Chapter 33
Chapter
Thirty-Three
The Aftermath
It had been three days since the events at the Floralia.
Three days during which I had not seen Steele, though we had corresponded often—sometimes several letters in a single day.
We kept one another apprised of our individual actions, careful in our phrasing, as though even paper itself might betray us.
The young women we’d rescued from that awful place had been taken to St. Agnes, an arrangement I’d made beforehand with Sister Margaret. Most of them, anyhow. A few had required medical attention and were even now recovering in hospital.
I’d foolishly believed that once matters settled, they would resume their lives. I now realized how impossible that would be. They’d been too damaged by the abuse inflicted on them to ever be the same again.
The report on the Floralia appeared in The Pall Mall Gazette, with accompanying illustrations in The Illustrated London News. The result was a scandal of prodigious proportions. It was all London society could talk about.
My name had been kept out of the papers.
Steele’s had not.
He stood front and center in every account. While he was hailed as the hero of the hour, others were cast—although not named outright—as villains.
Neither The Gazette nor The News had printed those names.
But then, they hadn’t needed to. Identities were discerned all the same: by the cut of a coat, by a favored mask, by a signet ring borne too proudly, or a stickpin and cufflinks long associated with a particular title.
A few had been foolish enough to wear watch chains or orders of distinction that no disguise could conceal.
London, after all, was adept at such reckonings.
I’d prevailed upon Cosmos to lift Steele’s banishment from Rosehaven House. It had not taken much to convince him. After reading the newspaper accounts, he realized he’d made a fool of himself, an opinion Claire fully agreed with.
In the last two days, I had received far more invitations than usual—to teas, to fetes, to balls—from individuals who wished to hear about the Floralia.
It had not taken society long to deduce that I had been somehow involved, even if my name was not mentioned in the papers.
I declined most of them. I had no interest in gossip—particularly when so many women had been grievously hurt.
While I had been busy helping the young ladies at St. Agnes, Steele had been occupied with solicitors, determining how the women might be compensated for the injuries they had suffered. I was eager to learn about those arrangements.
He had also discovered that the house where the Floralia was held belonged to Lord Weatherby. That information had not been shared with the press. But, as such things often do, it emerged nevertheless. Already, society was turning its back on him—and, unjustly, upon his family as well.
The clock on the mantel chimed eleven—the hour Steele was due to arrive.
It struck me, not for the first time, how deeply I had come to care for him.
But this was not a sentiment I could afford to indulge.
At least not at the moment. There were too many pressing matters to attend to.
Scarcely had the final note faded when a knock sounded at the door, and Honeycutt stepped in.
“The Duke of Steele, my lady,” he announced.
Steele stepped into the room dressed as impeccably as ever, his posture rigid with that same austere self-command I had once taken for coldness. He was not smiling, but then, I would not have expected it. Not today. Too much had happened in too little time—and too much still remained unresolved.
“Your Grace.” I curtsied.
“Lady Rosalynd.” He bowed.
“Please see that tea is served, Honeycutt.”
“It shall be done, my lady,” Honeycutt replied and withdrew.
I indicated the settee. “Please take a seat.” The formality of it felt absurd after what we had endured together only days before.
Once he’d done so, I settled opposite him. “The press accounts have been quite thorough. Surprisingly so.”
“The Gazette reporter requested a private interview,” he said. “I gave him what I could—without revealing names, of course.”
“They discovered them anyway.”
A flash of amusement crossed his face. “They are quite resourceful.”
I allowed myself a small smile. “So it would appear.”
A knock interrupted us before either of us could say more. A footman entered carrying the tea service. After delivering it to the small table between Steele and me, he withdrew.
I prepared a cup of the fragrant Oolong the way Steele preferred. But before I could hand it to him, he rose and joined me on the settee.
“We have been apart too long,” he said by way of explanation, taking the cup from me.
My breath caught—swift and traitorous. He had felt it too. “Yes,” I managed. “We have.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. But then I gathered myself. There were important matters to discuss. “What has transpired?” I asked softly.
After one long glance at me, he started, “I have been contacted through intermediaries acting for unnamed donors. They read the newspaper reports about the suffering those young women have endured and are…eager to contribute to their welfare.”
The absolute gall of those men. For, of course, it had to be men.
“They want to contribute to the welfare of the women they abused,” I said, heat rising in my voice. “No amount of money can atone for their sins.”
“No. It can’t.” Steele rested his cup on the table.
“But it will ease their lives. I have spoken with solicitors about the best course to handle those funds. They are quite substantial, and there’s more coming in.
The best course of action is for the court to appoint a trustee and establish a trust for the benefit of the women.
They will remain unnamed while still being recognized as beneficiaries. ”
“What about Weatherby? He leased his house so these atrocities could be carried out. He should go to jail for what he did.”
“He did profit. Greatly, I might add. Considerable sums were deposited in his bank account. He claims he knew nothing about the purpose for which it was used.”
“Preposterous! He had to have known.”
“I agree. But it would have to be proven in a court of law. Something that would not be easy to do. So a compromise was reached. He will not be charged with any crimes as long as he redirects the lease payments to the trust for the benefit of the young women.”
“That’s not enough!”
“I agree.” He paused for a moment. “He is suffering a greater damage. His reputation is in tatters. He will not be welcomed by polite society after this. There’s even talk about stripping him of his title and his estate.”
“His family will suffer if that happens.” They were innocent. They should not suffer for Weatherby’s sins.
“Which is the reason that may not come to pass. I suspect a compromise will be reached on that as well.”
I supposed that was the best we could hope for. “Will you have anything to do with the trust?”
“No. The trust will be established, and a trust committee will be appointed by the Chancery Court to oversee the matter. It will not be swift. Nor will it be easy. But in time, the women should receive some measure of compensation for the abuse forced upon them.”
He drew a breath, then continued more quietly.
“I have also verified the identities of the two women found in the Thames. You know of the first—Anna Price. The one we saw at the mortuary was Betsy Collins. She was one of St. Agnes’s.”
I closed my eyes as the image of her tortured body flashed in my mind.
Steele reached out and pressed my hand. “I’m so sorry, Rosalynd.”
“I’m not the one who was murdered.”
“She wasn’t, at least not in the strictest sense of the word.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“She took her own life. Her body was placed in the river after her death. One of the women we saved attested to that fact.”
A long silence followed.
“Any funds allotted to her,” Steele said at last, “will likely be directed to St. Agnes as she had no family.”
I nodded slowly. “I think she would have liked that very much.” To calm myself down, I poured more tea for both of us. “How is Lady Honora faring? I haven’t heard.”
“No one knows she was one of the young ladies. With any luck, no one will ever find out. Her parents have taken her home to their country estate, claiming she’d fallen ill.
“And Jenkins?” The man who’d assaulted me. “Have you gotten him to talk?”
He took a sip of the Oolong before he answered. “It will be rather hard to do. He’s dead.”
My teacup landed back on the saucer. “How can that be? You arranged for someone to deal with his injury.”
“He was placed in hospital. But before a police interview could be arranged, his throat was slit.”
“Who? How?”
“I suspect the masked man who prevented you from leaving issued the order.”
“It was my fault. If I hadn’t—”
“You are not responsible for his death, Rosalynd.” He took a deep breath.
“The man you talked to was more than likely the mastermind behind the Floralia. Jenkins knew who he was, or at least could point the authorities in his direction. He was a dead man regardless. And most certainly he doesn’t deserve your pity. ”
I hadn’t shared with Steele the extent of the conversation I held with the masked man outside the lavatory. And I never would. If he knew that the man confessed to being attracted to me, Steele would move heaven and earth to find him. And he might end up getting hurt or worse. I couldn’t have that.
“Have you had any luck finding the mastermind?”
“None. The house was leased by an enterprise that doesn’t exist. The funds paid to Weatherby were made in cash. So were the payments made to the servants who serviced the Floralia—the guards, the kitchen staff, the house servants. The women who helped secure the young ladies.”
“The one you freed after you found me.”
“Among others. We won’t find him through the usual methods. I’m not giving up, though. Sooner or later, he’ll make a mistake.”
A sense of horror filled me. “You don’t think he’ll set up another event like the Floralia?”
“No. That is well and truly finished. Too much notoriety was attached to that event. But I think he’ll do something just as heinous.
What form that will take, I know not. I have put feelers out there.
Finch and his associates, for starters, will be keeping their eyes and ears open.
I’ve also personally guaranteed a reward to any police officer who reports anything unusual to me. Sooner or later, he’ll show his hand.”
Eager to change the subject to something more lighthearted, I said, “I’ve put in an order for more petticoats.”
The corners of his mouth turned up into a smile. “Have your modiste send the invoices to me.”
I laughed. “That would most surely set tongues wagging.”
“They already are.”
“Ah, but right now we are basking in their sunshine. Not that it will last long. Sooner or later, we’ll topple off the pedestal once more.” I shrugged. “But I no longer care. Let them talk.”
A knock on the door sounded just then.
“Come,” I said.
Petunia entered, for once attired faultlessly, not a hair out of place. “Forgive me for interrupting,” she said. “I heard the duke was visiting.”
I don’t know how she managed to hear that bit of news, given she was supposed to be in her schoolroom. “His Grace, sweetheart.”
“Your Grace,” she offered him her best curtsy.
He came to his feet and bowed. “Lady Petunia.” He was always so patient with her.
She retrieved an envelope from behind her. “I just wanted to give the duke an invitation to my birthday party next week. I will be turning eight.”
“Eight is a great age,” he said, accepting the envelope. “I’m honored to be invited.”
“You will come?” She sounded rather worried.
“Yes, of course. I’ll clear my schedule if I must.”
“Good.” She pointed to the envelope. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
“If you wish.” He slowly tore it open while Petunia shifted impatiently from foot to foot.
“It’s at three next Wednesday,” she said. “I know how busy you are, so I included a suggestion for a present.”
I was horrified. “Petunia! We don’t ask for gifts on an invitation. His Grace’s presence will be enough.”
She gazed at me like I was weak-minded. “Rosie, we both know the duke will not show up without one. And since he’s so busy, he will not have time to shop. This way, he knows exactly what I want. So he won’t have to wonder.” She gazed beatifically up at him. “It doesn’t have to be wrapped.”
Which he rather missed since he was still staring at the invitation. “Very well. I’ll, er, do my best.”
“Thank you.” And with that, she curtsied and walked out of the room.
He stared at me, the invitation dangling from his hand.
“An unusual request, I gather.”
He showed me the invitation, and I laughed.