Chapter Eleven
The ring of the doorbell could be heard all over the house.
“She’s here.”
Rose looked over at her husband and wondered what on earth she had let herself in for.
Oh, acting as the Marchioness of Aylesbury—that had all sounded like a rather wonderful game. Spending a gentleman’s money? Don’t mind if I do. Wearing beautiful clothes, eating delicious food, not having to worry about getting cold on a winter’s night?
She could not wait.
But this—this was the bill she had known would present itself at some point. This was the catch, the flaw in the plan.
This was the first time she was hosting afternoon tea.
“Now, the important thing…” Samuel began, his back stiff and his jaw tight as he stood by the window.
“You have lectured me sufficiently, I am sure,” Rose said curtly though through a smile as the sound of footsteps in the corridor below echoed through the house. “I know how to host afternoon tea.”
Were those footsteps on the stairs? Had the front door already been opened—was their first guest already in the house?
Samuel was snorting—mostly, Rose was certain, through terror. “Oh, yes, but serving tea as an out-of-work actress down on her luck is not—”
“Are you really going to talk about that here? Now?” Rose hissed, mortification rising in her like bubbling tar.
Her temporary husband at least had the good graces to clear his throat and look a shade abashed. “No. No, of course not. It’s just—”
“I am fully prepared,” Rose said smoothly, hoping to goodness she was prepared as she sat in the soft, velvet armchair. “You have equipped me well.”
“There is no amount of equipping that can ready one for—”
“Lady Romeril, my lady, my lord,” intoned their broad-shouldered butler, Arden, as he opened the door and bowed.
Slowly, in no rush but at the same time not hesitating, Rose stood to her feet and examined the woman who had just entered her drawing room.
She was… Well. Not what Rose had expected.
Society spoke of Lady Romeril just as a mouse colony in a barn would speak of the farmyard cat. She was fearsome to behold, and powerful, and deadly. She could ruin a lady’s reputation with the merest hint of indecorum. She could end a young man’s prospects by merely refusing to approve them.
Lady Romeril, full title unknown, perhaps acquired from a foreign noble husband long gone, had been a central part of Society as long as Society had existed.
Lady Romeril knew everyone’s secrets, and if you think she did not know yours, she had just not leveraged it yet.
Lady Romeril…
Rose blinked. Lady Romeril was an older woman with silver, almost-white hair. She was attired in not quite yesteryear’s fashions, but yesterdecade’s, and she was leaning heavily on a cane carved from what appeared to be mahogany.
Where was the dragonish creature Rose had been promised?
And then Lady Romeril lifted her gaze, one made of steel and iron, and Rose almost rocked with the weight of it as it questioningly examined her.
Dear God, the woman should have been on the stage in her prime!
“Lady Romeril,” Rose murmured, dropping to such a low curtsey, her knees almost grazed the carpet.
Samuel behind her had done much the same thing—though thankfully, he had not entirely lost his head and started curtseying.
“Hmmph,” said Lady Romeril. “You are the new marchioness, then.”
In his careful and most persistent instructions on the matter, Samuel had warned Rose that Lady Romeril was not a woman for small talk.
But that was quite acceptable to Rose. She had always been a fan of big talk, as it was.
“I am, indeed. Please, won’t you sit down?” Rose gestured to the gaggle of chairs and pair of sofas that filled the drawing room.
In short, hesitant movements as though afraid that one misstep could topple her, Lady Romeril moved forward. And forward. Right at her.
Rose swallowed, left completely speechless as Lady Romeril did not help herself to one of the myriad available seats in the drawing room, but instead pushed past her and settled herself ostensibly quite comfortably…in the chair that Rose had just vacated.
She could have applauded. What a demonstration of power! Rose had never seen anything like it—save perhaps for once, when she had played Lady Macbeth in the Scottish-set play. It had been a mastery of manipulation, it had put everyone ill at ease, and Samuel himself was gaping in abject horror.
Rose smiled. “Ask Mrs. Bailin for refreshments, Arden.”
The butler bowed, exiting the room with evident relief on his angular face.
Honestly, was the whole place terrified of this woman? As far as Rose could see, she was merely a strong-willed and strong-minded woman who was not afraid to take what she wanted, even if she were not offered it.
What was not to like?
“It is very gracious of you to accept our invitation,” Rose said conversationally as she stepped a few feet forward, turned, and lowered herself into an opposing armchair. “We are mindful of the honor.”
“So you should be,” shot back Lady Romeril with a leering expression. “And I suppose I too should be grateful in turn that I was the first to receive such an invitation. Half of London is agog to discover what you are like, Lady Aylesbury.”
“Oh, please,” Rose said with a wave of her hand before her reason could catch up with her. “Call me ‘Rose.’”
The silence in the room turned icy.
There was a small, strangling noise behind her. Rose did not need to turn her head to know that Samuel was struggling to breathe.
Well, it was a slip of the tongue—perhaps not the most decorous thing to say in polite company, but it was hardly as though she had revealed a great treachery or admitted to admiring French wallpaper fashions over japanned!
Rose held Lady Romeril’s steady gaze with one of her own, ensuring not to drop her chin nor permit her cheeks to flush.
All she had to do was hold her nerve…
The older woman cackled. “Rose, is it? Well, Rose, I may tell you that the last time an unknown married into one of the great families, though this one of the Continent, the woman in question found herself unequivocally out of her depth!”
Rose did not take the bait. “Perhaps she and I should take tea sometime.”
Or perhaps she had done. Lady Romeril’s eyes glittered. “What do you think you’re doing right now?”
Behind her, Samuel appeared to be choking. Rose paid him absolutely no heed. “Indeed? Then I am even more delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Romeril. Tell me, what gossip has occurred in London in oh, the last week, that you think should reach my notice?”
There was a thunk by the window. As far as Rose could tell without turning her head, Samuel had either fainted—unlikely—or been forced by a sudden lack of strength in his legs to sit heavily in the window seat.
“You ought to drink more tea, man,” Lady Romeril said blithely to the gentleman behind Rose. “Weakness in the knees is a terrible affliction but can be remedied by strong Earl Grey tea.”
“I had always thought coffee most invigorating,” Rose said cheerfully as Mrs. Bailin entered the room, the robust and red-faced woman carrying a tea tray. “May I offer you some, Lady Romeril?”
It was a relief, in truth, for a distraction from the melee that she and Lady Romeril were somehow fighting in.
Rose broke the connection and turned to the housekeeper, who gulped, seeming wary of even being in the same room as Lady Romeril, and indicated that the tray be placed on the console table beside her.
“Coffee? Not tea?”
“It is the very best blend of roasted beans, I assure you,” Rose said lightly, as though she were not contravening all laws of afternoon tea and, presumably, hosting. “I spoke to the lovely manager of Don Saltero’s Chelsea Coffee House and ensured this house has a regular supply.”
Her guest raised an eyebrow, but it was not a censorious one. “Then yes, I will try some of this coffee of yours.”
Rose took great care to maintain strong, not shaking hands as she poured first coffee, then cream, finally dropping a chunk of sugar into the cup before her. “For Lady Romeril, Mrs. Bailin.”
Her housekeeper looked at her pleadingly but was forced by the strength of her mistress’s glare to pick up the coffee cup on its saucer and traverse the enormous three steps over to their guest.
Lady Romeril took the cup and saucer, sipped at the drink, and her eyebrows rose even further. Rose discovered, much to her chagrin, that her stomach had tightened in a nervous knot.
The older woman smacked her lips. “Very good. Don Saltero’s Chelsea Coffee House, did you say?”
The knot in Rose’s stomach loosened but did not untie. “Yes, I shall have one of my footmen drop some over for you. Coffee, Samuel?”
A gargling noise behind her suggested that yes, coffee would be acceptable.
It was a pleasant distraction, pouring out the coffee before passing it to Mrs. Bailin to serve. It was pleasant not to be matching Lady Romeril glare for glare, giving both her eyes and her stomach a rest from the judgment that poured from the doyenne of Society in equal measure.
Well, how was she doing? Rose could hardly consider that she had done well; so far, she had overstepped a boundary of names, suggested coffee over tea, and ignored her husband—though in truth, Samuel was utterly useless at the moment.
After all his talk about ensuring that they were a united front against Society, and Lady Romeril in particular, Rose could not help but think it a tad rich that he had been unable to speak more than two coherent syllables since the woman had entered the room. Honestly!
“You truly wish to know the scandals of the Season?” Lady Romeril asked once Rose had dismissed the housekeeper, eying her beadily.
Rose shrugged in a loose manner that managed to release some tensions in her shoulders and make Samuel moan behind her at the same time.
“I am new to Society, as you have so delicately pointed out, Lady Romeril. It would behoove me to know of anyone currently being censured, as I am sure you can imagine.”