by Darcie Wilde
If he wasn’t an attorney of some variety, Adam would eat his own boots.
“Who are you, sir?” the man demanded. “And what is your business here?”
“Adam Harkness of Bow Street,” Adam answered. “Who are you?”
Hearing this, the man bowed, albeit awkwardly, since his hands were so full. “Mr. Fetch, of Inner Temple. I am the late Mr. Cavendish’s attorney. I suppose you are looking for evidence among the wreckage?”
“After a fashion,” said Adam. “I suppose you are here to take charge of his possessions?”
“For the moment. What there is.” Fetch dropped papers, stick, and hat on the sideboard and gazed about the hotel room with a kind of weary distaste.
“Did Mr. Cavendish leave a will?” Adam asked.
“No, curse the man. I begged him to put his affairs in order. I don’t know how many times I told him what a comfort it would be to his friends and his heirs and assigns, but he just laughed at me. ‘It’ll only be a comfort to my creditors, Mr. Fetch, and when I’m gone, I don’t care what trouble I give them.’” Fetch sighed heavily. “I could not make him understand how much trouble it would be to me personally. Not that he would have cared much.”
“So you know of no family?”
“None,” said Mr. Fetch flatly. “I mean, I assume there must once have been a mother and one of course presumes also a father of some sort. But I’ve done his business for ten years now, and Mr. Cavendish never mentioned a single relation who still walked the earth.”
“Are there many creditors?” asked Harkness.
“Only half of Bond Street,” said Mr. Fetch. “And a good portion of Jermyn Street as well.” He opened the wardrobe. “We’ll be selling most of these back to their makers.” He lifted the lid on the jewel box with one finger and his gray brows shot up in surprise. “Well, it seems I owe Fletcher an apology. He was keeping some kind of savings.”
“Not really. At least some of them are fakes.”
“I should have known.” Fetch let the lid fall with another sigh. “Never put your faith in actors, Mr. Harkness. You are doomed to disappointment.”
“Had you seen Mr. Cavendish lately?”
“Not since he returned from France. He wanted some money, of course, and wanted me to convince his banker to advance him something against his salary at the theater.”
“Did he get his advance?”
“Oh yes. Mr. Cavendish usually found a way to get what he wanted.” Fetch opened the central desk drawer to reveal a purse tossed among the papers. He undid the laces. “Empty,” he said, and sighed again. “Well, the inventory will be a simple matter at least.”
Harkness retrieved his own hat. “I will leave you to your work then, Mr. Fetch.”
“Thank you. If there is anything I can do to assist, please call upon me. Cavendish was a rogue and a wastrel, but as far as I know, he’d done nothing worth his dying for.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fetch.” Adam bowed.
Adam also thanked the hotel manager and left the man with a card, and a few shillings for his time and trouble. The Littlefields’ major was not the only one who kept a fund. That done, Adam stepped out into the sunshine. It was a clear, warm day with only a few clouds scudding across the sky. The streets were filled and all the city was going about its business.
And here am I, doing little better than wandering aimlessly about.
Unless the correspondence Harkness had appropriated offered up something new, Cavendish’s apartments had been as much of a disappointment as Cavendish’s dressing room in the theater. Harkness had taken the letters as a matter of form. He didn’t think they’d yield much. If there had been an especially attached or distressed female hanging about Mr. Cavendish, someone would have mentioned it by now. In fact, someone would have mentioned it within five minutes of Bow Street being called. It was the sort of thing that came up quickly. But thus far, the only distressed female who figured prominently enough in Fletcher Cavendish’s life to merit special comment was Mrs. Seymore. While she might be a poetess, Harkness did not believe her the sort to send perfumed love notes on pink paper.
Despite this, the matter was looking increasingly simple and increasingly sordid. A jealous husband, and a dead lover, or suspected lover. Seymore’s wife had lied to try to protect her husband and possibly herself, but that was not a crime.
If Captain Seymore was smart, he’d find a lawyer who would lead the jury to believe the captain had caught Cavendish and his wife in the act. If that were so, then by killing him, Seymore had simply been defending his property and his honor. They’d acquit without a second thought.
And yet something about this conclusion bothered Harkness. It was not that it was sordid, or too simple. It felt wrong. And, if he was forced to admit it, part of the reason it felt wrong was the presence of Miss Thorne. Harkness remembered Rosalind’s contention that Mrs. Seymore had complicated the matter with her actions. He had not had the chance then to point out to her that persons involved in criminal actions frequently made the mistake of saying too much in an attempt to disguise what had really happened. Yes, he had raised the possibility it might not be her husband that Mrs. Seymore was attempting to shield, but there was no word of such person in any of the stories he’d heard yet.
He wondered how Miss Thorne was faring among the Seymore clan today, and if she had learned anything that would point to a different conclusion. He wondered when he would have a chance to talk to her again.
Be careful there, Harkness. Be very careful.
The situation was ludicrous. When he looked at Miss Thorne, or spoke with her, or stood near her, he was fine. He was, in fact, entirely himself and glad to be so. But when they parted, he had to walk, or perform some other vigorous exercise, for an hour or more before he felt he could settle into his own skin again.
Harkness wasn’t a raw schoolboy. He knew the signs and symptoms of a serious attraction. He’d lost his heart, and reclaimed it, several times. But Rosalind was fundamentally different, not only in her character, but in her station. He had no way to court her. He could not offer to walk her to church on a Sunday. He was not going to meet her at a country dance, or a public assembly, or the panorama in Hyde Park. Except for the Littlefields, they knew no one in common. What he did know about her family had to be kept secret, but otherwise he knew nothing of her past or of her present for that matter, unless she was engaged in some matter such as the one that had taken Fletcher Cavendish to his end. The courtesies she had been raised to forbade him from calling at her house. The only way he had to spend any time with her was in the role of a glorified tradesman.
And then there was Devon Winterbourne, Duke of Casselmain, if you please, who took her to the theater and looked at her like it was his heart she held in her hand.
And yet, Adam was carrying the note she’d written in his breast pocket, and he had no intention of removing it, even though it was currently weighted down under a wealth of perfumed letters.
And please God, never let Tauton, Townsend, or Mother find out, he prayed as he crossed the cobbles toward Drury Lane. I really never will hear the end of it.
CHAPTER 24
Together on the Straight and Narrow
He was introduced into the plaintiff’s family; He soon became pleased and deeply interested in the charms, and the beauties of her person.
—The Trial of William Henry Hall vs. Major George Barrow
for Criminal Conversation
When Rosalind returned home from the Seymores’, it was to find a stack of fresh correspondence on her desk, but there were three letters in particular that she sorted from the others.
The first was from Alice.
On the trail of Margaretta’s wedding to the captain. Why couldn’t she have been famous when she got married? I’m coming to dinner in hopes you have a date and a church!
The second was much longer,
and sealed not only in wax, but in official red ribbons. It instructed Miss Rosalind Thorne to present herself at the coroner’s court to be held at Bow Street Police Office on the named date to give evidence concerning the death of one Mr. Fletcher Cavendish, actor. It happened to be the same night she was invited to dine with Mrs. Broadhurst’s friend, who also invited Sir and Lady Bertram, and Lord Adolphus. Rosalind wrote a polite note to Mrs. Broadhurst saying that she must cancel. Since her name was already in the papers, she needed to give the hostess a chance to avoid the potential for disconcerting her guests, who might find the inclusion of such a woman at the table uncomfortable.
The third letter was short, shorter even than Alice’s.
Will you meet me? Rotten Row, after the fashionable hour.
D.
Rosalind sat at her desk and considered her correspondence and her visiting book. Eventually, she pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and trimmed her quill. Her conversation with the widowed Mrs. Seymore had raised several possibilities in her mind, but she would need to call on specific connections to find out if they could be fulfilled. Rosalind wrote three letters to likely candidates to send with the second post. After that there was little to do but wait, and hope a satisfactory answer would come in time.
That’s true of so very many things.
Rosalind set her two short letters in front of her, along with two fresh sheets of paper. First, she addressed Alice.
St. Margaret’s Church, seventeen ninety-eight. A very small wedding by all accounts. I am sorry I cannot do better yet.
What can you find out about Lord Adolphus Greaves, younger brother of the current Marquis of Weyland?
R.
This sealed and laid aside, she turned her attention to the other note.
Will you meet me?
Rosalind picked up her quill again and allowed herself a moment of hesitation. She had plenty of worries and plenty to do. Only one full day remained to her before the inquest, and for all her tortuous morning in the house of Sir and Lady Bertram, she had discovered very little that did not lead to yet more confusion. Indeed, she now had one great question to crown the whole matter.
Why did Mrs. Seymore tell Virginia their money troubles were at an end?
She could easily put Devon off. Given the curious state of her emotions since this matter began in earnest, she probably should.
Rosalind dipped the pen in the ink and wrote down a reply consisting of a single word.
Yes.
Hyde Park was famous in song and story, not to mention Sunday serial and romantic novel. Deer and milk cows together roamed its broad green lawns and were equally startled by the dogs, horses, and children of those who sought in the city meadows some semblance of the healthy countryside. Vendors hawked sweetmeats and corsages. Small tearooms offered rest and refreshment.
But the park was perhaps most noted for the broad avenue called Rotten Row. Every day during the season, at a set hour of the afternoon, the aristocratic and the fashionable paraded up and down its length. Horses and carriages were admired, or not. New gowns, new rings, and new gossip were all displayed for general comment. Lovers and hopefuls caught glimpses of one another. Rivalries were formed and proposals accepted.
During that time, one could barely move for the traffic. But by five o’clock, the whole crowd vanished back to their houses to dress for dinner and whatever other entertainments the night might hold, leaving Rotten Row entirely empty.
Therefore, it was easy for Rosalind to see Devon standing beside a roan mare that nosed idly at the lawns. Devon bowed as Rosalind reached him, and she curtsied in return.
“Will you sit?” He gestured to the stone bench.
“Would you mind walking?” she answered. “I’ve been sitting a great deal today.”
“As you choose.” He took the horse’s bridle, and with only a little coaxing, he convinced the animal to leave the grass and follow along peaceably.
They walked along in silence until it became evident to Rosalind that Devon was going to leave it to her to start their conversation. She cast about for a neutral topic.
“How is Louisa?” she asked finally.
“Not speaking to you, I’m afraid,” Devon told her. “She won’t forgive you for being in the company of her departed hero and not telling her about it.”
The papers had come out, and with them, the news that Fletcher Cavendish’s last act had been to dine in the company of Alice Littlefield, a lady journalist for The London Chronicle, and one Miss Rosalind Thorne, gentlewoman.
“Please send her my deepest apologies.”
“As soon as she comes out, I will. When I left, she was locked into the sitting room with four or five of her bosom-beaus, a stack of plays, a tray of cakes, and more handkerchiefs than I was aware we possessed.”
“I think bosom-beaus would be gentlemen.”
“Bosom-belles then. Anyway, there was a great deal of sighing and declaiming and I think they may be committing poetry. I fled the house before I had to find out.”
“Probably wise,” Rosalind said solemnly.
Rotten Row ran straight as a ruler. Gravel crunched under their shoes and the horse’s hooves. A dog barked in the distance and a cow bellowed its annoyance.
“Is there anything I can do to help, Rosalind?” asked Devon.
“I don’t think so.”
“Then why did you write me?”
“So you wouldn’t worry. So . . . you wouldn’t think I was avoiding you.”
“Are you?”
Rosalind had to pause for a long time before she answered. Not because she did not know what she wanted to say, but because she wanted to be absolutely certain her voice would be under her control when she said it. “A little, I think. Seeing you again . . . It has not been easy for me, Devon.”
“Or for me,” he admitted. “And yet here we are again, and you are . . . what is it you are doing, Rosalind?”
She felt herself smile, and a little bitterly. “Getting in over my head.”
Devon chuckled. “I suspect that’s not going to stop anytime soon.”
Rosalind made no answer, but tipped her face toward the long rays of the evening sun. After the day indoors and in carriages and among all the assorted Seymores and their verbal daggers, the heat and fresh air felt wonderful.
Devon watched her. She could feel his gaze against her skin. It had always been like that with him, since the first time she’d seen him across a crowded country ballroom. She wondered if it would ever fade.
She waited for him to tell her to stop this. To say that she was walking into all kinds of danger, socially, morally, perhaps even physically. He would surely ask if she had been spending any time with Adam Harkness, and what was the nature of their conversation.
But he did not.
“I’m thinking of giving a dinner,” Devon said casually.
“You are?”
Devon nodded. “It’s Mrs. Showell’s idea, really. You know she’s chaperoning Louisa? Well, she wants to parade a few eligibles in front of her one last time before everyone heads off to the country. Leaves a good impression on all sides, she says. For myself, I need to think about the elections coming up, so it’s worth it to feed some of those concerned. It’ll mostly be political men and their wives, nothing rarified. Your friend Mrs. Norton will be there. Should Mrs. Showell write you out an invitation?”
“Whatever will Louisa say?”
Devon smiled, just a little. “If you accept, we will find out.”
Rosalind stopped and faced him fully.
“I know what you’re doing, sir.”
“What am I doing?”
“You’re subtly and slyly trying to bring me into company, specifically mutual company, where we might see more of each other.”
“Am I?” Devon’s brows rose in mock surprise. “How decei
tful and underhanded of me.” He paused. “Will it work?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then there’s at least a chance it might.”
Now that she was looking straight at him, Rosalind could see the concern on Devon’s face, the humor, and yes, that boyish hope that she had missed before. Devon’s succession to the title of Duke of Casselmain had been as hard on him in its way as her fall from social grace had been on her. They had both been forced to change to suit their new part, and both had lost something in so doing.
But perhaps Devon had gained as well. There was a strength about him, a confidence. She looked at him as a stranger might, and saw the poise, the assurance with which he moved. And yet, and yet, she could see the essential self that was Devon beneath it all.
But beneath it all, who was this lady who stood in front of him? Rosalind didn’t know. She moistened her lips and tried to find a teasing answer to give him.
Devon, though, spoke first. “It was Charlotte, wasn’t it?”
Rosalind’s mind went utterly and completely blank. “I don’t . . .” she stammered.
“That’s who you were chasing after when you ran out of the theater box the night Cavendish was killed,” said Devon. “You saw your sister.”
Rosalind turned abruptly. She walked two or three steps, before she could force herself to stop again. She was running away. It was ridiculous. She squeezed her eyes shut. She was running away and suddenly about to dissolve into tears.
Stop this. Stop it at once.
“Rosalind?” Devon had come up beside her again. Something nudged her bonnet, and she put her hand up to push the mare’s ridiculous and very wet nose aside.
“Behave,” said Devon.
“I hope you’re talking to the horse,” murmured Rosalind.
“I promise,” he answered. “But the question stands. Was it Charlotte?”
Rosalind sighed. “I thought so. Maybe. I don’t know.”
