Chapter 1
—In Preparation
London
… she was ashamed of herself, quite ashamed of being so nervous, so overcome by such a trifle; but so it was.
Jane Austen, Persuasion
“Are you certain you don’t want me to stay?” asked Alice, for the third time.
Rosalind smiled at her friend. “I’m positive.”
The two women stood together in front of the long mirror in Rosalind’s boudoir. Rosalind had just taken delivery of three new gowns from her modiste, as well as two new bonnets with matching pelisses in the latest styles. It was a luxury that would have been unthinkable to her a few years ago.
The dress she wore currently was a deep forest green, trimmed with blond lace.
In recent years, the mode had declared that a woman’s dress should be a relatively plain, straight sheath with a high waist and square neckline.
But slowly, that fashion was being replaced by a lower waist, fuller skirts, puffed sleeves, and a higher ruffled collar.
Rosalind found herself admitting that the new style looked rather well on her.
Rosalind was a tall woman with a heavy fall of dark gold hair and deep blue eyes.
Now that she was in her middle twenties—a time society considered “mature,” especially for an unmarried woman—she was permitted to put aside pastels and dress in the bolder colors that better suited her complexion.
The newer, more fitted bodice was also more flattering to her figure, which might best be described as queenly.
In addition to Rosalind’s own reflection, the mirror also showed Alice hovering behind her, looking unusually anxious.
Tiny, quick, dark Alice Littlefield had been Rosalind’s best friend and confidante since they met at school.
Alice could face the worst of storms and remain cheerfully defiant.
To see her so worried about an afternoon luncheon made Rosalind smile.
“It’s only natural you should be nervous,” Alice was saying. “I would be nervous.”
“It seems to me we’ve had this conversation before.” Rosalind turned away from the mirror to her dressing table.
“A variation on it,” said Alice. “When you were getting ready to go to Cassell House over the business with Helen Corbyn. Which ended with what was supposed to be your final break with Devon.”
Rosalind sighed as she leaned forward to pin an enamel brooch in the center of her collar. “Devon and I did not break. We parted as good friends.”
“And now he’s back,” said Alice.
“Did you expect him to vanish?”
“Of course not. However, I never expected your former fiancé to bring his new fiancée to your house for lunch.”
Rosalind suppressed a sigh. “Devon was never my fiancé.”
“But he wanted to be, and you wanted it as well.”
Rosalind was silent for a moment. Alice was right.
Rosalind was a daughter of the baronet, Sir Reginald Thorne.
While such a position came with many advantages and privileges, they were all contingent on adhering to a long list of expectations.
Rosalind was to advance her family’s interests.
She was to keep their secrets and be the outward face of their inviolate respectability.
She was never to engage in any type of employment in exchange for money.
Most importantly, however, she must marry a man of equal or higher rank as soon as that became feasible.
When she was a young woman, it seemed to Rosalind that she would easily accomplish each item on this list. Her education might be piecemeal due to abrupt shifts in her father’s whims and financial status, but it thoroughly covered those accomplishments suited to a gently bred young lady, such as music and modern languages.
She’d made her debut at Almack’s and entered into the social season on a firm footing.
She’d attracted the attention of Devon Winterbourne, the younger son of the Duke of Casselmaine.
There had been difficulties, but Rosalind had believed that they would eventually marry, and that she would settle into a peaceful domestic existence managing a household, raising children, and taking her place in society as a hostess.
Then, it all went wrong.
Her father’s debts, and his crimes, destroyed the family fortunes. He fled in the middle of the night, taking Rosalind’s older sister Charlotte with him. Rosalind and her mother were left alone in the ruin.
Strain and scandal broke her mother’s mind, and then her health. Rosalind was taken in by her godmother. In that good lady’s house, she learned that her only hope of survival, respectability, and marriage was to make herself useful to the ladies of other families among the gentility.
To everyone’s surprise, Rosalind proved to have a gift for organization, and for comprehending who made the wheels of the world turn.
She took her time to cultivate all manner of relationships in furtherance of her various aims—whether it was to organize a grand ball at the height of the season or acquire two tickets to a particularly popular theatrical performance.
Eventually, Rosalind’s status as one of society’s “useful women” expanded from helping her various ladies with guest lists and charity balls to solving more consequential dilemmas that might even include blackmail, or murder.
What had been a series of private favors turned into a mode of living, and then into a business.
Discreet gifts of money became a schedule of fees drawn up by her man of business.
A coterie of wealthy and independent women invested in her enterprise and now expected a share of its profits in return.
Rosalind’s name and her accomplishments were reported in the newspapers.
Her activities were discussed—and debated—in drawing rooms.
For most of her life, Rosalind had been taught that such a state of affairs would only leave her wretched and degraded.
No respectable woman would agree to know her.
And yet, here Rosalind stood in her comfortably furnished boudoir, in the pleasant house to which she held the lease.
She was in charge of a full staff of servants.
Her bank account was sound enough that she had recently been able to suggest to her man of business that some of the profits should be invested in the shares.
Her desk was piled high with requests for help from women across Great Britain.
Even her relationship with Alice had changed. Alice had gone from being her housemate and staunchest friend to her official assistant, and the recipient of a salary that Rosalind paid to her quarterly.
This difference between what she’d always been taught and what she had experienced was a contradiction.
It was confusing. And Alice was correct.
It had indeed taken Rosalind a long time to accept it and she had indulged in much self-doubt and many vacillations along the way.
Even though she had sought these changes, she had also hung back, afraid to leave the shelter provided by society’s rules.
Especially when it came to her choice of husbands.
“What is it that really worries you, Alice?” asked Rosalind.
Alice frowned. “I don’t know, exactly. It took you so long to get … comfortable with what you’ve become. With who you’ve become. I’ve been afraid … well, regret is a powerful thing.”
“I do not regret Devon,” said Rosalind firmly.
“But how do you feel about the Duke of Casselmaine?” asked Alice.
And there, at least by some measures, was the real question.
By the rules of society, Rosalind’s rank must follow her husband’s. A duke’s wife became a duchess, but a baker’s wife—no matter what her status had been previously—became a baker.
When Rosalind had met Devon Winterbourne, he was the younger brother.
It was Hugo Winterbourne who stood to inherit the title and the estate of Casselmaine.
But the profligate Hugo had died suddenly, and Devon had come into the title.
Unfortunately, this happened at the same time that Rosalind’s family was breaking apart and her world—and her prospects—were collapsing.
She and Devon did not see each other for years after that.
When a combination of fortune and misfortune brought them together again, Rosalind found her circumstances, and her feelings, had changed beyond recall.
Instead of becoming part of one of the oldest and most highly placed families in England, Rosalind had become engaged to one Mr. Adam Harkness.
Adam was formerly a principle officer of the famed Bow Street Police Station, and a solid son of London’s working classes. Rosalind loved him with a depth she’d never expected to feel for anyone, and his devotion took her breath away.
Rosalind turned around and pressed Alice’s hand.
“I never loved the Duke of Casselmaine, not even when I was given the chance.” This was nothing less than the truth, but it felt like both a relief and a bit of a surprise to say it out loud.
Alice’s own smile was wry. “This is a ridiculous conversation, isn’t it?”
“No,” replied Rosalind firmly. “I’m grateful for your concern, truly. Especially when so much is set to change. However, it is time for you to be on your way. You cannot keep Mr. Colburn waiting.”
Alice Littlefield had once earned her living as a gossip writer for the twice-weekly paper the London Chronicle, but more recently, her first three-volume novel had been published by the famed, and very shrewd, Henry Colburn.
The reviews had been good, and Mr. Colburn described the sales as “most promising.” He was now anxious to hear about the progress of Alice’s new endeavor, and to this end had invited her to luncheon with himself and Mrs. Colburn.
“Very well,” said Alice. “But I could—”
Now Rosalind laughed. “Let me face down the demons of my past. I promise you I shall not weaken.”
“I would give a great deal to see Casselmaine’s face when he learns you called him a demon.”
Rosalind returned her best “headmistress” frown. “Go, Alice.”
Alice threw up her hands. “I’m going! I’m going!”
Suiting actions to words, Alice gathered her gloves, her notebook, and her reticule from the various places they had been strewn about the room.
She kissed Rosalind’s cheek and took herself off downstairs.
Rosalind stayed where she was until she heard Alice’s cheery, and very probably cheeky, farewell to the footman, Mortimer.
Then, she heard the door to the street close.
Rosalind turned back to her reflection. The dress was lovely. The whole of her appearance was entirely correct. Her emotions …
She was not nervous, not really. She did not find herself filled with sorrow, regret, jealousy, or any of the other petty and maudlin feelings that were supposed to come when reuniting with a lost love.
But neither was she calm. Her heart was beating too quickly; she could not bring herself to sit down.
She paced from the window to the mirror, and back again.
Just as she was turning to pace back to the window, the door opened and Laurel, the upstairs maid, entered.
“If you please, Miss Thorne, his grace the Duke of Casselmaine and Miss Kinsdale have arrived.”
Rosalind laid her hand against her stomach, as if that would calm its unaccountable tremblings.
“Thank you, Laurel. Tell them I shall be down directly.”
Laurel took her leave and Rosalind faced herself in the mirror once more.
“What is it I’m afraid of?” she asked her reflection. Because she was afraid. She had not wanted to admit it—not to Alice, not to herself—but it was true. Because there was one question she had not let herself, or Alice, ask.
What if I can’t like her? What then?
Rosalind looked into her own eyes for a long moment. “Well, I won’t know if I’m hiding in here.”
With that, Rosalind drew her shoulders back and lifted her chin. She turned and opened the door. It was time to face her past, and her future.