A Purely Private Matter

by Darcie Wilde

  “Oh no, it’s no trouble at all,” the dowager replied. “I should have thought of it at once.”

  Darius smiled weakly as his mother darted for the bell to summon the maid and relay his requirements.

  “I am quite spoiled, Miss Thorne,” he rasped. “It is true there is no love like a mother’s love.”

  “You are fortunate,” murmured Rosalind politely as she watched Lady Weyland direct the maid to move a chair closer to her son so that she could sit by his head.

  “I am.” Lord Weyland raised his huge eyes to the dowager marchioness and gave her a fond smile. “Now, tell me, what do you think of this amphora? It is my latest acquisition.”

  The alabaster vase in question was tall with a long, slender neck and two curved handles. Rosalind’s boarding school education had included some study of ancient history, and she thought this to be a reasonable specimen of Grecian work, but she simply smiled. “I am not an expert in antiquities,” she said truthfully. “Perhaps you could tell me about it?”

  As she expected he would, the marquis launched into a minute and energetic description of the amphora. He detailed its provenance and its rarity and exquisite perfection. The tea was brought, but this created only a brief pause in his monologue. He described exhausting himself in the letters he had to send, in the men he interviewed, the bidding he endured, despite his weakness, to bring it “safe home to me.”

  “My health does not permit me much excitement, Miss Thorne,” he said. “What energy I have, I spend in the acquisition and admiration of beauty.” He reached out and caressed the side of the amphora. But his hand soon fell away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I find I am suddenly quite exhausted. But . . .” He turned his huge eyes on her. He raised a single finger to trace a line in the air between them, and Rosalind found it necessary to suppress a shudder. “I think I would be glad to see you again, Miss Thorne.”

  “That is very kind of you, Lord Weyland.” Rosalind stood and curtsied and tried not to hurry as she followed Lady Weyland out the door.

  “Well, Miss Thorne,” said Lady Weyland as they traversed the gallery to the stairs. “How lovely. I have seldom seen Darius take so immediately to a new face. But then, my son has an eye for the unique and the precious.” She smiled, and again, that surge of familiarity struck Rosalind. She was almost glad for it, because it covered over the other, far less pleasant sensations left by her conversation with the marquis.

  Lady Weyland cocked her head toward Rosalind. “A word of advice, if you will hear it, Miss Thorne? Do not have too much to do with the Seymores. My sister, rest her soul, did not marry judiciously, and her folly has left its predictable stain on the character of her sons. My Adolphus cares for them because he sees it as his Christian duty, but . . .” Lady Weyland shook her head sadly. “Blood will tell, Miss Thorne. Blood will tell.”

  “I hear you, Lady Weyland,” replied Rosalind. “And you may be sure I will think over all you have said, most carefully.”

  “I know that you will.” The dowager smiled easily. “And I look forward to seeing you again.”

  Rosalind reclaimed her bonnet and her coat. She spoke by rote, delivering up the expected pleasantries, commonplaces, and thanks. She could not concentrate; she could not think of anything except the sudden lightning bolt of understanding. She knew why Lady Weyland looked so familiar.

  In her smile, in her movements and the way she carried herself, Lady Weyland reminded Rosalind exactly of Margaretta.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Implications of the Past

  The public . . . welcomed the tale which represented him as governed by deadly malice growing out of the more impassioned and noble rivalry for the favor of a woman.

  —Thomas De Quincey,

  On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts

  Rosalind did not want to go home after her encounter with the marchioness. The atmosphere of Weyland House clung to her like a miasma, and somehow, she did not want to bring it into her personal environs.

  There is no time for such ridiculousness, she told herself firmly. You have only a few hours before you must dress for dinner, and if nothing else, you must write Alice, and tell her . . .

  But what will I tell her? What did I actually see? Rosalind frowned at the swinging curtains that covered over the cab’s windows, trying to decide exactly what of the dowager had reminded her of Margaretta, and what she truly thought it meant.

  Blood will tell. Lady Weyland’s voice rang in her ears.

  Do I believe this is a matter of blood?

  Oh, Alice, you need to find that church.

  But when Rosalind arrived in Little Russell Street, she saw at once she was not going to have the luxury of attending to her correspondence, at least for a little while, because Mr. Harkness was standing in her parlor.

  “Mrs. Kendricks tried her best to turn me away,” he confessed as she entered. “So you can’t blame her for this.”

  “I’m sure it is not in any way her fault,” answered Rosalind, a little testily. Of course, Mr. Harkness noticed.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Rosalind thought of the marquis’s eyes, measuring her exactly as he had measured the alabaster vase. “Nothing new,” she said and gestured Adam to a chair. If she was not prepared to disclose her new suspicions to Alice, she was certainly not going to hold them up to Mr. Harkness for scrutiny. “What can I do for you?”

  “I came, Miss Thorne,” began Mr. Harkness but he stopped. “I came, I think, to warn you.”

  “Of what?”

  “I’ve just completed an interview with a pair of actors from Theatre Royal. What they said will come out at the inquest tomorrow and . . .” He stopped again. Rosalind felt her spirits, already depressed, begin to sink further. It was most unlike Mr. Harkness to be unable to finish his sentences. “It begins to look like Mrs. Seymore did indeed kill Mr. Cavendish.”

  Rosalind felt her eyes try to start out of her head. “What could make you say that?” she croaked.

  “Because it’s the simplest answer, and most of the time, Miss Thorne, the simplest answer is the truest. Mrs. Seymore wanted to be rid of a husband who had grown intolerable. She wanted to be rid of a lover who had become a burden, and a danger to the future of the child she carried. If she kills the one and hangs the other, her problems are at an end.”

  “No. Her problems are just beginning.”

  “How so?”

  “She will become a scandal. She will not be able to earn a living, and the rumors of what she has done will haunt her all her days.”

  “All her days in London, Miss Thorne. All she needs to do once the men are taken care of, is leave.”

  Rosalind paused.

  “She could go to Paris, or the Continent. Italy. America. She is a clever woman, and she is used to making her own way. If she can write, she can hope to earn a living just about anywhere.”

  “Change her name, live quietly, leave the title and the disaster that is the Weyland marquisate to Sir and Lady Bertram and wish them the joy of it,” Rosalind mused aloud. “Then why not just leave? Why risk not just one murder, but two?”

  “Because the captain, or Cavendish, might have followed,” he said.

  Rosalind turned her face away. She was very tempted to ask him to leave now, but that was simple cowardice. She could not run from what he said, or from its implications.

  “Can you tell me what these actors said that has set your sights so clearly on Mrs. Seymore?” she asked.

  He did tell her. He laid it out in a simple straight line, organizing the dramatic words of Mr. Kean and Mrs. West, and Rosalind listened.

  And Rosalind frowned. “Is this the way it went?” she interrupted. “Mrs. Seymore goes to beg Cavendish, not to stop him from killing himself but to ask for money. Cavendish has no money, but promises to get her what she needs.”

  “
Yes.” Mr. Harkness nodded. “And she returns later that night to collect it and kills him, either in a fit of rage because he does not have the money, or because that was her plan all along. Then she changes into Mr. Kean’s clothing and—”

  “No,” Rosalind interrupted him. “She doesn’t. She couldn’t have.”

  “Why not?” demanded Mr. Harkness.

  “I saw her dress, you will remember. There were stains about the hem, but nowhere else. If she had taken the time to change to men’s clothes to get out of the theater, assuming she could undress without the help of a maid, why would she get back into the ruined dress?”

  “To complete the disguise,” Harkness answered. “It was part of her plan to get you on her side.”

  “But the servants would have noticed such a change, even that little girl who lives in . . .” Who had showed up at the door half asleep and unable to think even to light a lamp or a fire . . .

  Mr. Harkness nodded. “Did the servants say anything about finding men’s clothing? Or about her changing?”

  “I have not asked about it,” admitted Rosalind.

  “Then there is the matter of this accusatory letter,” said Harkness. “The one she said she showed you when she came to engage your help, and Alice’s. Have you actually been able to find any others?” said Mr. Harkness.

  Rosalind opened her mouth. She closed it again. She was tired, she was disturbed, and not one thing Mr. Harkness had said was helping clear her mind. “I have not had the opportunity to make a thorough search.”

  “You must face the fact that Mrs. Seymore may have fooled you as well, Miss Thorne. She is very good at it.”

  “This is not about my pride, Mr. Harkness,” said Rosalind tartly. “There are still other avenues of inquiry. Alice is helping look into Mrs. Seymore’s background . . .” As soon as she said it, she realized she had made a mistake. Harkness leaned forward, just a little.

  “Why Mrs. Seymore’s background, Miss Thorne?”

  She looked at him, but she saw the dowager, and Lord Weyland. “Because there might be some fresh thread leading from the past.”

  He nodded, and dropped his gaze to the carpet. Rosalind felt her shoulders tense. Whatever he was going to say next, she knew she did not want to hear it.

  “I need to ask you a question, Miss Thorne. I do not want to, but it has become necessary.”

  Because I am defending the woman you believe to be guilty. Because we both know her to be a liar, and you need to know if I am involving myself deliberately in those lies. Rosalind understood all this, and she did not blame him for any of it, but at the same time, her heart and her hands trembled, just a little.

  “You know you may ask me anything,” she said, but it took more effort than it should.

  “The night Fletcher Cavendish died, I saw you run from the theater.”

  “Yes.” Her voice would not rise above a whisper. “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “You may believe me when I say, Mr. Harkness, that it had nothing to do with this.”

  “I want to believe you, but I also need an answer.” He held up his hand. “And please, do not ask if I trust you. You know that I do.”

  “I do. I . . . It is not something I can tell you.”

  “Is it something to do with Mrs. Seymore?”

  “No.”

  “Then Lord Casselmain?”

  “No!” she cried. “It is entirely personal.”

  “Miss Thorne . . .” said Mr. Harkness quietly. “You must see that with this new evidence, Mrs. Seymore’s tale of suicide may not hold with a jury. The matter may well go to trial. When it becomes known you were assisting Mrs. Seymore, your movements will be scrutinized, especially since you dined with Cavendish that evening. I may be forced to say that I saw you. Please,” he said softly. “Let me help you. Tell me what I saw.”

  Rosalind bowed her head. She should have known this could not remain secret. Not now. I walked into this, she thought bitterly. I had the chance to say no, and I did not.

  “I have a sister, Mr. Harkness,” she said. “I have not seen her since I was seventeen when she left home with my father.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. Recently, I thought I had seen her, when I was looking into a matter that took me to, well, a club in St. James. That night at the theater, I thought I saw her again. I ran after her, but I lost her.”

  She waited for him to look away. She waited for him to ask the next questions, the ones that would force her to admit that she suspected her sister was on her own in London and surviving by her wits and her looks.

  But he did not. “Thank you for your honesty,” he told her instead. “I am sorry I had to do this.”

  She shook her head. “There’s no part of this that’s been easy.”

  “No,” Mr. Harkness agreed. He also got to his feet. “I can tell you wish me gone, Miss Thorne.” He bowed. “Thank you for everything you have told me. I’ll show myself out.”

  He turned and he walked toward the door.

  Will I be a coward? Rosalind thought to herself. No. I will not.

  “She may have already fled her past once before.”

  “I’m sorry?” Mr. Harkness stopped with his hand on the door.

  “Margaretta,” said Rosalind. “Mrs. Seymore. She does not talk about her past. She tells people she is an orphan and that she had a small inheritance that paid for her education.”

  He quirked an eyebrow toward her. “From your tone, I take it you have your doubts?”

  Rosalind gave a small laugh. “Mr. Harkness, I have been to boarding school. How on earth does an anonymous orphaned girl from such an enclosure manage to become intimate friends with a man like Fletcher Cavendish?”

  CHAPTER 28

  A Small, Private Supper

  A female servant should never make friendships with or take the advice of milk people, butchers’ or bakers’ servants, &c. for mostly they seek their own interest and profit in everything.

  —Samuel and Sarah Adams, The Complete Servant

  “Mrs. Broadhurst! I am so glad to see you!”

  Mrs. Oldman was a comfortable-looking matron who bustled forward to meet Admiral and Mrs. Broadhurst the moment they entered her airy front hall. “And this is Miss Thorne, about whom I have heard so much?” Mrs. Oldman curtsied and then, unexpectedly, threaded her arm cozily through Rosalind’s. “I must claim her at once, because another of my guests has been asking about her.”

  Rosalind smiled at Admiral and Mrs. Broadhurst, who of course released her, and let herself be pulled gently along with their hostess.

  The Oldman home was new and graceful. Not grand perhaps, but the rooms were well proportioned. One of the customs attached to the English dinner party decreed that guests should gather a half hour before the dinner, and Rosalind had been in many sitting rooms that were either so crammed with people that conversation became impossible, or were so empty as to lend a depressive hush and echo to the atmosphere. There was no such problem here. The guests circulated freely and Mrs. Oldman had no trouble steering Rosalind toward a familiar figure standing by the windows.

  Lord Adolphus bowed as Rosalind approached. “Good evening, Miss Thorne. How very good to see you again.”

  Lord Adolphus was immaculately dressed in the black coat and white breeches mandated by a formal dinner. He wore the fussy attire easily and comfortably. She found herself wondering how a man raised in such an environment as she had seen in Weyland House had managed to acquire the air of quiet distinction that Lord Adolphus seemed to carry with him.

  “Lord Adolphus.” Rosalind made her curtsy. “I am glad to see you. I had understood Sir and Lady Bertram were to be here as well?”

  “Yes,” he said distantly. “They were invited, but unfortunately, they had to excuse themselves.”

  Rosalind followed
Lord Adolphus’s gaze as it drifted casually about the room. Faces turned quickly away from them both, and the tenor of the conversation shifted. This signaled that the guests were talking about the Seymores, and the murder, and the inquest. They did not, however, want Lord Adolphus to hear them doing so.

  “Yes, of course,” said Rosalind. “It is understandable, considering the circumstances.”

  “I am worried about tomorrow, Miss Thorne,” Lord Adolphus murmured. “Not just because of the scandal. That’s already breaking, but I’m worried for my cousins. All of them,” he added, in acknowledgment of the question he saw in her eyes. “Is there nothing you can tell me? No way in which I can help?” His gaze swept the room again, looking, Rosalind thought, for anyone who might be listening just a little too closely. “I have a particular role in my family, Miss Thorne. I do what I can to keep my family name sound in the face of . . . many challenges. I have learned to be patient, to work quietly, and I hope, to work well. But my ability to do so depends on my knowing what is going on.”

  He works selflessly for his family, Lady Bertram had said, and now it seemed she was correct. Rosalind found herself more than a little surprised at this. There were very few saints in the world and she had never met one among the haut ton.

  “I sympathize, Lord Adolphus,” Rosalind told him. “I would help if I could, but the matter is a difficult one, and there are . . . contradictions.” She thought again of Lady Weyland, of Mrs. Seymore, the marquis, and Sir Bertram. “There are also confidences I may not betray.”

  “I understand.” Lord Adolphus inclined his head once. “Well. We will just all have to pray that the Almighty will see justice done here below. Now.” He drew in a great breath. “I need to ask you a very great favor.”

  “What is it I can do, Lord Adolphus?”

  He smiled, and somewhat to Rosalind’s surprise, and the smallest bit of alarm, the mild man began to blush. “You can permit me to introduce you to someone very dear to me.”

  Rosalind hoped he did not see how she relaxed. “I would be delighted to meet any friend of yours, Lord Adolphus.”