Chapter 39
Distressing Possibilities
… the allusions to former practices and pursuits, suggested suspicions not favourable of what he had been.
Jane Austen, Persuasion
The silence that fell was so thick Rosalind found she could not think clearly for the sheer weight of it.
It isn’t true.
She should say something, she knew. Everyone was waiting for her to be the one to break this silence that she herself had brought down. But how could she? How could she even be thinking that this ring, this affair, and this child, could belong to Devon’s fiancée?
It cannot be true. It may be Cynthia, or Elizabeth, but it is not Clara.
But she couldn’t make herself say it. She couldn’t make herself say anything. Instead, she dropped the token and its chain into Adam’s cupped palm and left the room.
It is not true! I will not have to tell Devon he’s fallen in love with someone who would lie to him about such a thing.
Rosalind pushed open the door to her own room and crossed to the washstand.
She poured water from the pitcher into the basin, noted the black smears her fingers left behind, and promised herself she would wipe them clean.
She found the cake of yellow soap, and slowly, methodically, began to wash her hands.
He may know. She bit her lip. He may have decided that it was too personal a matter to relate to me. Indeed, Clara may have asked him not to tell me.
There are two other sisters. It was Cynthia who was writing to the admiral.
Clara did not kill him.
Devon did not kill him, and he did not kill Sir Anthony because he was so angry for his fiancée, for her reputation, for her child. I need to stop thinking that.
But the letter from the admiral’s brother had been addressed to “Miss Kinsdale.” Which Miss Kinsdale?
She’d allowed herself to believe it must be Cynthia, because Cynthia had been so overcome by the admiral’s visit.
But the splotched reply she had found had no signature.
She had no way of knowing which sister had actually penned it.
No. Clara did not do this. I will not permit that to be true. Rosalind bared her teeth to the gray water in the basin.
She heard the door open. She heard Adam’s soft step on the floor. She knew every sound he made and did not have to look to know it was him. She reached for the clean white towel that hung from the edge of the stand and wiped her hands dry.
Adam was directly behind her now. He rested his hands on her shoulders. He said nothing, made no attempt to turn her toward him. He waited until she put the towel down, until she turned to rest her brow against his shoulder. Only then did he fold her into his strong embrace.
“I don’t even know why I’m so upset,” she said.
“Because you don’t want to break Casselmaine’s heart,” Adam replied evenly. “Or your own.”
“He loves her,” whispered Rosalind. “He would do anything for her.”
“Yes, and she loves him, and she would also do anything.”
Because they both knew that love could make someone just as desperate as hatred.
Someone was knocking on the door. Adam let go of her and went to answer.
Rosalind turned back to the washstand and busied herself with using the towel to wipe down the smudges she’d left on the pitcher.
Behind her Adam opened the door. The man on the other side replied a note had come.
Rosalind dabbed at her eyes with a clean portion of the towel. Adam closed the door.
Rosalind folded the towel. She should turn around now. She should ask who the note had come from.
Except, to her shame, she was not sure she wanted to know.
She heard the rustle of paper being unfolded.
“Some good news,” said Adam quietly. “Casselmaine writes he was able to corner Layng and convince him to delay the inquest for two days. Apparently, he put it to Mr. Layng that with persons of all sorts filling the streets for the races and the broken lock on the scullery door, there was currently no way to be certain Sir Anthony didn’t die during the course of an attempted robbery. ”
Given what they had just learned from Mr. Tauton and Mr. Goutier, this seemed a much stronger possibility than it had just a few hours before.
Rosalind drew in a deep breath and turned. “That is very good news, especially … especially in the light of all we have just learned.”
“I expect Layng will look back and find he has saved himself quite the headache.” Adam folded the note and tucked it into his coat pocket.
“Rosalind, you are exhausted. Permit me the privilege as your future husband to say you should go to bed. I’ll finish things with Goutier and Tauton and be back when they’ve gone. ”
Rosalind wanted to protest that she was perfectly well, but the look in Adam’s eye told her he wouldn’t believe it, no matter what she said. Worse, she knew he was right.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He kissed her. “I’ll find one of Leigh’s girls to come play lady’s maid.”
She nodded again. He left her there. Slowly, Rosalind sank onto one of the room’s rush-bottomed chairs. She lifted back the curtain, and stared out the corner of the window, seeing her reflection, and the darkness, and very little beyond. But she stayed that way until the maid came.
Because she could not think what else to do.
Rosalind was not certain she’d be able to sleep. But the moment Adam slipped into bed beside her, the safety and the warmth of his presence banished all other feeling. She could let go. She could sleep. And she did.
There was a noise.
Rosalind’s mind swam slowly up from a thick fen of dreams.
There was a noise and it wouldn’t stop and she was very angry about it.
Slowly, she realized someone was pounding on the door—loudly, urgently.
Her eyes flew open. Adam rolled over, muttering curses through his teeth. Rosalind scrambled to her feet, looked for her wrapper, and failed to find it.
“Miss Thorne?” It was Mrs. Leigh. “Miss Thorne!”
Rosalind abandoned thought of her wrapper, hurried to the door, and cracked it open.
“Beg pardon,” said Mrs. Leigh breathlessly. “You’re needed at once. You and Mr. Harkness. There’s a carriage in the yard. Driver says he’s been sent from Lansdown to fetch you both. Says he’s from Lord Casselmaine and Miss Clara Kinsdale.”
Rosalind felt her heart plummet.
“What’s happened?”
“It’s about that horse, Kinsdale’s Pride, miss,” said Mrs. Leigh. “She’s been stolen.”