recent interval of chaos and confusion. It had raised all manner of feelings, not all of them complimentary to herself, or him. Rosalind told herself she needed time to sort out all those warring emotions and so was justified in avoiding him. But she knew the truth was much simpler. She was afraid of what she might come to feel if she spent too much time near him.

  As Devon looked at her now, she saw the old longing in his gray eyes, but something else as well. There was a tinge of desperation, and Rosalind had to suppress a smile at her own vanity. Of course Devon wanted her and Alice to join him. It would give Louisa someone else to talk to about the magnificent Mr. Cavendish.

  “We would be glad to join you, wouldn’t we, Alice? That is, if you’re certain, Lord Casselmain . . .”

  At this addition, Alice suddenly had to cover a cough.

  Devon bowed, and held out his arm. Rosalind did not permit herself to hesitate as she took it. The usher and Mrs. Kendricks were both informed of the change of plan and location. The one bowed. The other fairly glowed with delight.

  The Duke of Casselmain quite naturally kept a private box in the dress circle on the first floor. A gilded half wall separated their designated area from the neighboring box, and an ornamented rail kept them from toppling over onto the heads of those crowding themselves into the “pit” in front of the stage.

  Somehow, Alice managed to slide into place next to Louisa, ensuring that Rosalind would have to take the seat closest to Devon. Rosalind glowered at her friend, who turned away quite casually, as if nothing at all could possibly be the matter.

  “I hope you’ve been well,” ventured Devon to Rosalind.

  “Yes. Perfectly well, thank you.”

  “Louisa had hoped to hear from you before this,” he added.

  Rosalind glanced at Louisa. At the moment, the girl was engaged in a further detailed recitation of the perfections of Mr. Cavendish. Rosalind was going to have to find some way to make it up to Alice for this.

  “Do we really need to play the game of polite conversation?” she murmured to Devon.

  “That’s for you to say,” he answered. “I’m happy to talk about whatever you wish.”

  Rosalind made the mistake of looking into his eyes as he said this. She felt her hand tremble, and her heart strain at the seams. She remembered the sick, sad days when she finally realized that her family’s disgrace and his inheritance meant that she would never marry Devon Winterbourne after all. She remembered how she felt when they danced, and yes, when they had kissed. And now here they were, side by side, making proper conversation.

  Or improper conversation. Whichever she wanted.

  Which do I want?

  Before she could answer this most dangerous question, a merry laugh lifted out of the crowd and Rosalind’s head snapped around.

  The term “private box” was a misleading one. The theater’s tiers had been deliberately designed to eliminate shadowed spaces where improper or riotous behavior might be indulged. With the exception of the royal boxes, all portions of the seating area were in full view of all the others. Therefore, nothing prevented Rosalind from seeing straight into the well-filled boxes nearest theirs. What she saw was a crowd of white and pink faces, set off by the flash of jewels and the glitter of gowns and white shirt fronts. There was not one thing to trul
y differentiate one member of the grand gathering from any other.

  But there it was again, the sound of a laugh. A golden head tossed merrily, and Rosalind saw a particular face in the box a quarter turn of the great curve from theirs. Rosalind started to her feet. The motion made heads turn, made eyes widen.

  There. A slender woman with an oval face and wide-set eyes wearing a gown of spring green figured satin. She sat beside another woman, this one in a gaudy dress of gold net and cloud white silk.

  The woman in green stared, startled at Rosalind.

  Alice was saying something behind her, possibly calling her name. Rosalind neither knew nor cared. She blundered out the door and into the passageway. The hall curved and the doors to the general seating areas opened to her right. She tore open the one nearest and ran down the aisle. Now everyone was looking, as well as hissing and groaning at the intrusion. Rosalind still did not care. All she saw was the woman in the green satin, sailing as graceful as a swan up the farther aisle.

  Rosalind grabbed her hems up to an almost indecent height and ran up the aisle, barging through the door, and back into the corridor. A pair of drunken dandies laughed at her. A dowager lifted her quizzing glass.

  Rosalind ran for the stairs, and down them, and out into the entranceway and through the doors.

  The lane out front of the theater remained as crowded as ever. The carriages still jostled each other. The mountebanks and their audiences still sang and cheered and passed their jugs and bottles back and forth.

  There was no sign of her. It was as if the earth had opened to swallow her whole.

  “Miss Thorne?”

  The words were very quiet, but they turned Rosalind around as if pulled by invisible reins. There stood Mr. Harkness, looking down at her with concern in his blue eyes. He kept an entirely polite distance, with his hands behind himself. She saw the edge of his badge gleaming beneath the lapel of his coat.

  “I thought that was you. Is anything amiss?”

  “No, no, nothing. I . . . Did you see a woman come this way? She would have been wearing green satin, cut very low . . .”

  “Rosalind, for heaven’s sake, what is it?” Devon was behind her and then beside her, taking her arm in his so that it would be seen she had protection, of course. He saw the other man, and recognized him. “Harkness.”

  “Lord Casselmain.” Mr. Harkness bowed. “I saw Miss Thorne here and was concerned something might be amiss. Now I see that she is with you, I bid you both good evening.”

  Mr. Harkness walked away. A particular crowd of rowdies saw him coming and abruptly scattered.

  “What’s the matter, Rosalind?” demanded Devon. “Come inside, you’ll catch your death of cold.”

  He turned her and began walking, so she had no choice but to stumble along with him.

  “I saw . . .” she gasped. “I thought I saw . . .”

  “Who? What?”

  Tell him. No. I can’t tell him. I don’t know. It can’t be. It would mean . . .

  “Nothing, Devon,” she whispered. “It was no one.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The Presence of Mr. Cavendish

  Decorum among the several Orders and Classes of Visitants to the Theater, [is] as essential to the accommodation of the more respectable part of the Visitants.

  —Benjamin Dean Wyatt,

  Observations on the Design for the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane

  The performance was probably excellent. Rosalind was aware of bursts of applause and laughter at frequent intervals. These were punctuated by sighs, and rapturous callings out, and one or two wordless screams. Once, the play halted completely when one screaming woman fainted dead away, and had to be carried out.

  But had Rosalind been asked, she would have had to confess she could not have described the events onstage that caused these demonstrations. She might not have even been able to remember which play she was watching. Her mind was fully occupied by the sight of the woman in the green silk, the shape of her face, the sound of her voice.

  Was it possible? Could it be that her sister, Charlotte, had really returned to London after all this time?

  Rosalind told herself that her imagination had been excited at the masquerade at Graham’s. She told herself, firmly and repeatedly, that the woman she had seen in the darkened corridor had no more been Charlotte than this woman in green had. She reminded herself of the first months after Charlotte had disappeared with their father. Then, every fair-haired woman on the street or in a drawing room made Rosalind blink and look twice. Each one of those hopes had been false. Rosalind had learned to gather up her grief and carry it with her, quietly concealed in the corners of her heart. Charlotte was gone, and would not return. Rosalind would never know why her sister had vanished with their father. She came to accept this as an irrevocable fact.

  What, then, could have revived those old hopes for the second time in as many days? If that woman was not Charlotte, who could she be?

  Rosalind had no answer.

  The audience was applauding again. Rosalind blinked and tried to focus on the stage, only to realize the curtain was being rung down and the interval had begun. Around them people were getting up to go in search of the water closets or to meet their friends in other boxes or the great salons, or to make room for the waiters bearing the trays of supper.

  “Rosalind?” murmured Devon. “Are you well?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m just fine.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Alice tartly. “You always turn white as a new-washed sheet when you’re just fine.”

  “I often observed this when we were children,” remarked Devon blandly. “Especially after she’d seen some stranger in a crowd and given chase.”

  “Oh, leave off, the pair of you,” said Louisa. “If Miss Thorne does not wish to talk of it, she does not. Now, tell me, Miss Thorne, what do you think of Mr. Cavendish? Is he not divine? Oh, I thought I would die . . .”

  Rosalind made herself smile and turn toward Louisa. She had seldom been so grateful for a young woman’s enthusiasm. Louisa’s raptures did not require active participation, only murmured affirmations at regular intervals. Listening to Louisa delayed the moment when she had to tell Devon or Alice who she thought she’d seen.

  Devon had arranged for refreshment, and the waiters duly brought in the table along with cheese, fruits, cakes and jellies, and a bottle of champagne. It was a menu, Rosalind thought, more calculated toward Louisa’s taste than Devon’s. Having seen the effect fashionable gluttony had worked on his older brother, Devon tended to eat and drink in a restrained manner that many of his acquaintances found astonishing, if not positively Quakerish.

  One of the waiters bowed to Devon. “Lord Winterbourne? A note has arrived for Miss Thorne.”

  “Thank you.” Devon took the note, and handed it to Rosalind.

  Rosalind looked at the handwriting and her mouth went dry. The hand was smooth and flowing and delicate. She was aware of her heart pounding at the base of her throat. She unfolded the paper.

  And all her spirits sank into acute disappointment. She read:

  Miss Thorne,

  I trust you and your companion have not forgotten we are engaged to dine after the performance this evening. You may send word by Hunter and he will escort you to the King’s Arms Hotel. If your friends wish to join us, please do invite them.

  Fletcher Cavendish

  Rosalind quickly folded the letter before Louisa could glimpse the signature.

  “Not more bad news?” said Alice.

  “Oh, no,” Rosalind replied casually. “Simply a reminder that you and I are engaged to dine after the performance.”

  “You are?” said Devon, and Rosalind knew she did not imagine the note of disappointment in his voice.

  Louisa was more demonstrative. “Oh! How provoking! I wanted someone to talk to, and Devon is hopeless
. He knows nothing of acting and only wants to maunder on about the play and its meaning and its place in history and such piffle.”

  “Ah, yes, Devon’s bent toward piffle.” Rosalind smiled. “That is something I remember from our childhood.”

  “You would not break your engagement?” asked Devon. “For Louisa’s sake?”

  Rosalind’s heart was pounding again. The gaslight showed her Devon’s face with perfect clarity. She saw the rather stern, mature man he was, the man who had restored the pride to his title and family. But she also saw the boy she’d known—kind, quiet, awkward, and angry in the shadow of his raucous brother. But that was before her father’s disgrace, before her mother’s long and terrible ending. Before the thousand other things that had driven a wedge between them.

  No, they did not drive a wedge. They built a wall.

  “I’m sorry,” she told him. “I promised that I would do this. It is for a friend.”

  Devon’s eyes shifted from Rosalind to Alice. Alice, unusually, maintained her silence. Rosalind suspected she was biting the inside of her cheek to do so.

  “Of course,” Devon said. “I would not ask you to break your word.” He turned to his cousin. “There we are, Louisa. You will have to make do with me. I promise that I will pay particularly close attention to the acting in the second half so I can say something intelligent.”

  Alice decided that this was the moment to come to Rosalind’s rescue, and began directing Louisa’s attention toward the audience and the various lights of the haut ton she recognized within it. In short order, the two of them were engaged in a rapid exchange of gossip, much of which Rosalind suspected would be repeated in the column Society Notes, which Alice wrote under the byline of A. E. Littlefield.

  Devon remarked about the weather.

  Rosalind inquired after his mother’s health.