CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Company for Breakfast
“All these projects in their turns are sifted, and supported and contradicted, and laid down again . . . ”
Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting
That night, Rosalind undressed. She braided her hair and pinned it beneath her cap as usual, but when she lay down, sleep would not come. Unwelcome thoughts and worries chased each other through her mind, keeping away rest and gentler dreams.
Alice had come home around ten o’clock. Neither Mr. Ranking nor his editor had been at the Standard. She had left her little packet with the night porter as she promised and had lingered a bit afterward to try to pick up any gossip there might be.
“Nothing to the purpose,” she’d told Rosalind. “Which is something, I suppose.”
Something. But what? Rosalind blinked up at the ceiling. She wished selfishly that there had been something. Not because the answers would be comforting, but because they would keep her thoughts occupied, and away from Adam.
She knew that Adam was in no danger. At least she told herself that. There was no reason for any person to come to Mr. Poole’s room in the dark. There was no reason to believe Adam could be caught unawares. She knew his abilities. She had complete confidence in them, and him.
And yet this business was deeper and wider than any she’d been in before. It involved worldly power and privilege, and at the same time it was intensely personal. She could not set aside the crawling sense of danger that worked its way through her.
She thought about the folded letter in her desk drawer and squeezed her eyes shut around the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.
She wished she did not have to wait on others to bring her news. She hoped Amelia had been able to find out something, anything, that would help them locate the lost certificate and Mr. Poole’s killer. Before Amelia left to enter Mrs. Fitzherbert’s service, they had arranged that Rosalind would be at the post office nearest to Mrs. Fitzherbert’s at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Amelia would meet her there if she could. If not, she would post a letter at the office, to be held for Rosalind to claim.
But morning felt an unusually long way off, and her ability to trust the plans she had laid was worn shamefully thin.
So, it was a relief when daylight finally showed between the curtains, even though the rain drummed insistently against the windows. Rosalind dressed herself in her plain muslin morning gown. Later she would change and have Laurel do her hair. Her plan was to go to call on Countess Lieven after she had (hopefully) seen Amelia, and she could not appear at the countess’s door looking less than her best. Appearances were a form of armor, and she’d need all she had to deal with Dorothea Lieven.
Down in the kitchen, the smell of warm cinnamon filled the air. Mrs. Singh was already busy with the breakfast. Mrs. Napier, Claire, Laurel, and Mortimer all sat at the table with their mugs of tea. As soon as Rosalind appeared, they all began to get to their feet, but she gestured for them to stay seated.
“Good morning, miss,” said Mrs. Singh cheerfully. “Have you any notion how many we will be for breakfast?”
“I am sure of myself and Mr. and Miss Littlefield,” Rosalind said. “Perhaps Mr. Harkness, although I cannot be sure.”
Mrs. Singh and Mrs. Napier exchanged a knowing glance, which Rosalind decided not to notice.
“Very good, miss,” said Mrs. Singh. “We’ll have both tea and coffee ready in just a minute.”
Back upstairs, Rosalind met Alice coming downstairs at a run.
“Good morning, Rosalind!” said Alice as she breezed past and threw the front door open. George stepped triumphantly inside. He carried a bundle of limp newspapers in his arms. Rain ran in thick rivulets from his coat and hat.
“Good morning, Alice! Good morning, Rosalind!” he cried. “Awful out there! I’m half-drowned.”
Alice took charge of the papers, while Rosalind helped George out of his coat and hat, which she promptly hung on the pegs by the door. They all repaired to the front parlor and were followed quickly by Mortimer and Claire, carrying two trays—one for the tea things and one for coffee. When Rosalind thanked them and said there was nothing further, Mortimer left at once, but Claire lingered just long enough to open the drapes and take away the lamps to be cleaned and refilled.
Alice poured a cup of coffee and handed it to her brother. “For your heroics.”
“Bless you, sister dear.” George cupped his hands around the cup and sipped gratefully.
“Have you heard anything new?” Alice asked.
George shook his head. “If anyone’s heard anything, they’re not talking. There still might be something in there.” He gestured toward the papers.
“Well, I’ll take the Times and the Standard,” said Alice, leafing through the stack. “Rosalind, what can I help you to?”
But Rosalind was not listening. From the window, she had already seen Adam turning the corner of Orchard Street, dodging the puddles, with his hat pulled low. Without a word, she left the Littlefields to go meet him at the door.
Like George, Adam came in dripping rain from his hat brim and coat hems.
“I gather I’m expected,” he said as he swept his hat off.
She went to him, ignoring his damp coat, and let his arms close around her. They kissed slowly, appreciating this moment, this breath, this touch, this heat, and the depth of this need.
When they finally parted, Rosalind smoothed her hair back into its place and grimaced at her damp bodice. Adam grinned, saying plainly it was her own fault. She turned up her nose, pretending to ignore him.
“Have you had breakfast?” she asked.
He shook his head. “There’s been no time. Besides, I’d already had a sample of what the White Swan had to offer last night.” His woebegone face told Rosalind all she needed to know about the tavern’s bill of fare.
“Well, we should have something shortly. Come in. George is already here.”
The Littlefields greeted Adam cheerfully as he entered. Rosalind poured him a cup of tea, and he drank half of it in a single gulp.
“Did you find anything out?” Rosalind asked.
“Well, we burned three candles down to the nubs,” Adam said as he sat beside her on the sofa. “But we did manage to find Poole’s will.”
“We?” asked Rosalind.
“Sam Tauton and I. He and Sampson Goutier came and found me. It seems Townsend and Stafford had a shouting match, and my name got raised, along with Poole’s.”
Rosalind felt her brows arch. “Why were Mr. Stafford and Mr. Townsend shouting about Josiah Poole?”
“Stafford is the new client Mrs. Poole told us about.”
“Stafford asked Poole to steal the certificate?” cried George.
“Or Poole let Stafford know he could get it,” said Alice. “If he was as canny as we’ve heard.”
“And Mr. Poole might have had someone attached to Mrs. Fitzherbert’s household who was in debt to him,” added Rosalind. “The Pooles’ parlormaid, Judith, gave me to believe that he was in the habit of placing people who owed him favors with prominent families.” She remembered Judith standing on the dim landing, and how her hand had strayed to touch the place near her heart.
She wondered again what, or whom, Judith had been thinking of in that moment.
“I think it’s more likely that Townsend put Stafford up to the job,” Adam was saying. “Stafford said he thought Townsend was making a series of mistakes. Then he admitted—or made it sound as if he was admitting—that it might be Townsend who stabbed Poole.”
All three of them stared, open-mouthed, at Adam.
Rosalind recovered first. “Can that possibly be true?”
“I don’t know,” Adam admitted. “I asked Stafford if he had met Poole, and he said they had had an appointment for the afternoon, but that Poole had never arrived.”
“Which could be a lie,” said Alice. “About the timing of the appointment, that is.”
Adam nodded in agreement.
“What does Stafford gain from such a lie?” asked George.
“He gains Adam,” said Rosalind promptly. “His trust and his help. And Mr. Tauton and Mr. Goutier with him.”
“Ah. Yes,” said Alice. “There is that.”
“But if he’s there trying to win Adam over, that must mean he doesn’t have the certificate,” said George. “And he doesn’t know where it is.”
“Which probably means the king’s people don’t have it yet,” said Adam. “Or the queen’s. I’d be very surprised if Stafford didn’t have an ear to the ground there.”
“I suppose we should be relieved about that,” said Rosalind. “But the possibility that Mr. Townsend would go as far as murder . . . It defies belief.”
“I only wish it did,” said Adam. “But something else Stafford said makes me wonder. He said the king is leaving Townsend behind now that he’s ascended the throne. Townsend is eager to prove he’s still the king’s man, the way he was the prince regent’s.”
“By getting him the certificate?” asked Rosalind quietly. “So it cannot be used against the king during the divorce proceedings?”
“Yes,” said Adam. “But Stafford suggested that the idea didn’t come from Townsend. He said that someone who knew he was worried about his standing with the king might be putting ideas into his head.”
They all sat for a moment, absorbing this new, unwelcome layer to their problem. Rosalind was forced to admit it made a tidy line. Mr. Townsend was a vain man, and his relationship with the former Prince of Wales was the crowning glory of his life. If he believed his position was in jeopardy, and that the Fitzherbert certificate would help restore him to the king’s affection, he would act. Going to Mr. Stafford for assistance was a logical choice. Townsend could present the issue as one of stability and loyalty to the Crown. If the marriage to Mrs. Fitzherbert was proved, the succession could be questioned. The kingdom would be thrown into turmoil, and the Crown itself put into jeopardy.
But Mr. Stafford would not wish to risk being seen as connected to such a dubious enterprise. So he might well go to Mr. Poole, who would have no such scruples. Mr. Poole gained entry to Mrs. Fitzherbert’s house.
But what then? Rosalind looked at Adam and at the Littlefields and knew they were all asking themselves the same question. But none of them had any answers.
“Adam, you said you found Poole’s will,” said Rosalind. “What does it say?”
“Mostly that if Mrs. Poole knew of its contents, she had no monetary reason to wish her husband dead. The lease on the house and all the other monies are bound up in a trust for Poole’s sons. Letitia is to be supported until her marriage, and there’s provision for her dowry. Mrs. Poole has a small income and the use of the house, but only as long as she is guardian of the children or until she marries again.”
“Singularly ungenerous of him,” remarked Alice.
“And hardly a legacy that would drive a woman to take drastic measures,” said George. “Unless there is something more we do not know.”
Adam sighed. “Unfortunately, the amount we do not know about this business is still greater than what we do.”
Their uneasy silence was broken by the sound of someone plying the knocker on the front door—loudly and repeatedly. Everyone in the parlor sat up a little straighter, all of them wondering who else could be at the door this early.
A moment later came the sound of men’s heated voices, Mortimer’s first, followed by one Rosalind couldn’t recognize.
But George did. “That’s Ron Ranking,” he said.
Rosalind’s throat went dry. She’d hoped for at least another few hours before she would need to address this issue.
Adam, of course, noticed her discomfort. “Do you want me to speak with him?”
“I’ll go with you.”
George was already halfway to his feet.
“No,” said Rosalind. “I’ll see him.”
“But, Rosalind—” began Alice.
Whatever Alice had been about to say was cut off when Mortimer entered the room, looking sour and disappointed in himself.
“There’s a Mr. Ranking, miss,” said Mortimer. “He’s insisting that he see you. He says he was invited to call.”
Which was blatantly untrue, but Rosalind set that aside. “Thank you, Mortimer. I will see him in my writing room.”
Mortimer looked like he wanted to argue. “Very well, miss.”
Alice was also on her feet. “Let’s—”
“No, thank you,” said Rosalind. “I will see him alone.”
“Are you sure?” Alice asked. “He’ll know you’ve got company already. He’ll think you’re hiding something.”
“That,” said Rosalind, “is exactly what I’m counting on.”