Chapter Forty-One
Forty-One
“See?” the Duchess of Ryleigh directed at Rose. “I’m not usually one to say I told you so—”
“Hmm,” Gabriella interrupted with a sly glance. “That is not my experience with you, Rebecca.”
Inside, Rose was stunned at the rapprochement swirling around her. Only months ago, she would have bristled at Rebecca’s words. Would have been green with envy at their easy teasing banter. But tonight, at Norfolk’s fall soiree, Rose was a welcomed participant.
Rebecca sniffed, ignoring Gabriella. “Things are never as dire as we imagine them, Rose.”
“I must say,” Gabriella told Rose, “you handled Viola with just the right amount of sternness and compassion. Why, I vow the girl has learned a valuable lesson.”
“You know? I think I did as well,” Rose said smiling, confidence thrumming through her.
Rebecca squeezed her hand. “From the beginning, Gabby and I decided Hope House would be for all young women in need. Their walk of life mattered not. You did a good thing, Rose.”
“I was stunned she returned Inez’s gloves,” Rose said softly. “In front of everyone like that? Now, I worry of Lady Lockhart learning her plans for Viola went awry.”
“There are ways to deal with Lady Lockhart. We shall come up with something…” Rebecca said.
Gabriella’s mouth twisted. “Antonia’s Mr. Tatton might have some idea.” There was an edge beneath Gabriella’s tone that was calm, dangerous, resembling nothing of Rose’s flighty youngest sister of their youth.
“How do we keep Lady Lockhart from sinking her talons back into her niece?” Rose ventured softly.
Rebecca clucked her tongue against her teeth. “As I said, we shall come up with something. The important thing is that Viola is safely tucked away from her.”
A sudden ripple moved through the crowd like a wave—not visible so much as sensed—a whisper that seemed to carry along a nonexistent breeze.
Heads tilted toward the entrance, where Lady Lockhart herself had just arrived, clad in lilac satin trimmed in black lace and an outrageous hat on her head with a stuffed bird nestled into it—straight out of the Marie Antoinette era.
Her expression was the perfect blend of sympathy and hauteur, and no one could miss the faint hush that followed her entrance.
Not awe. Something cooler. Measured.
Rebecca’s eyes narrowed slightly. Gabriella’s lips quirked, though not in amusement.
“Curious,” Gabriella murmured. “It seems the lady has lost her usual entourage.”
Indeed, several women who normally hovered near Lady Lockhart—Lady Ingleby, Maeve’s notorious prattler of a mother, Mrs. Gorman, even that little toad Lady Collier—turned their shoulders subtly away. A few offered brief nods, as though uncertain whether it was fashionable to acknowledge her.
Rose frowned. “Goodness, do you suppose she knows?” she said, keeping her voice low. “That the ton has grown…cold? Surely she must sense it.”
“Women such as she,” Lady Kimpton interjected from behind, her voice silky, “rarely recognize frost until the icicles drop into their low-cut bodices.”
Rose turned, startled. She hadn’t realized Lady Kimpton had drawn near. The countess was all elegance, her smile composed. But her eyes gleamed with the precise satisfaction one imagined in a duelist who’d already taken aim.
“Lady Kimpton,” Rose greeted, curtsying lightly. “I take it you’ve learned of Lady Lockhart’s plight?”
“Oh yes,” Lady Kimpton replied, as if discussing the weather. “A most unfortunate misstep on her part. One ought to treat those in one’s household with more care.”
Something in her mild tone was too nonchalant and prickled the hairs at Rose’s nape. She turned, fully facing the countess. “Mr. Whitmore spoke to you.”
Gabriella’s brows lifted, but she said nothing. Rebecca, on the other hand, was proving stunningly perceptive. She sipped her lemonade and watched the interplay with faint amusement.
“Indeed. Incidentally, Lady Stanford, my felicitations on your recent betrothal.” Lady Kimpton smiled. “Your Mr. Whitmore is an intriguing gentleman.”
“Who?” A deeper, more possessive voice sounded. Er, not just sounded, but growled.
In unison, all four women turned to the new arrival, who showed not an ounce of remorse at his intrusion.
“No one you need worry over, my lord.” Lady Kimpton tapped her husband’s arm with her fan. “It’s not as if anyone has dropped anyone on a ship bound for war.”
“And as we later learned, no one ever did,” he returned smartly.
“Certainly not,” Lady Kimpton agreed, smiling fondly at her husband. “Run along, Thorne. We are talking.”
“Save me a waltz,” he said. “Ladies, enjoy your visit.”
Lady Kimpton’s eyes swept their circle. A second later, her cheeks turned pink.
“I see you are unaware of a great misunderstanding my husband and I fumbled through a few years ago. It had to do with my brother, Harlowe. But that’s a story for another time.
The earl saw the error of his ways.” With a delicate cough, she cleared her throat and leaned in, lowering her voice so that Rose was forced to tilt her head to hear.
“You needn’t trouble yourself regarding Lady Lockhart, my dear.
The matter of her atrocities is being…handled. ”
“The cut direct. It’s brilliant.” Rose said. “But Lady Lockhart is an extremely vengeful woman.”
Lady Kimpton’s smile didn’t waver, all traces of her earlier embarrassment gone. “Yes, well, as you can see by her entrance, I am as well. What the woman did to her niece is beyond unconscionable. It would be a crime to our fellow creatures in letting the matter go unaddressed.”
Rebecca’s eyes flicked briefly toward Rose—a warning? She couldn’t tell. But the chill that ran through Rose wasn’t entirely unpleasant. This wasn’t the open warfare of masculine politics; this was something quieter. The female brand of retribution—silent, exact, nearly untraceable.
Lady Kimpton’s fan opened with a snap. “Sometimes justice arrives before one’s prayers for it are finished.” She then drifted away, leaving the faint scent of roses behind.
Gabriella exhaled softly. “My goodness. It appears we are late to our own cause.”
Rebecca’s mouth curved. “Lady Kimpton has never been one to wait for permission. It’s said that she demanded her husband pay her to stay with him after some fantastic row. I’m certain it was idle gossip,” she said, looking after the retreating woman.
The tiniest thread of recollection teased Rose’s memory. “That bit about dropping someone on a ship…” Surely not.
Rebecca migrated in Lady Harlowe’s direction, and with their heads together, they appeared to be plotting against the world.
“Darling?” Huntley appeared before Gabriella with his arm out as the chords of the first waltz of the evening fired up, leaving Rose on her own and wishing desperately for Emerson.
Better yet, wishing to be away from the all-seeing eyes of the beau monde.
She was quite tired of it all. The pretense, the undercurrents… She missed Emerson.
“Good evening, Lady Stanford.”
Rose blinked and found herself staring into Lady Lockhart’s eyes of blue so light they resembled chips of ice. Quickly recovering, Rose gave the matron a cool tip of her lips and inclined her head. “Lady Lockhart.”
The silence between them grew awkward, but Rose didn’t care. The woman was a terror.
A familiar voice cut in. “Forgive me the intrusion, Lady Stanford.”
Relief spilled through Rose. She turned to Benjamin Massey.
He bowed with an elegance that perhaps Emerson couldn’t touch.
But something that Ben would never match was Emerson’s masculine virility, and she desperately wished it were he who was standing before her.
Curiously, there was a slight swelling on Ben’s cheek.
“Good evening, Mr. Massey. I wasn’t expecting to see you. ”
He glanced around. “I thought Emerson would be here. Has he not arrived?” His eyes twinkled with mischief.
Her own flicked to Lady Lockhart and back. “He is with my brother,” she said a little too sharply.
Ben blinked.
“Ah, my felicitations on your…engagement,” Lady Lockhart said. “It does seem to have come about rather suddenly. Then, I suppose a duke’s sister…” Her words trailed off.
“A duke’s sister what, Lady Lockhart?” Rose spoke pleasantly for all the instinct to lash out at the horrid woman.
“Lockhart?” Ben said with a bite of surprise. His brows furrowed. “Lockhart!” He snapped his fingers, his lips tipping into an easy smile. “I met your daughter. Just last night. She’s quite lovely.”
His words struck the air.
“B-but,” Lady Lockhart sputtered. “That’s impossible…”
Dear God. For one suspended instant, Rose did not—could not—breathe. Her heart gave a violent, traitorous lurch, as if it meant to flee her body right there on the ballroom floor. Heat drained from her limbs, leaving her fingers numb, useless things at her sides.
He could not have said that.
Her gaze snapped to Lady Lockhart. Too late. As her words fell away, realization seemed to seep in. Slow. Precise. Merciless. She moved her gaze about the room, and with each person’s eyes she met, they turned their backs or whispered behind their fans.
She stared at Rose, and her expression settled into something far more dangerous. “My niece,” she said to Ben, not taking her eyes from Rose, each word measured with chilling care, “has not left her bed in a fortnight.”
The lie hung there—polished, deliberate.
The damage was done, Rose realized, with sinking certainty, dismay flooding her.
The crease reappeared between his brows, his smile tightened. “Miss Viola? But I did see her. Last evening at Lady Stanford’s.”
The glittering candlelight of the ballroom seemed to flicker on and off. The heat, or her corset, blocked the air to Rose’s lungs even as Ben’s words echoed through some long away tunnel. He kept talking, but Rose couldn’t make out anything due to the pulse roaring in her ears.