CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A Few Pointed Questions
“. . . there is something uncertain and wayward about him, which just as one is going to like him, prevents one’s doing so . . .”
Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting
“Well, this is all very nice, isn’t it?”
Mr. Ranking looked about Rosalind’s writing room with evident interest. Rosalind left the door open a full inch, for appearances’ sake. Also for appearances, she wrung her hands together as she lowered herself into the chair by her desk.
“Won’t you sit down . . . Mr. Ranking, is it?” She clasped her hands in her lap too tightly. Mr. Ranking noticed this open display of nerves, and a gleam sparked in his sharp dark eyes.
“That’s right, miss. Ronald Ranking, at your service.” He gave a flourishing bow, very much in the manner of a man who thought himself charming. He also lifted his coattails and settled himself on the chair Rosalind indicated. “Will Miss Littlefield be joining us?” he asked. “Or Mr. Harkness?”
He clearly meant to disconcert her by revealing that he knew who was in her house. Rosalind twisted her hands and dropped her gaze to help him conclude that he had succeeded. She even managed to raise a bit of a blush.
“I had thought we might speak in private,” she murmured. “Under the circumstances.”
“Oh, yes?” She could hear the grin in his voice. “Well, always glad to oblige a lady.”
“Thank you. May I take it you received my . . . message of last night?”
“I did, I did,” said Mr. Ranking. “And a most genteel and considerate message it was.” His grin widened. “But I do wonder why a lady such as you are would be so condescending to an entirely negligible Grub Street ruffian such as myself?”
“Oh, but surely . . .” Rosalind made her voice breathless. “I thought that would be understood.” She widened her eyes and made herself think, That is why I’m so surprised to see you here.
A positive fog of smug satisfaction rolled off Mr. Ranking. “In my profession, we learn pretty quick that it’s best not to count on mere understanding. Much better to have it all out in the open. Don’t you agree?”
Rosalind looked away.
“Now, Miss Thorne.” Mr. Ranking was trying to sound both stern and kind, like a schoolmaster. Rosalind bit the inside of her cheek to keep from rolling her eyes. “I’ve a sister at home. You remind me very much of her. I know if she’d got herself in over her head, I’d hope someone would help steer her right.”
Is one word of that statement true? wondered Rosalind. She tightened her hands together.
“This business with Poole,” Mr. Ranking went on. “It must be quite the shock for you, eh? And for Mrs. Fitz, I suppose.”
“I can’t say anything about that,” murmured Rosalind.
“No, no, a’ course not.” From the look in his eyes, Mr. Ranking had already traded can’t for won’t.
“Mr. Ranking,” said Rosalind earnestly, “you must understand I am sworn to secrecy, and already . . . with my name in the papers and so many people clamoring for answers . . .” She blinked rapidly.
She could also hear Alice’s voice warning her that she risked laying it on a bit thick. Mr. Ranking, however, swelled with pride and not a little condescension.
“Just so, just so. It must be a real hardship for you.”
He’s going to pat my hand, thought Rosalind.
Mr. Ranking reached out and gave her hand three gentle pats. “Now, see, the cat’s already out of the bag, isn’t it? So, what we have to do next is make sure the thing is put in the correct light.”
Rosalind closed her eyes briefly, an indication that she was resigning herself to the inevitable. Then she nodded.
“There.” Mr. Ranking beamed. “I can help you through this, and if you’ll trust me, we can make sure everybody understands the awful fix Mrs. Fitzherbert’s in, and that Poole was nowhere near her house the day he died.”
And there it was—the suspicion and the threat, neatly laid out together.
“Surely there’s no reason to mention Mr. Poole’s connection to Mrs. Fitzherbert or . . . or . . . to me.” Rosalind dropped her voice to a whisper.
“To you?” This time, Mr. Ranking’s surprise was genuine. “You personally?”
Rosalind looked away again.
“Was it you who introduced Poole to Mrs. Fitz?” asked Ranking. “Was that the help she was asking you for?”
“Mr. Ranking, you must understand everything is so very unsettled,” said Rosalind. “If I had a few days to . . . arrange matters, to gain permission . . . then I could tell you everything.”
“What? Me, and not George Littlefield?”
“George is a very dear friend.” Rosalind spoke to her tightly clasped hands. “But there are some things he does not understand.”
She peeked at Ranking. He was nodding vigorously. “I know how it is. There are fellows—best fellows in the world, some of ’em—but they can’t see the thing from someone else’s point of view.”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Rosalind eagerly. “Exactly. He’s become so rigid in his thinking. I don’t dare confide in him.”
And I will apologize to him later.
“Yes, yes.” Ranking’s voice was laden with sympathy. “Now, you just tell me what’s happened and how you came to put Poole in touch with Mrs. Fitz. I’ll help you sort through it, and we can decide together what should be said.”
“That’s truly what I was hoping for,” said Rosalind. “If I could just have a day, perhaps two . . . Yes, two days would—”
“Two days is a long time in this business, Miss Thorne. We must strike while the iron is hot.”
“Yes, of course, I do understand that, but I cannot risk . . . if I should be wrong in my suspicions—” She bit her lip. “It all hinges on a letter,” she said. “One that I am expecting hourly. Once I have it in hand . . . well, then I will know for certain, and then I can consult with you without fear that any subsequent events will contradict and, well, perhaps embarrass. . .” She let the sentence trail away.
“A letter?” Ranking’s brows arched. His nostrils quivered, as if he could scent the story. “From whom?”
“A . . . a particular friend,” said Rosalind. “One with connections to some persons involved in the matter.”
Rosalind had been raised among the polite nothings of society’s drawing rooms. There the native language was hints and innuendo, promises that were not quite made but could sound as if they were, and she had a great deal of practice at it.
The danger now was that Mr. Ranking might recognize her hedging as a set of entirely empty words.
But Ranking’s mind was busy elsewhere. She’d seen that look from Alice and George any number of times. He was already imagining the headlines, the column inches, and the bonus from his editor, not to mention extra editions. When his focus returned to her, it was as if he were measuring her up to see how many pieces she could be sliced into to feed a crowd.
Rosalind suppressed a wave of anger and hoped that the flush of color in her cheeks would be taken for shame or worry.
“And I have your word that you’ll be in touch as soon as the letter arrives?” he said. “And it will be soon?”
“Quite soon. Certainly no later than the day after tomorrow.”
“That’s good. That’s excellent. Because I would not want to take this business any further without being sure . . .” He let the sentence trail away, leaving Rosalind to imagine the last words.
I would not want to, but I will.