Chapter 10
All Manner of Arrivals
“… that she is a clever, insinuating, handsome woman, poor and plausible …”
Jane Austen, Persuasion
There were very few things in the world that made Adam Harkness grumble. One of those, however, was evening dress.
However much Rosalind might assure him that he looked stunningly handsome in white silk breeches and a black coat—especially when paired with a simple blue waistcoat—he would only pull a face and tug at his sleeves.
“I’m sure I’d be much more use talking to Leigh and the grooms,” he said.
They met in the Green Briar’s private parlor. Rosalind wore one of her new gowns—a deep blue creation trimmed with silk brocade and sapphire ribbons. A light cap with a small white feather covered her hair, an affectation that conveyed her status as a married woman.
“I’m afraid I cannot possibly go without you,” Rosalind told him. “You are my disguise.”
Adam arched his brows.
“Rosalind Thorne is famously unmarried,” she reminded him. “The best mask I can wear is that of a married woman. But to do that convincingly, I am afraid I must be able to display a living husband.” She brushed at his coat’s shoulders.
Adam sighed dramatically and lifted his chin. Rosalind smiled, and reached up to perform that most wifely of duties—she retied his cravat.
“I love you,” said Adam, more to the ceiling than to her.
“And I love you,” said Rosalind. “Now more than ever. And you look devastatingly handsome.”
“I look like I’ve been trussed up for market.”
“You most certainly do not! I tie a very simple and stylish cravat.”
“I most heartily beg your pardon. I did not mean to fault your skills.” He held out his arm. “Shall we?”
Devon’s carriage arrived promptly at seven.
He had evidently decided to put his rank on full display.
Not only did the carriage have gilded trimming and the ducal crest on the door, it was accompanied by a large number of attendants in livery to carry torches, manage the horses, place the steps, and help both Rosalind and Adam inside where Devon waited for them.
Laurel, who was accompanying them, took her preferred seat on the box, once again saying that if she was going to be traveling, she wanted to see as much as possible.
As the doors were closed, Rosalind, Adam, and Devon all wished each other good evening and Devon ordered the driver to touch up the horses.
“We are most honored, your grace,” Rosalind said lightly as the carriage started forward.
“Yes, I know, it’s a bit much.” Devon gestured to indicate all the outriders and link boys surrounding the grand vehicle. “But I need to put on a show for tonight. In fact, if I’m being honest, I am making blatant use of you both.”
“Oh, really?” Rosalind did her best to put on an indignant frown, and almost managed it.
Devon returned a sheepish grin. “I’m afraid so.
You see, since the Kinsdales arrived in Bath, Sir Anthony has been hosting these card parties.
Clara, though, has been insistent that I keep away from them.
The fact that I need to be on hand to introduce you to the family is my excuse to barge in and see the situation for myself. ”
“You’re worried about something?” Adam asked him.
“Very much,” said Devon. “I’ve seen rather too much of what ‘a little card party’ can turn into.” He stopped, pensive, and his gloved hands shifted uneasily on the walking stick he seldom carried.
“However, it may be that I’m too suspicious,” he went on, in the tone of one trying to convince themselves.
“Bath has its own social divides, and some people consider themselves above mixing in the assembly rooms. That makes entertaining privately a mark of consequence, which would be very much in keeping with Sir Anthony’s character, and careless nature. ”
“But just in case, you hope to frighten him into better behavior?” asked Rosalind lightly, but her question was serious, and Devon took it so.
“Yes,” he answered flatly. “And, frankly, to make it that much harder to ignore whatever questions you end up asking, and whatever you discover about Mrs. Lynn.” He paused, and then said softly, “I love Clara, and we will be married unless she decides to refuse me. But I can’t ignore the fact that it would be much better for both of us if she could start her career as Duchess of Casselmaine without the extra weight of scandal pressing on us both. ”
Adam and Rosalind shared a long look of understanding.
“We’ll do what we can,” she said.
Devon inclined his head. “That’s all I ask.”
Rosalind had not spent much time in Bath.
She and Charlotte had visited several times when their mother decided to take the waters, and, incidentally, find opportunities to meet families who were “worth knowing” on a more intimate footing than London’s rigid rules afforded.
As a girl, Rosalind had very little appreciation of how hard their mother worked to contrive acquaintance and influence.
Father was a valued dinner guest wherever he was known, but it was Mother who made sure he was known.
She did remember that Bath was a place of contrasts.
The busy city was nestled in quiet green hills with a tranquil river winding through them.
The half-timbered buildings that had looked out over the cobbled streets since the days of Queen Elizabeth were hemmed in on all sides by classically styled public buildings and modern terraced housing, with the great sweep of the Royal Crescent presiding over them all.
The direction given on the invitation was for the King’s Circus, an unusual series of town houses that curved around a central drive.
Three streets radiated between the blocks of houses like spokes from a wheel.
The Kinsdales’ home was on the end of one of these blocks, which made it one of the larger homes in the Circus.
As soon as Devon’s people helped them from the coach, footmen in indigo and silver livery emerged to usher them all through the modest-looking front door. But the front door, it seemed, was all that was modest about the dwelling.
“Oh,” said Rosalind as the maid removed her cloak and bonnet.
“Well,” added Adam.
“Yes,” agreed Devon.
The interior of the house was nothing short of opulent.
Whoever had been responsible for its decoration had obviously been deeply affected by the previous decade’s mania for all things Russian.
The entrance hall was hung with amber silk and flanked by columns of pink marble with gilded finials.
A red carpet led from the door all the way up the long, straight staircase to the first floor.
Two footmen in full livery, as well as a cluster of maids, stood ready to help Rosalind, Adam, and Devon with their things, while yet another footman bowed to them all. “Your grace, sir, ma’am, Sir Anthony has requested you join him and the family in the salon. If you will follow me, please?”
The interior of the house followed the plan of the entrance hall with red and black pillars, marble everywhere it might be managed, and gilding on all the finials and scrollwork.
The salon to which they were shown was done in shades of vibrant turquoise.
Peacock feathers accented the flower arrangements in the brass and cloisonné vases.
The footman opened the door and announced them, and all the salon’s occupants turned toward them.
It was Clara who came forward at once and they all exchanged their reverences.
“Good evening, your grace. Mrs. Rutherford, Mr. Rutherford, how very good of you to come. Please, allow me to introduce you to my family.”
She led them forward to where an aging man in an old-fashioned (and very bright) brocade coat stood with a small cluster of women. Rosalind was hard pressed not to cast a glance at Adam to say, you see how things could have been worse?
“Your grace!” The man—surely Sir Anthony—cried. “How very good of you to lend your presence to our humble gathering!” He bowed in a great, theatrical sweep, complete with an extended leg.
Sir Anthony was a tall man. His hair had gone quite gray, although a few streaks of auburn remained.
His coat was rose pink and silver, with a cravat tied in the elaborate “waterfall” style spilling down his shirt front.
A gold quizzing glass hung from a chain about his neck.
As far as Rosalind could tell, the only concession he made to current tastes was in forgoing lace cuffs to trail from his coat sleeves.
“Father?” said Clara to him. “May I introduce Mr. Adam Rutherford and Mrs. Rutherford. Mrs. Rutherford, Mr. Rutherford, my father, Sir Anthony Kinsdale.”
“Delighted, ma’am, delighted, sir. Yes, delighted.
” Sir Anthony favored them both with his sweeping bow, but his voice had turned bland, almost bored.
Adam’s smile tightened the tiniest bit, and his eyes narrowed.
Rosalind felt sure that Sir Anthony’s characteristics were all being catalogued for analysis, and that analysis would be accurate, but far from flattering.
She herself noted that good living had filled out a paunch beneath Sir Anthony’s silk waistcoat and left him with a saggy chin and rheumy eyes, all of which rendered his performance of the manners of a sophisticated bon vivant from some bygone day more than a little awkward.
If he was aware of any particular scrutiny however, Sir Anthony gave no sign. “Do allow me to present my oldest daughter, Elizabeth, and her sister, Cynthia.”
Elizabeth, the oldest of the Kinsdale sisters, was a match for Clara in terms of her sweep of auburn hair, green eyes, and pale skin.
But Elizabeth was thinner than Clara, her face sharper, and the expression in her dramatic eyes was altogether harder, as if she were constantly looking for flaws and fabrications.
Cynthia, however, was shorter and rounder than either Elizabeth or Clara, and where they possessed auburn hair, hers was a plain brown.
But the differences did not end there. Cynthia wore the air of someone who had been looked down on both literally and figuratively.
Elizabeth might give the impression she was looking about for flaws.
Cynthia, however, was waiting for criticism.
Rosalind wondered at all of this, and at the fact that Elizabeth was introduced as “my oldest daughter” while Cynthia was “her sister.”
“And this”—Sir Anthony now drew himself back as if making way for royalty—“is Mrs. Sylvia Lynn.”
“Oh, heavens, Sir Anthony!” Mrs. Lynn laughed. “With so much pomp, you’ll make the Rutherfords quite afraid of me.” She beamed at them all and made her curtsy. “How do you do? It is lovely to see you again, your grace. Mrs. Rutherford, Mr. Rutherford, I am delighted to meet you.”
That voice, thought Rosalind, would be her chief attractant.
It was low and sylvan and very smooth. Mrs. Lynn was a mature woman, and a bit taller than average, though not as tall as Rosalind.
A pretty little cap crowned her dark hair, signifying her widowed status.
She had a plump figure and a vivacious air.
Her peach-colored gown with its single row of ruffles and net sleeves was in the latest mode, and exhibited all the tasteful restraint that Sir Anthony lacked.
Rosalind found herself searching Mrs. Lynn’s countenance for resemblances to Miss Smith, but could not make up her mind if she really saw them.
“Do make yourselves comfortable,” Mrs. Lynn continued.
“You’ll take some sherry?” She didn’t wait for an answer but instead went straight to the sideboard and began filling glasses from a crystal decanter.
Now that the necessary introductions had been made, it was very clear that she was the one who would perform the hostess’s duties for this occasion.
Rosalind looked to the Kinsdale sisters to note their reactions to this: Elizabeth appeared indifferent, and Clara a trifle embarrassed.
Cynthia, however, very much looked as though she wanted to be elsewhere.
On the surface, Mrs. Lynn appeared to notice none of this.
Rosalind, however, watched her eyes. In contrast to her appearance of insouciance, Mrs. Lynn’s gaze was sharp.
She took in all the people, how they stood, and what their deportment said of them, and all this while she was pouring out the sherry and handing around the glasses.
We shall have to be very careful, thought Rosalind as she accepted her sherry.
It was Elizabeth, however, who opened the conversation, and she did so with what Rosalind could only interpret as a challenge.
“Mrs. Rutherford, Casselmaine was just telling us that you’ve known his family for quite some time,” said Elizabeth. “How odd it is that we have not crossed paths before.”
Clara drew a little closer to Devon, and Rosalind had the suspicion she might be holding her breath. However, Rosalind had expected this question and she and Adam had between them planned their answer.
“Her grace the duchess met my family in London during the season,” she said. “It was the year I made my debut, as it happens.”
“Oh, yes,” said Clara brightly. “I think Casselmaine told me you danced?”
Devon laughed. “If one can call it dancing, but that was my fault,” he added quickly. “I’d shot up six inches that summer and barely knew where my feet were.”
“You are too generous,” said Rosalind. “I was so unnerved by finding myself the center of so much attention that I could barely remember my own name, let alone how to manage a country dance.” This much was quite true, whatever might have come afterward.
“Shortly after that my father received a posting in Paris, but Lady Casselmaine and my mother kept up a regular correspondence.”
There was some risk in this declaration.
While Rosalind spoke good French, neither she nor Adam had ever been to Paris.
But no one had a chance to quiz them any further.
All conversation was cut off by the sound of a door slamming and men’s voices shouting, followed by the rapid clomp of boots as someone ran up the stairs.
The ladies froze. Sir Anthony jumped back. Devon and Adam—seemingly acting on the same thought—both moved to put themselves between the door and the assembled company.
The door flew open and a tall, broad man in a naval uniform coat stormed into the room. He had fading yellow hair and a face that had been bronzed and battered by sun and wind. One of the Kinsdales’ many footmen trailed behind him.
“I’m sorry, Sir Anthony, I tried to stop—”
“I’ll have a word with you, sir,” snapped the naval man.
“Admiral Walsingham!” Clara stepped around Devon. “What brings you here?”
“Your father brings me here, Miss Clara,” Admiral Walsingham announced. “Your father who means to throw my wife and myself out of our home!”