CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Consequences of Notoriety

“. . . being generally grounded upon knowledge of the world, and experience of its inhabitants, it unfortunately follows, of course, that the information which it conveys must be of a disagreeable and humiliating complexion.”
 
Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting

“Is she gone?”
Rosalind swung around to see that the parlor door was open again, only this time it was Alice, leaning inside, looking entirely like a naughty child checking to see if the coast was clear.
When it came to Lady Jersey, Rosalind had a certain amount of sympathy.
Rosalind could not help but smile. “Yes, Alice, she’s gone.”
Alice, of course, immediately heard the weariness in Rosalind’s voice. “What’s wrong? What did she say?”
Rosalind shook her head. “I should have listened to you.”
“Always the best course of action.” Alice sat down on the sofa and reached for the coffee. Mrs. Singh, as usual, had included an extra cup. She had been with Rosalind’s household long enough to understand that the number of guests in the parlor could change quickly. “What convinced you of it this time?”
Rosalind sighed. Evasion was pointless, and highly inadvisable. “I’m assuming the Major will have read about me and Adam visiting Mrs. Fitzherbert. Has he written you?”
“I expect word from him at any minute.” Alice drank a good half of the cup in a single gulp. Alice had learned her drinking habits among the men of the Chronicle. She could still summon all the deportment required by the finest ballrooms, but she had long since discovered she preferred the free and easy manners of the newspaper office. “He won’t have missed your name in the Standard, and I do expect he will be eager for details about your visit. Do you want to know what I’m going to tell him?”
“I fully expect you’ll put him off. It’s George I’m worried about. The Major is not above using pressure on him to get a story.”
“No, he isn’t,” agreed Alice. “And yes, that could extend to putting pressure on me and threatening to give George the sack,” Alice said. “That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” admitted Rosalind.
“So am I.” Alice made a face at her remaining coffee. “But George would quit the Chronicle rather than betray your confidence.” She paused. “You do know that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, but where does that leave him? And his family?” George had a wife and a young child. He could not afford to lose his job. None of the Littlefields could afford it.
“We shall simply have to cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Alice. “I’ve been managing the Major for years. He cannot resist my winning smile or the possibility of a brilliant story. You’ve been an excellent source before. I can convince him to give you some time. Plus, A. E. Littlefield will be able to work up some entertaining speculation to fill the column inches.”
“I’m sorry to put you through this.”
Alice shrugged. “We’ll make do, Rosalind. I know you don’t like the attention, but honestly, you’ve managed this sort of thing for other people for years. Is it really so difficult to manage for yourself?”
“It’s different,” murmured Rosalind.
“Yes, but not that different.”
Rosalind looked down at her folded hands. She had spent so many years hiding. Not only because it was expected that a woman like her—unmarried and unmarriageable, without family or fortune—should fade into the background, but because she had secrets that could not be known. Her father’s debts had driven him to become a forger and eventually led to his brutal murder. Her sister had for many years been a courtesan, first in Paris and then in London. Achieving a public reputation as a confidential assistant and itinerant problem solver might gain her invitations and income, but her livelihood was predicated on her standing as a gently bred lady. If the darkness in her past were to become known or, worse, to become common gossip, that standing would crumble.
“What is it, Rosalind?” asked Alice. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about the nature of a woman’s reputation,” she said. “Mine specifically. And wondering if there will ever come a day when I can stop worrying about it.”
“Probably not,” said Alice. “But honestly, Rosalind, did you ever expect that?”
“No, not really.” She sighed. “So I suppose I should not complain that it’s exhausting.”
“It is exhausting. It’s also monstrously unfair, and it always has been,” said Alice. “But I’ll say it again—you will manage. You are Rosalind Thorne, and you will always find a way.”
“And if this time I fail?” she asked.
Alice didn’t even bat an eye. “Well, Amelia needs someone to teach her students diction, and I happen to know where you can find some good translation work. Is your German still up to snuff?”
Rosalind surprised herself by laughing. “Oh, Alice, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” replied Alice. “Now, have some more of Mrs. Singh’s coffee and tart and tell me what Lady Jersey had to say for herself.”
It was excellent advice. Rosalind and Alice both devoured healthy slices of tart and poured each other additional cups of coffee with plenty of milk and sugar.
Feeling much more rational, Rosalind wiped her fingers on her napkin. “Alice, I have a question for you. Mrs. Fitzherbert told me she is worried about losing her custody of her daughters if she cannot prove she married the king.”
“So you said.”
“But I’m not sure that was the whole truth.”
Alice’s brows arched.
“Do you know if either of the girls has been caught up in any sort of scandal or gossip?”
Alice leaned back on the sofa and stared at nothing for a long time. Rosalind waited patiently while her friend sorted through her mind’s deep store of sensational gossip.
“I believe there was something,” Alice said slowly. “The older girl.”
“Minney,” supplied Rosalind.
“Yes, Minney. She’d been seen in unsuitable company of some sort. I’m afraid I don’t remember the details.”
“Do you know what came of it?”
Alice shook her head. “I don’t know that anything did. Mrs. Fitzherbert is very careful with her girls.”
With good reason. Rosalind sighed. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps she was becoming too suspicious for her own good. Sometimes things, and people, were exactly as they seemed.
The ideal person to ask was Burrowes, if Burrowes would agree to speak with her, and if Mrs. Fitzherbert would agree to give Rosalind the address where she could be found.
Even as she was thinking this, Alice said, “I suppose we could ask Mrs. Dowding.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Dowding,” Alice repeated. “You’ve heard me talk about her, Rosalind. She’s the queen of us all. She and her husband all but invented the gossip sheet. It’s said she retired on the bribes she used to get from the likes of the Duchess of Devonshire for favorable mentions of her doings and parties.”
“And for discreet non-mentions?”
“That too,” agreed Alice. “I don’t pretend she’s a principled person, but she knows absolutely everything society tries to sweep under the bed, and there’s some suggestion that she’s still making money off of it. If anyone knows anything about Mrs. Fitzherbert’s Minney, it’s the Dowding.”
“Very well. Do we go to her, or does she come to us?”
“I’ll write and ask permission to call. She’ll love it, now that you’re news.”
Rosalind looked down at her cup. But she did not miss how Alice rolled her eyes.
“It’s happened, Rosalind. There’s no going back. You’re going to have to at least make peace with it. It would be better, however, if you made use of it.”
But before Rosalind could reply, the door opened yet again. This time it was Mortimer, with his salver.
“The post has arrived, Miss Thorne.”
Rosalind found herself staring. The salver was piled with letters to the point it was nearly overflowing.
“Good heavens,” she murmured. “What on earth . . . ?”
But she knew, of course. This was the result of her name being in the newspaper.
“Is there anything from Mrs. Fitzherbert?” she asked.
“Not at this time,” answered Mortimer. Then he eyed the unsteady pile. “Although, it’s possible I may have missed something.”
“Thank you. But where should . . . ?” Rosalind glanced about the parlor.
Alice did not wait for her to finish but began taking up the letters by double handfuls and piling them onto the tea table.
“You’d better ask Mrs. Singh to make some tea,” Alice told Mortimer. “And sandwiches. It’s going to be a long day.”
“Is it?” came a familiar, cheerful voice.
George Littlefield stood on the parlor’s threshold.
“George!” Alice leaped to her feet and ran to give her brother a resounding kiss on the cheek. “What are you doing here?”
“I am sent as a messenger from our Mr. Harkness.” With a dramatic flourish, he produced a folded note from his pocket, which he handed to Rosalind with an exaggerated bow. “Is that Mrs. Singh’s tart?”
“It is, and since you are here on a vital errand, you may have some.” Alice set about cutting her brother a generous slice. “How does Ronnie Ranking?”
“As greasy and ingratiating as ever he was.” George sat and accepted the wedge of tart his sister held out. “I’m starved.”
Rosalind scanned Adam’s brief missive. “Adam says Mr. Ranking saw an attorney taking the back way into Mrs. Fitzherbert’s house.”
“Josiah Poole,” said George for Alice’s benefit. “A specialist in debt, debtors, and the problems thereof.”
“What would Mrs. Fitzherbert need with—?” began Alice, but then she stopped. “Never mind.”
Rosalind nodded. It was very common for members of society to find their expenses outpacing their incomes. If they were heavy gamblers or were addicted to the glamour and gaiety of social life, their debts could run to tens of thousands of pounds. The Littlefields’ father and her own had both fallen victim to their own desperate desire to keep up appearances, and both had ended very badly.
“Adam writes he has gone to find this Mr. Poole,” finished Rosalind.
“And sent me to tell you all about it,” said George. “And enjoy this excellent tart.”
“So, begin at the beginning, dear brother.” Alice filled George’s coffee cup. “And leave nothing out.”
Rosalind listened while George told them Ranking’s story of Mr. Poole slipping through Mrs. Fitzherbert’s garden gate and leaving as quickly as his gig could carry him. She thought about Mrs. Fitzherbert’s house—so tastefully furnished and so very well staffed. Surely, when she was entertaining the prince on a regular basis, she had been required to put on even more of a show.
“I’ve heard Mrs. Fitzherbert actually loaned the prince money on occasion,” said Alice. “I don’t imagine he ever paid her back.”
“No, probably not,” agreed Rosalind. The staggering sums that the prince, now the king, owed were the subject of regular debates in Parliament. It was well known that the main reason he decided to marry Caroline of Brunswick was so that his allowance would be increased.
“So, a decision by Mrs. Fitz to sell her marriage certificate might serve more than one end,” George said slowly. “It could bring in some income, as well as serving as a tidy bit of revenge.”
“How disappointing,” said Alice. “I’d always believed that Mrs. Fitz was the one person in the great royal mess who had some principles.”
“We don’t know anything yet,” said Rosalind, as much to herself as to Alice. “It is very possible Mr. Poole has some connection with someone else inside the house.”
“You mean he bribed one of the staff?” asked George.
“Or . . . Oh, Rosalind, you don’t think . . . one of her girls?” exclaimed Alice.
“What I think,” said Rosalind, “is that I had better call on Mrs. Fitzherbert at once.”