Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The following day, the Brazen Belle published a follow-up column as promised:
Greetings, Dear Readers,
I had not thought I would have an update for you for some weeks. But in a most unexpected twist, Lu— D— returned to London on the very evening my column appeared! Not only that, but he has already received his letters patent from the House of Lords, affirming his position as Lord V—.
This does beg the question of why he chose to return when he did.
I have it on good authority that Lord J— did not send his letter summoning the new viscount back to London until the last week of January—not nearly enough time for Lu— to receive the letter and make the voyage home.
What, then, prompted him to return? Your diligent Belle continues to investigate.
But that is neither here nor there. The primary reason I am publishing this second column is to properly document the amorous exploits of our new Lord V—. Alas, I fear an entire column will not be sufficient to truly do them justice, but we will make the attempt….
Rosalie skimmed the majority of the column.
She did not particularly want to read about how a young Lucian had cut a swath through the ton after leaving Cambridge and was sought after as a bed partner by such luminaries as Lady Nesbitt and the Countess of Rugeley, nor about his recent affair with the Marchesa D’Arienzo while he was in Venice.
She finally reached the conclusion:
I hardly need relate what has happened in the week since Lord V— returned to London.
I believe the entire ton was there to watch as he stepped into his cousin’s shoes, claiming not merely the title and Deverell House, but his cousin’s betrothed!
One cannot help but wonder if he really means to go through with it.
We all know how determined Lord V— is to spite his cousin.
But it is difficult to picture a man who has sampled the charms of so many of Europe’s most beautiful women shackled to a sad little spinster like Lady R— d— L—.
Rosalie set down the gossip sheet with a sigh. She didn’t know why she read the blasted thing. It wasn’t as if the Brazen Belle ever portrayed her in a flattering light.
Still, the Belle had raised an interesting point. If Lord Jarvis had indeed written to Lucian to notify him that he was in line for the title in the last week of January, then he could not possibly have made it back to London by February first.
Why, then, had he returned?
Rosalie had little time to contemplate the answer, as her mother came bustling into the breakfast room. “Rosalie, there you are! What on earth are you doing? Why aren’t you dressed?”
Rosalie glanced down at her Wedgewood-blue morning dress flocked with tiny white fleur de lis. “I’m eating breakfast, Mama. And I am dressed.”
Her mother huffed. “Not in anything you can wear to the wedding! Go and change. The archbishop will be arriving within the hour.”
Rosalie blanched. “Wedding? What wedding?” Although she had a terrible feeling that she already knew. There was only one reason for an archbishop to be coming to their house, and it did not involve a respectable eight-week engagement.
Her mother responded with a withering look.
“Your wedding, of course. Did you see what that awful Brazen Belle woman wrote about you? As if anyone could object to marrying my daughter!” The duchess radiated scorn.
“Well, we’re going to show her how very wrong she is when Lucian marries you this very morning. ”
“But I haven’t agreed to marry Lucian!” Rosalie protested.
Her mother rolled her eyes, an action that would have earned Rosalie a reprimand. “Not this again.”
The duchess seized Rosalie’s elbow, lifted her from her chair, and propelled her through the door.
As her mother marched her up the stairs, Rosalie reflected that her mother was surprisingly strong for a woman four inches shorter and twenty-two years older than her.
But of course, Henrietta de Lacy had a superior motivation.
She had been dreaming of this day, when she would finally make a respectable match for her obstinate daughter, practically since Rosalie was in leading strings.
A battalion of cavalry elephants could not have stopped her.
The duchess propelled Rosalie into her bed chamber.
Spread out on the bed was a dress Rosalie had never seen before.
She knew at once it was her wedding dress.
It was white silk with an overlay of gossamer-thin white netting, embroidered richly around the hem and up the front with pale pink roses.
Rosalie was partially pleased, because the dress was truly stunning, and partially annoyed, because it did not seem to have occurred to her mother that she might like to have some input into her own wedding gown.
Rosalie was summarily stuffed into the dress by Bernadette and her mother’s lady’s maid, Margaret.
Her hair was taken down from its simple twist and woven into an elaborate tower of curls and ringlets, adorned with threads of seed pearls and, of course, pink roses that perfectly matched the embroidery on her dress.
Forty minutes later, Rosalie’s mother was dragging her back down the stairs.
In the entryway, Stephens came over and murmured something in her mother’s ear. “Archbishop Sutton!” her mother exclaimed, hurrying toward the cream parlor. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Rosalie paused in the corridor connecting to the foyer, taking a moment to gather herself.
What on earth was she going to do? Her mother clearly expected there to be a wedding.
Gracious, the Archbishop of Canterbury was here!
And yet, Rosalie felt dread churning in the pit of her stomach when she contemplated shackling herself ‘til death did they part to the man who had uttered such cruel words to her in Mrs. Parkhurst’s orangery two years ago.
At the same time, her investigation had not turned up sufficient evidence of villainy to persuade her father to call the whole thing off.
The front door swung open, and Rosalie braced herself, expecting to see Lucian.
But the man who appeared in the doorframe looked to be around sixty years old, with grey hair and shoulders that had just started to stoop. Rosalie could not make out all of their conversation, but she heard the man say her name.
Curious, she drifted closer, stopping behind a potted palm. She caught the visitor mid-sentence. “… called on me yesterday, but I was out. I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I would stop in.”
Stephens bowed. “That was very kind of you, sir. But I am afraid Lady Rosalie will not have time to meet with you this morning. You see, today is her wedding day.”
“Her wedding day!” the man exclaimed. “You don’t say! Well, if you would be so kind as to tell her that Dr. Oliver Hutchinson attempted to return her call, I would—”
Rosalie surged from behind the potted palm, startling both the doctor and the butler. “Dr. Hutchinson, thank you so much for coming.” She gave Stephens a nod. “I will speak to him in the burgundy salon.”
Stephens glanced toward the cream parlor into which her mother had disappeared, his expression one of consternation. “My lady, are you sure you have time to, err…”
Rosalie nodded firmly. “I am. I will not take up much of the doctor’s time.”
Rosalie led the way to a large room toward the front of the house.
She took a seat on a sofa upholstered in burgundy silk and gestured to one of the Chippendale chairs facing it.
“Dr. Hutchinson, thank you so much for calling upon me today.” She gave a nervous laugh, unsure how to begin.
“I’m going to pose you a series of questions that I fear you will find quite strange. ”
The doctor shifted in his chair. “Not at all, my lady. But to think that it is your wedding day! I have managed to call at the most inconvenient time imaginable. I would be happy to return in a week or two, or whenever you return from your bridal trip.”
“It happens that your timing is fortuitous. You see, the information I am hoping you will provide me will determine whether there will be a wedding today.”
Dr. Hutchinson looked startled. “Truly, my lady?” At Rosalie’s nod, he said, “Well, I will do whatever I can to help.”
Rosalie smoothed her skirts. “Some questions have arisen regarding the man I am to marry today, Lord Valentine. Specifically, there has been an allegation that he mistreated his grandfather, the fifth viscount, in the years prior to his death. I believe that you were the previous Lord Valentine’s physician. Is that correct?”
Dr. Hutchinson inclined his head. “It is, my lady. I must say, I have heard nothing of this alleged mistreatment.”
Rosalie nodded. “Allow me to clarify. Was Lord Valentine under any sort of dietary restrictions?”
Dr. Hutchinson looked confused. “No, my lady, he was not.”
Rosalie had to be sure. “I know sometimes a physician will prescribe a special diet for gout or other complaints. You did not make any recommendations in this area, say, for his declining memory?”
“I did not. His lordship did not have gout. Physically, he was in excellent condition for a man of his age. And unfortunately, there was not anything we could do to help his memory, either dietary or otherwise. He was around eighty-eight when his memory began to trouble him. It was unfortunate, but not so unusual, given his age.”
Rosalie leaned forward. “Then you did not instruct that he should have plain porridge for breakfast, or only cold chicken and bread for luncheon?”
Dr. Hutchinson looked shocked. “Gracious, no! As you said, sometimes with gout, it is necessary to make changes to the patient’s diet. But I would never be so restrictive. It is entirely unnecessary.”
“I see,” Rosalie said sadly. “One final question—would there be any contraindication to Lord Valentine taking a weekly drive in the park and having a beefsteak and a drink at his club with his friends?”
“No contraindication at all, my lady. In fact, I believe such an outing would be beneficial. I am a great proponent of spending time out of doors, and the chance to socialize could only do him good.” The physician paused.
“Your betrothed is not the one who was limiting his grandfather’s diet and social circle, was he? ”
Rosalie stood. “No, that was his cousin. The one I didn’t marry.”
Dr. Hutchinson rose as well. “Thank heavens for that.” He bowed over her hand. “I wish you every happiness, Lady Rosalie.”