CHAPTER ONE
An Unexpected Summons
“These dinners are peculiarly agreeable—nothing to impede the flow of soul, whatever there may be of the feast of reason.”
Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting
London
August 1820
“They’re here!”
Alice Littlefield seized the brown paper parcel from the startled footman and raised it over her head. All the friends and family gathered in the front parlor of 9 Orchard Street hurrahed and raised their punch cups.
Rosalind Thorne smiled indulgently at Alice’s open delight and raised her cup along with her guests. Alice’s brother, George, was here, along with his wife, Hannah. Sanderson Faulks lounged beside Honoria Aimesworth and Mr. Clements.
And, of course, Adam Harkness stood at Rosalind’s side, smiling his quiet, devastating smile.
“I can’t believe it!” Alice darted through the little crowd to the tea table. “They’re really here!”
She unceremoniously dropped the package onto the table and herself into the nearest chair. Amelia McGowan—a plump, ginger-haired young woman—hurried to Alice’s side. The pair clasped hands and laughed with wordless excitement.
Up until a few months ago, Amelia had worked as a maid for Rosalind and Alice. Now she worked to establish a charity school for young women in service who wished to better their situation. That she was also Alice’s sweetheart was a fact their friends kept to themselves.
Adam took up the pair of scissors Rosalind had placed on the mantel for exactly this moment. He handed them to Rosalind, who, in turn, handed them to Amelia, who handed them to Alice. Alice slit the package’s twine. The paper fell open to reveal three quarto volumes, bound in red morocco and stamped with gold lettering:
EVERSWARD
A NOVEL
BY
A. E. LITTLEFIELD
A second cheer rose from the assembly, except from the dandy Sanderson Faulks, who confined himself to decorous applause. Alice rose to her feet and gave a single dignified nod, as if she were the queen acknowledging the crowd at the opera, and then handed round the books so they could be more readily admired.
“Congratulations, sister dear.” George kissed her on the cheek.
“Even though you never wanted me to turn novelist?” Alice inquired cheekily. “And you were sure I should lose all hope of making any sort of living?”
“Don’t tease, Alice,” Hannah, George’s sturdy, black-haired wife, admonished lightly. “He is terribly proud of you. I can barely get him to talk about anything else.”
“That is not true,” said George indignantly. “I am perfectly able to talk about our brilliant infant, and the madness in Parliament, as well.”
“Oh, Lord, we are not bringing that up!” groaned Honoria Aimesworth. A pale woman with the studied grace that came from years of strict training in deportment, Honoria had refashioned her life after scandal and tragedy. Now she was creating something of a stir among the haut ton as a woman of independent means and mind.
Rosalind had not expected Honoria to still be in town to join the party. It was August, and normally, everyone who could afford to do so would have abandoned the swelter and stench of London for the country or the Continent.
This summer, however, Parliament was being called to a special session to consider King George’s petition for divorce from Queen Caroline, and fashionable society was determined not to miss the spectacle.
George Littlefield sighed. “I don’t see as we will be able to help it, Honoria. I hear the king’s divorce has even led to arguments among the lady patronesses at Almack’s.”
The entire gathering turned to Rosalind. Adam raised his brows, assuming an air of polite inquiry.
“I had not heard,” she replied coolly. Adam’s eyebrows lifted farther. The fact was that Rosalind had heard a great deal, but now was not the time to repeat any of it.
“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if the lady patronesses were at odds,” George went on. “Everyone else is. Between the king’s endless investigations and the queen making her return to English shores into a royal progress, we’ll probably have a paper shortage from all the special editions.” George wrote for the London Chronicle, a twice-weekly newspaper that relied heavily on politics and gossip for its sales.
“It is impossible to keep up,” agreed Mr. Clements. Ernest Clements presided over Rosalind’s favorite circulating library. He had been helping with the efforts to advance the cause of Alice’s book by introducing her to a number of the most prominent owners of lady’s bookshops. Consequently, Rosalind had felt it only right to invite him to the party. “I have had to employ a pair of young men to eject patrons who grow too heated over the news. A fistfight broke out in the reading room this Monday.”
“Was the winner for the king or the queen?” asked Alice.
“Oh, the queen, of course,” Mr. Clements replied. “Nearly everyone is for the queen. It is her name they are chanting in the streets.”
“In the reading rooms and the streets perhaps,” drawled Mr. Faulks. “In the clubs it is all for the king.”
“Well, king he may be,” Amelia sniffed. “But he’s a rascal all the same. The man forced the queen to keep one of his mistresses as her maid, and he charged the people for her diamonds!”
“My brothers would thrash the man who treated me with so little respect,” agreed Hannah Littlefield.
“A warning to you, George,” said Honoria. “Personally, I hope the queen’s attorneys make him highly uncomfortable with a full exposure of his clandestine marriage to a Roman Catholic.”
Mr. Clements, George, and Hannah exchanged wary glances. Mr. Clements had been born Ernesto Javier Garcia Mendoza y Clemente. He had changed his name to suit English fashions, but not his religion, even though the public celebration of mass remained illegal and Catholics were barred from any number of professions, including the majority of public offices. Hannah, for her part, had been born into a large Italian family. She and George were married in a Protestant ceremony, but she quietly kept the faith of her ancestors. Since his marriage, George had written several anonymous pamphlets on the subject of Catholic emancipation.
It was Mr. Clements who spoke first. “Miss Aimesworth, you make the fact that she is a Catholic sound like a greater offense than the secret marriage.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Clements,” said Hannah. “I should have been more careful with my choice of words. It is the breaking of the succession laws and the concealing of his marriage that I meant to decry. Not the lady’s religion.”
Mr. Clements bowed.
“I’m not going to defend His Majesty,” said George. “But he does have some cause for grievance against the queen. There really can’t be any excuse for her to be traipsing about the Continent with such a crowd as she has . . .”
This proved to be too much for Alice. “Rosalind, you must forbid any more talk of the king’s divorce. I will not have it at my party!”
“I agree, Alice,” said Rosalind. “This is a celebration, and we shall have no arguments over controversial subjects. Mr. Faulks, you were hinting earlier that you had some interesting news from your friend at the Edinburgh Review. What can you tell us?”
Sanderson, who never failed to enjoy being the center of attention, drew himself up. “As it happens, I am given to understand that the next issue may include mention of a certain new novel.”
“Oh!” Alice clapped both hands over her mouth. Amelia squeezed her shoulder. “You don’t . . . He didn’t say . . .”
“Of course, I could not ask whether such mention was favorable.” Sanderson spoke regretfully to his punch cup. “But it is possible I overheard a word or two later, as we were enjoying a friendly drink. I do believe all Littlefields will be quite pleased with the results.”
“Oh!” cried Alice again. She ran to hug Amelia, George and Hannah, and then turned to Sanderson—suddenly all decorum and correct deportment—and curtsied. Sanderson placed a hand over his breast, careful not to disturb the folds of his elaborate cravat, and bowed.
The gathering laughed at this display, and talk turned easily to small matters, light gossip, and stories of family and friends.
For Rosalind, it was almost too much to take in.
Up until recently, she had lived on a knife’s edge. Rosalind had all but given up on the possibility of finding herself in the situation she now occupied—mistress of a comfortable and independent establishment, living a life that was both useful and absorbing.
Now, surrounded as she was by so many friends, Rosalind felt her heart swell with a pride and gratitude that she seldom allowed herself to acknowledge.
Adam, of course, noticed and moved just an inch closer.
“You are radiant,” he murmured.
“You are a flatterer,” she replied under her breath.
He raised one brow. She lifted her chin. He grinned the astonishing crooked grin that lit his blue eyes, which reminded her of the times when this room was empty except for the two of them. Rosalind felt her cheeks begin to warm.
“Mercy,” she breathed.
“If that is what you wish,” he replied.
“For now.”
This scandalous remark was rewarded by Adam’s abrupt blush. Rosalind attempted to hide her grin behind her punch cup, but found herself in danger of dissolving into a fit of undignified giggles.
Fortunately, she was saved from this eventuality when her newly hired footman, Mortimer, pushed open the pocket doors that led to the dining room and announced, “Dinner is served.”
* * *
Rosalind’s greatest asset when it came to entertaining was her cook, Mrs. Singh. When she lived with her family in India, Mrs. Singh grew up in the hybrid kitchens of English households. There she absorbed the techniques of French and English cuisine, along with the English language. Mrs. Singh had lived in London for some years now and had been glad to leave the rigors of a large establishment for Rosalind’s smaller home. The advantage to her was more regular hours and the ability to go home in the evening to her sister and her sister’s children.
When Mrs. Singh discovered Rosalind enjoyed piquant flavors, she began to include dishes from her native Punjab in her menus. Her samosas, tikkas, and highly spiced vegetable ragùs added welcome variety to the unyielding English dinner regimen of sauced turbot and roasted beef.
Tonight Mrs. Singh had outdone herself. She liked Alice personally and had exerted all her considerable talents on the author’s behalf. There was a fish soup, followed by leg of lamb accompanied by a vegetable biryani and a series of side dishes with early greens, new potatoes, and fresh cheese. All was crowned by a dessert course of sugar-topped cake and sweet dumplings.
The cake had been reduced to crumbs and Rosalind was just about to suggest the party return to the parlor for tea when a great banging arose from the depths of the house.
“What on earth?” exclaimed Alice.
Someone, Rosalind realized, was hammering at the kitchen door. All conversation momentarily fell quiet while Mortimer stepped smartly away to see what might be the matter.
“Have you gotten yourself into trouble again, Rosalind?” remarked Honoria.
“Not that I am aware of,” Rosalind answered. But her mind began leafing through her list of current commitments just the same.
The house was small enough and well ventilated enough that voices could sometimes be heard from the cellars. The entire gathering heard those voices now. The words were indistinct, but the tone was loud and insistent.
Adam wiped his hands on his napkin. “Should I . . . ?” he began.
Before he could rise to his feet, Mortimer had returned, a folded note in his hand.
“Apologies, Miss Thorne,” Mortimer said. “But the man says it is extremely urgent, and he insists he must have an answer at once.”
Rosalind frowned and rose, taking the note from him. “You will all excuse me for a moment,” she said to her guests.
Rosalind retreated to the back parlor, which she used as her writing room. She moved to shut the door, but not quickly enough. Both Adam and Alice had already come in.
Adam closed the door. Alice hurried to Rosalind’s side.
“What is it?”
Rosalind turned the note over. The paper was heavy, and the ink quite dark, which told her this missive came from a person of means. The sealing wax was scarlet and imprinted with a curling letter F. “I don’t recognize the hand or the seal.”
Rosalind broke the seal and unfolded the missive. As was her habit, she read the signature first. Her eyes widened in shock.
“Rosalind? What is it?” asked Adam.
“It is a . . . request to call.” Surprise had made her throat go dry. She swallowed and tried again. “At once.”
“At this hour? That seems a bit precipitous,” said Alice. “Who is it from?”
Rosalind found she had to swallow again. “Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert.”
“The Mrs. Fitzherbert . . . ?” began Adam.
“You can’t mean . . . ,” said Alice at the same time.
“Yes,” said Rosalind. “I do mean. This is from the Mrs. Fitzherbert.” She met their startled gazes. “The king’s wife.”