A Useful Woman (3 page)

“An affable affray to light afire betting books in White's and Brook's,” said Faulks. “And you may not quote me on that, Miss Littlefield.” He reached out and closed Alice's notebook firmly. “That is a bon mot of my own composing and I don't care to hear myself repeated all over the gossip sheets.”

“Besides,” said Alice, “you'll need it for your own use when you've a wider audience than a couple of spinsters.”

Faulks laid one manicured hand over his breast. “I would never use such a vulgar epithet when describing two such excellent ladies. But otherwise, you are correct.”

“Excuse me, miss.” Mrs. Kendricks entered, carrying a silver
tray with a single letter in its center. “This just came, by hand. The boy said he was to wait for a reply.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Kendricks.” Rosalind picked up the letter and looked at the direction. “You can stop craning your neck, Alice. I recognize the hand. It's from Tamwell House.”

“Is it?” Alice opened her book and began writing again. “That means Honoria Aimesworth and her mother are finally back from Switzerland? They left so very suddenly last year . . .”

“Alice,” said Rosalind sternly. “Leave this one alone. You know very well that the Aimesworths have been back for months, and spent a quiet Christmas at their country house.”

“I do know it,” said Alice. “I was just wondering if you did.”

“Of course I did. Why wouldn't I?”

Alice bit the end of her pencil and made no answer. Rosalind frowned.

“How stimulating it is to see a professional engaged in the delicate cut and thrust of social intercourse.” Mr. Faulks rose to his feet. “I could watch all day. Alas, however, I have business of my own and must bid you ladies adieu. Miss Littlefield, is there anywhere I may drop you?”

Alice hesitated, apparently debating whether Rosalind might be convinced to yield more information. This time, however, discretion proved the better part, and Alice also rose.

“Thank you, Mr. Faulks. It seems I also have work to do and should go at once to my paper's offices.”

“My carriage and my person are entirely at your service, Miss Littlefield. If I may?” He rang the bell for Mrs. Kendricks and requested his hat and cape as well as Alice's wrap. “Adieu, Miss Thorne.” He bowed to Rosalind.

But although Mr. Faulks turned to go, Alice didn't move.

“I'll be there in a moment. I've dropped my pencil.” Alice
said this directly to Rosalind and so missed the significant way in which Mr. Faulks glanced from her to their hostess before he retreated into Rosalind's small foyer.

“Rosalind,” Alice said as soon as the parlor door shut, “if you are going to be spending any time with the Aimesworths this season, you should know you will probably be seeing a great deal of Devon Winterbourne. Only, he's Lord Casselmain now.”

Rosalind did not blanch. She had too many years of practice at self-control for any such display.

“I knew, of course, his brother had died,” she said softly. “But why should he be connected to the Aimesworths?”

“There are rumors in the air beyond the ones regarding Almack's, and they're linking Lord Casselmain with Honoria Aimesworth.”

Rosalind lowered herself gracefully into her chair. She was certain Alice noted how she kept her hand pressed flat against the table to prevent it from trembling.

“It, of course, can mean nothing to you personally,” Alice prompted her. “But it is always good to be informed.”

“Yes, that's it exactly. You needn't be concerned about me.”

“Only I had thought you once cherished a certain preference for Lord Casselmain.”

The smile that turned up the corners of Rosalind's mouth was entirely artificial. She was sure Alice saw that, too. “Once. For about an hour, I think, when we were both younger and my social standing was rather different.”

“I don't suppose you'll consider staying away from Tamwell House?” Alice asked.

“I might, but as things are . . . Lady Aimesworth has been generous in displaying her gratitude for my assistance in the past.”

“You mean with helping smooth things over when Honoria got jilted by Phineas Worth.”

Rosalind didn't bother to answer that. “If she invites me for even part of the season, I may not be able to turn her down.”

“I do understand.” Alice pressed Rosalind's hand once. “Good luck. Be sure to call on me if you need anything.”

“I will, dear Alice. Thank you.”

They made their farewells and Alice took herself off after Mr. Faulks. Rosalind Thorne stayed as she was for a very long time. It was only when she was certain her hands had stopped shaking that she picked up the new letter and broke its seal.

The Bosom of the Family Home

Everyone knows in England,
ton
governs everything.

—
Marianne Spencer Stanhope Hudson,
Almack's

“Mother! You've invited that Thorne creature here! What are you trying to do to me?”

Lady Edmund Aimesworth,
née
Sophia Inneswell, did not so much as lift her eyes from her visiting book. “Honoria,” she said as she finished crossing the last
T
in her latest entry, “you will compose yourself and you will not speak again until you have.” She moved Mrs. Chadwell's visiting card from one stack to another.

“I beg your pardon, Mother.” Acid leeched all trace of sincerity from Honoria's words, but at least she achieved something approaching an even tone. “But you did invite Rosalind Thorne to spend the season with us, did you not?”

“I have not yet, but I will.” Lady Edmund wondered which servant let slip this information to Honoria. The person would have to be dismissed. This would naturally lead to all the trouble and aggravation of finding a replacement, but that could not be helped. “Miss Thorne is a most useful woman. If we are to
continue our recovery from last year's unfortunate occurrences, we need to manage your season most carefully.”

“She is . . .” Honoria began, but Lady Edmund turned, and let the girl see her expression. Calm was always the right answer to a tirade: calm, and a cool, patient regard. A display of temper only made one look ridiculous.

“I do not want her in the house at this time, Mother.”

The soft scratching at the door indicated the arrival of the maid. For a heartbeat, Lady Edmund considered sending Honoria away. Contrary to what they might think, she did not underestimate the intelligence or determination of either of her children. She'd had a year to repent ever having done so.

The door opened and the white-haired parlor maid stepped in, carrying a neatly folded letter in both hands.

“Is that Miss Thorne's reply, Gillingham?” Lady Edmund did not shift her gaze from Honoria's as she held out her hand for the letter. “There's nothing further. You may go.”

As soon as the door closed, Lady Edmund broke the plain seal and opened the letter. “It would appear you are somewhat tardy with your request, Honoria. Miss Thorne writes she will call here this afternoon. Was there anything else you wanted?”

Honoria clamped her teeth tightly together. She wanted to storm. She wanted to rage. Lady Edmund could read it in the bright, brown eyes the girl had not yet learned how to mask. But Honoria straightened herself up, and—thank heavens!—drew back her out-thrust chin. It was all done too obviously, but it was good to see her make some effort at self-control. Perhaps there was still hope.

“No. There was nothing else, Mother. Thank you.”

Lady Edmund gave her daughter a small nod, and let her
withdraw. Then she smoothed her own countenance and turned back to her desk. It was going to be a busy day.

*   *   *

Honoria slipped through the door into the conservatory and locked it behind her. Damp heat surrounded her, instantly dragging down the curls her maid had worked so diligently to set that morning.

The conservatory of Tamwell House was Lord Edward's particular pride. Not that Honoria's father had any genuine interest in exotic plants. His lordship employed a botanist to tend the palms and orchids. It was building that was Lord Edmund's passion. He'd designed the glass walls and central dome with their intricate hexagonal panes and laid out the system of pipes that delivered both heat and water and, incidentally, clanked and hissed so constantly that one could barely hear the central fountain's soothing trickle.

It was that noise that Honoria sought to cover her own. She backed away from the door, balled up her fists and shouted, “This is not happening! I will
not
permit it! We don't need Rosalind Thorne!”

“Why, what's all this? Poor little puss!” called a voice from the next room. “Someone put vinegar in your milk, poor puss?”

Honoria whirled around. Behind her waited the curving chamber that was labeled
CARD ROOM
on Father's cherished blueprints. Not that anyone actually played cards there. The conservatory's damp heat wilted any pasteboards within minutes, no matter how tightly one closed the French doors.

“Jasper!” Honoria cried. “What are you doing in here?”

The question was reflexive. Honoria could see for herself that her brother sat by the hearth with his feet on the fender, a poker
in one hand and a glass in the other. The noise from the pipes had disguised the crackle of the cheery little fire kindled in the grate.

“Poor, poor puss.” Jasper waved the tip of his ashy poker in time with his words. “Poor puss.”

Although two years younger than Honoria, Jasper was the taller of them by a good six inches. Despite this, there was no mistaking the connection between the Aimesworth children. They shared the family's chestnut hair, egg-shaped face, and deep-set, dark eyes. They also both possessed a talent for turning those eyes either sultry or intimidating, as the situation required.

“Are you drunk?” Honoria demanded as she strode into the card room. There was a sharp, familiar smell in the air under all the odors of damp greenery. She'd place it in a minute. She grabbed the tumbler out of Jasper's hand and sniffed.
That
was definitely whiskey.

“Probably.” Jasper grabbed the glass back and hugged it to his breast. “I take it Mother intends for the Thorne woman to stay after all. How very humiliating for you.”

“If that's the sort of thing you've got to say, you may clear off.”

“I was here first, sister dear. You may clear off.” Jasper jabbed the poker vaguely toward the door. “I still have some drinking to do.”

The unsteadiness of her brother's hand, and the slur in his voice, made Honoria look at him more closely. Jasper's normally saturnine face was flushed and swollen from far more than the room's artificially tropical atmosphere. Concern flickered through her. “What's the matter with you?”

“None of your business, Honoria.” Jasper dug the poker tip deep into the fire. “None. Of your.
Damn.
Business.”

“If you're drunk before noon, it is very much my business.” Honoria yanked the glass from his hand again. This time, she set it on the mantelpiece, well out of reach. “What's happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing new at any road. The world's just a revolting mess, and I can't seem to make it any better.” Jasper tossed the poker down so it made a hideous clanging and scattered ash across Father's beloved gold and blue Roman tiles. “I try, Honoria, 'pon my soul, I do. But I just . . .
can't
.”

“Well, that makes two of us, doesn't it?” Honoria dropped into the opposite chair. Mother would be appalled to see how she fell backward, and threw out both arms. Had it not been for her corset, she would have positively slumped.

“Poor puss,” Jasper said again, but this time there was genuine affection in it. “Is the Thorne creature really the problem?”

“Of course! Her entire family is a disgrace. By rights everybody should have dropped her years ago, but no! Phineas jilts me, and I can't show my face in town for a year. But
her . . .
She's everywhere one looks, prying and poking and managing everybody's business and all of
them
going on and on about how well she's carried on in the face of her troubles and how wonderfully useful she is! It makes me sick.”

“Not to mention the fact that she was once all but engaged to the man you are currently all but engaged to.”

Honoria made no answer. She just stared at Jasper's little fire. It was sinking quickly, like her spirits.

“I know I made a mistake,” she said to the fire, and her brother. “I've admitted it. I've apologized for it, and heaven knows I've paid for it. I mean, wasn't that the point of that dreary trip to Switzerland?”

“Oh, come now, it can't really have been that bad.”

“Oh, no. I only endured endless rounds of dinners and so-called parties in cramped little houses with the same tiny
crowd of English expatriates. Then there was the dragging oneself up mountains and down vales on mule back, and squinting at buildings and paintings one had no interest in at all. But what would you know about it? You got to stay in London.”

“So I did,” murmured Jasper. “For my sins, I did indeed.”

“Jasper, for heaven's sake, what is the matter? Please tell me.”

“I won't. But.” Jasper leaned forward, his voice and manner both steadier than they had been a moment before. “I will say this. If you want to drop the Casselmain engagement, I'll back you with the paternals. It was a bad idea from the first.”

“It's not a bad idea,” Honoria said. “It's the best idea. That's the real problem.” It was also the quickest way out from under her mother's authority, because Lord Casselmain was a man of sufficient rank and wealth that even Mother couldn't muster any objection to the social position he'd bring the family.

Jasper stuck the poker back into the fire and stirred the ashes thoughtfully. “If it helps, I don't think Mother is bringing Miss Thorne here to shepherd you to the altar.”

“What else could it be?”

“I suspect that our beloved mother is set on gaining revenge for all the snubbery she suffered after that business with Phineas.”

“Snubbery? Now I know you're foxed. If I rang for coffee, would you drink it?”

“I might. For novelty's sake.” Jasper heaved himself to his feet, caught up the whiskey glass from the mantle, and downed the remaining spirit. “There!” He slammed the glass back down. “Bring on your black brew, Medea, and do murder to the morose spirits of my soul!”

Honoria rolled her eyes, but she also rang the bell and ordered the footman to bring coffee at once.

“Speaking of novelty, I've had an idea.” Jasper leaned back
against the hearth and looked down his long Aimesworth nose at her. “It goes against the tide of all civilized opinion and feeling. It is, in fact, positively radical in nature . . .”

“Stop it, Jasper. If you've got something useful to say, say it.”

“I'm drunk, remember? A man gets to ramble when he's drunk.” He flashed at her that particular smile which had enabled him to cut a wide swath among London's more susceptible women.

Honoria huffed out a sigh and folded her arms. “Well, get on with it, or I shall hold your nose and pour coffee down your throat until you can speak to the point.”

“You could try talking with her.”

“Mother won't listen! I've just left her room. She's set on this. She—”

“Not Mother, you goose.” Jasper tweaked her ear and Honoria slapped his hand impatiently. “The Thorne creature.”

Her brother's words so stunned Honoria, she had to repeat them to herself several times before she was sure she understood correctly. “What could Rosalind Thorne and I possibly have to say to each other?”

“She's useful, isn't she? That's the whole point of her. She offers to help everywhere she goes. Ask her to help you.”

“I don't want her help! I don't want her anywhere near me!”

“But you've got her, haven't you? If you can't get rid of her, you might as well get her on your side.”

Silence fell between them, broken by the crackle of the fire, and the rattle of Father's steam pipes.

“It won't work,” Honoria said finally. “Rosalind Thorne hates me. She's never forgiven me for putting her in her place when we were girls. Which she deserved, by the way.”

“Tish-tosh, pish-posh. Water under the bridge.”

“She's sure to be jealous as well. She made herself positively ridiculous over Devon for a whole season. We all saw it. She's as likely to try to sabotage things as she is to help them along.”

“Ah, but my sister dear, you have what the Thorne creature desperately needs, and I do not mean a titled husband.”

“You mean money?”

Jasper nodded, slowly and significantly. “I mean money. A little bird told me that since she left the protection of Lord and Lady Blanchard's house to set up her own establishment, several of our finest London hostesses are rather less comfortable with their martyred Miss Thorne. Living on her own shows a shocking independence at odds with the gentility that our
grande dames
expect from their charity children. As a result, Miss Thorne may find this season a lean one, and she won't be as fussy about where her assistance comes from.” He paused and groped across the mantle. His hand found the whiskey glass and he looked into the bottom, seemingly in disbelief that it was empty. “Sticky, greasy stuff, money,” he muttered. “Oozes into all sorts of corners like you wouldn't believe, and drives out all thought of everything else.” He started for the table and the decanter, but Honoria grabbed it first.