The Matter of the Secret Bride

“If no one is to read what one writes, there is no satisfaction in writing; and if anybody does see it, mischief ensues.”

Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting

“Rosalind!”

Rosalind blinked, her mind rising heavily from sleep. Usually, if someone needed to wake her, it was Laurel, the upstairs maid and de facto lady’s maid. This morning, however, it was Alice standing beside her bed, in threadbare slippers and rumpled blue wrapper, her nightcap still on her head.

“What is it, Alice?” Rosalind struggled to push herself upright.

“This.” Alice dropped a newspaper on Rosalind’s quilt. “You were seen!”

“Yes, I know. I suppose I forgot to tell you.” Rosalind blinked down at the newspaper. In the center column was a large dark headline:

WHAT’S WORRYING MRS. FITZHERBERT?

With our beleaguered Queen Caroline returned to London to defend herself from the petition for divorce being most cruelly leveled against her, attention once again turns to the woman at the root of all this strife—the venerable and, so say all her admirers, amiable Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert.

Rosalind wondered where Mrs. Fitzherbert was now and if she had read this description of herself.

Mrs. Fitzherbert has yet to voice a public opinion over the matter of the man long purported to be her husband attempting to obtain a divorce for a second marriage, which may not have been legal in the eyes of God or Man. But surely, she must harbor secret hopes, or fears, that there might soon arise an opportunity to confirm her particular status, at least in the eyes of the public.

These days, when the Lady About Ton is faced with any seemingly insurmountable difficulty—be it deciding which silver service is the best choice for an upcoming dinner with Lady Formidable, or how to obtain a set of possibly indiscreet letters that have fallen into the hands of Mr. Scoundrele-son—she increasingly turns to one Miss Rosalind Thorne.

Now it seems Miss Thorne’s reputation as a solver of all problems large and small has carried her as far as Mrs. Fitzherbert’s doorway, which portal she was seen entering last evening in the company of Mr. Adam “Watchdog” Harkness, formerly of the famous Bow Street Runners . . .

Rosalind laid the paper down. Slowly, with as much dignity as she could muster, she folded the bedcovers aside and stood. She walked quite calmly over to the window. The drapes were still closed. Using two fingers, she very, very carefully lifted the edge back.

The street below was a sea of men’s bodies. They pressed against the area railing and would have swarmed the steps if Mortimer had not been standing there, arms folded and sleeves rolled up to display the muscled and tattooed forearms, which proclaimed to the world that he had once served in the Royal Navy and therefore was no stranger to a serious brawl.

Slowly, so the movement would not draw any stray glances, Rosalind closed the drapes and stepped back from the window.

“Did Amelia get away all right?”

“She left at first light. The street was still empty.”

“Well, thank goodness for that.” She rubbed her eyes. She’d gotten only a few hours of sleep. They had all stayed up late last night, working to alter a plain, conservative blue silk dress of Rosalind’s for the shorter, rounder Amelia. “Well, I had best get myself dressed. Can you send Laurel to me?”

Alice knew Rosalind better than anyone, even Adam. As Rosalind hoped, her friend understood at once that she was not ready to talk. So, all Alice said was, “Yes, of course. And I meant to tell you, Mrs. Singh has breakfast ready downstairs.”

“Thank you.”

Alice retreated and closed the door. Once she did, Rosalind uttered a selection of words that would have shocked Mortimer’s former shipmates. This gave vent to her immediate anger, at herself and at the world in general, but it did nothing to address the immediate problem. The men Adam promised to send had clearly not yet arrived, while the newspapermen had all proved to be early risers.

Rosalind hurried to her writing table. By the time Laurel appeared, Rosalind had finished her first note. “This needs to be taken down the street to Dr. Kempshead.”

If Adam had still been with Bow Street, Rosalind would have written to him at the station and asked for help. He would have dispatched a clutch of constables to clear the scrum outside and to stand guard afterward.

As things stood, however, Rosalind did not have the luxury of being able to command a constable whenever it might be convenient. Yes, she and Adam still had friends at the station, but her reputation with Bow Street’s most senior officer, Mr. Townsend, was only that of interfering female. Any request known to be from her was likely to be ignored or to incur an extra charge. Any officer or constable who answered a request without informing Mr. Townsend would put their livelihood in danger.

Dr. Kempshead, however, was a respected physician, and if he made a request that the street be cleared and quieted, that would be paid attention to.

“The butcher’s boy is downstairs with the day’s delivery,” said Laurel. “I’ll see if he can go round to the doctor’s on his way back.”

“Thank you,” said Rosalind gratefully.

That initial matter attended to, Rosalind wrote two other notes. The first was to Mrs. Levitton, asking permission to call later that day. The second was to Adam, letting him know that it had now been publicly reported that they were both seen going to Mrs. Fitzherbert’s, in case he had not read the paper that morning.

She had the notes sealed by the time Laurel returned. The maid pocketed the missives and promised they would go by hand as soon as Miss Thorne was dressed.

While Laurel helped her into a light day frock of blue patterned muslin, Rosalind’s stomach rumbled in a most undignified manner. She was desperately hungry, but at the same time, she was conscious of an urge to be sick. She could not help but remembering Alice’s warning from the night before. And the mob that had stopped their carriage. And the king on horseback in front of Mrs. Fitzherbert’s door. Not to mention Mrs. Fitzherbert herself.

She also remembered her own misgivings about agreeing to inquire into this matter and wondered if she should have listened to them.

But it was too late for that. She could not call any of yesterday’s events back. Amelia would already be at Tilney Street. Adam was surely on his way to talk with Ron Ranking.

Still, Rosalind managed to drag together the appearance of calm so she could enter the dining room without causing immediate exclamations. Alice was already tucking into the breakfast Mrs. Singh had laid out on the sideboard. Normally, by this time, the curtains had been drawn back to allow sunlight into the room. Today the curtains remained closed, and the lamps were lit. The effect was stuffy rather than cozy. But Rosalind did not remark on it. Instead, she helped herself to coddled eggs and a beautifully warm roll from the modest sideboard. She carried her plate to the table and sat down.

And found she could do nothing but stare at the fresh food and listen to the vague rumble of men’s shouts and jeers that filtered through the curtained window.

“Eat, Rosalind.” Alice filled her teacup. “I’m assuming you’ve sent for the constables?”

“I’ve sent for Dr. Kempshead to send for them,” Rosalind told her. “And Adam said he would be calling in some men to help.”

“Well, that’s taken care of, then.” Alice spread jam lavishly on her roll. “What’s your plan, Rosalind?”

“The first order of business is to call on Mrs. Fitzherbert and make sure all is in order there. Then I must speak with Mrs. Levitton. Now, Alice, I have—”

The crowd noise outside picked up in volume and outrage. Rosalind turned her head toward the closed curtains. Could Dr. Kempshead have summoned help this quickly? Or had Adam’s men arrived?

Alice hopped up from her chair and ran to the window. Rosalind followed and peered over Alice’s head as she lifted the curtains to see the commotion.

And commotion it was. Mortimer had leapt off the porch steps and waded into the crowd. But he was not alone. Several young men and a pair of boys, all in canary-yellow and sky-blue livery, were setting to with the crowd of newspapermen and seemingly getting the best of them. While Rosalind and Alice watched, the newspapermen, in their dark coats and low-crowned hats, scattered before the determined blows of the men and boys in colorful silks.

Alice laughed out loud at the incongruity of it all. Rosalind’s gaze, however, fastened on the carriage with its matched chestnut bay horses and the crest on the door.

She left the window and rang the bell. “We’ll need coffee and rolls in the front parlor as soon as possible,” she said to Mrs. Napier as soon as she entered the dining room. “And when the lady arrives, show her in immediately.”

Rosalind was already on the way to the door when Alice called, “Oh, good heavens! Rosalind, did you see the crest on the carriage?”

Rosalind didn’t pause to answer her. She took herself into the parlor and, with a quick sweep of her gaze, ascertained that all was in order and that all traces of Alice’s celebration had been cleared away. She moved the three volumes of Eversward from the table to the bookshelf. Outside, the noise, and presumably the crowd, had dissipated. Rosalind settled into her usual chair and had just time enough to compose herself before the parlor door opened again.

Claire came into the room. “Pardon me, Miss Thorne . . .”

She got no farther. Sarah Villiers, the Countess of Jersey, strode past her.

“Well, Miss Thorne!” Lady Jersey declared. “What on earth have you done!”