Page 27 of Never a Duke
As opposed to knowing, at least some of the time, that they gossiped about me?
But then, Rosalind was reminded of Ned’s words to her:Not me. Was this what he’d meant? That association with him would come at the cost of society’s dubious blessing?
If so, did she care? Rosalind drew a single line on the blank page, a line that happened to follow the contour of Ned Wentworth’s upper lip. “He says it doesn’t signify that I stammered.”
“Of course it doesn’t signify, particularly when you no longer suffer that affliction and haven’t for years. What are you drawing?”
“Ideas for bonnets.” Though Rosalind did occasionally still stumble over her words when she was tired, nervous, or upset. “I don’t believe we’ve gone bonnet shopping yet this Season. Are you up for an outing?”
Mrs. Barnstable flashed that charming, mischievous smile again. “On a pretty spring day, what could possibly appeal more strongly than a shopping expedition?”
“Another visit to Hatchards?”
“Orboth? Be still my fluttering heart.” She gathered up her embroidery and closed the lid of her workbasket. “I’ll meet you by the front door in ten minutes.”
“And Gunter’s,” Rosalind said, closing her sketchbook. “Good things come in threes.” That was a variation on the adage—badthings came in threes—but also suited to Rosalind’s mood. To spend another afternoon sitting at home perusing the newspapers was beyond her.
“We should drop by Mrs. Abercrombie’s and invite her to join us,” Mrs. Barnstable said, pausing at the door, workbasket in hand. “Her new companion has decamped on short notice, and Mrs. Abercrombie has yet to hire another. She might appreciate some company and fresh air.”
Mrs. Abercrombie was a widow of an age with Mrs. Barnstable, and not at all high in the instep. “The more the merrier,” Rosalind said, getting to her feet. “How many companions does that make in the past year?”
“Three, but she does hire the younger, less-experienced women, and they are often less reliable too. You will consider what I said about Mr. Wentworth? You would not want to attract undue notice, my lady, especially not before your brother has attached a suitable bride.”
And abruptly, the entire conversation fell into a rational pattern. “Lindhurst’s pride is smarting because Mr. Wentworth wasn’t cowed by his lordship’s almighty consequence. Lindhurst put you up to warning me off Mr. Wentworth, didn’t he?”
Lindy might even dimly suspect that the accident that had befallen his favorite watch—he had several—had not been an accident.
Mrs. Barnstable paused, hand on the door latch. “Actually, both your brothers mentioned their concerns to me, and just because they are your brothers doesn’t mean you can dismiss everything they say. Your behaviors have caused them no little embarrassment in the past, my lady, to say nothing of the talk your father has endured on your behalf.”
“And Lindy’s inane bets? George’s attempts at poetry that he wastes his allowance publishing in bound volumes? Higgins having to send the footmen out to bring Lindy home at all hours, dead drunk, pockets to letagain? That’s all simply amusing while my decision to allow the same man to escort me twice in a week has my brothers flying into the bows?”
Mrs. Barnstable sighed, the sound having a familiar, disappointed quality. Rosalind’s tutors and governesses had frequently sighed like that, as did Papa.
“Your brothers are male, my lady. It’s not fair, it’s not right, but it’s the way of the world that the male of the species in polite circles need not grow up unless or until he chooses to.”
That surely qualified as an eternal verity, supported by observation and logic both. In the normal course, Rosalind would have apologized for being so vexatious and acknowledged the truth of Mrs. Barnstable’s observations. George and Lindy were male, though compared to Ned Wentworth, they were hardlymen.
But today, Rosalind’s penchant for truth-telling beset her with particular intensity. “You live your entire life above reproach, Amelia Barnstable. You observe every rule and respect every protocol. Despite your exemplary existence, your husband’s gambling left you without even your widow’s mite. And yet, you defend the same conventions that rendered you impoverished and homeless. That is not right either.”
Mrs. Barnstable shot Rosalind a look, one that hinted at fear and more subtly suggested the merest glint of rage. “I’ll fetch my bonnet, and you will be careful where Ned Wentworth is concerned.”
Rosalind let her have the last word. When it came to Ned Wentworth, Rosalind had every intention of being careful. He was the first man she’d noticed in a positive sense since becoming infatuated with the curate at the family seat in her eleventh year.
Ned Wentworth was honorable and kind, and so what if he’d had a rough start in life? His Grace of Walden himself had been to the gutter born, to hear the gossips tell it. Ned had made something of himself, an accomplishment far more worthy of respect than George’s awkward poetry or the intricate knots in Lindy’s cravats.
***
The most successful exponents of London’s underworld rubbed along tolerably well with the most genteel. At the theater, a man of means might escort his mistress one night and be joined at the interval by his good friends.
The next night, those same friends would display equal cordiality to the man’s wife when she occupied the same seat the concubine had previously. Other theatergoers observing these interactions ignored some and acknowledged others in a dance as necessary to polite society as it was tacit.
The best brothels enjoyed fine addresses in neighborhoods where crime was unlikely and clientele of means were close at hand. The best modistes were careful to schedule fittings such that wives and mistresses were never inconvenienced by undue proximity to one another.
Ned thus had to travel only two streets from his own lodgings to undertake the next phase of his investigation into the lady’s missing maids. The premises were unremarkable from the outside, and on the inside, the appointments could have graced any well-to-do residence in Mayfair.
The number of wineglasses on a passing footman’s tray and the unrestrained laughter from abovestairs suggested this residence was not quite as respectable as its neighbors. The faint odor of hashish in the air reinforced that suspicion, and nearly had Ned retreating into the chilly spring night.
But no.Get it over with.
