CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
A Purely Social Visit
“. . . she is so witty and so very brilliant, so full of repartee, that her society dazzles my duller senses, and instead of being exhilarated by it, I become lowered.”
Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting
“Miss Thorne, how delightful!” Countess Lieven rose as Rosalind entered her lavishly appointed sitting room. “I was just the other day saying how very much I longed to see you again!”
“I do apologize for arriving without writing first, your grace.” Rosalind took the gilded chair that the countess gestured her toward and accepted the cup of tea the liveried footman had brought.
“Oh, do not think on it!” Countess Lieven dropped onto her divan. Rosalind was always impressed by the countess. It took hours of training and much diligent practice to lounge so gracefully. “Surely, such good friends as we are can dispense with tiresome formalities. Burton, you must bring Miss Thorne some of the seedcake, as well. That is your favorite, is it not?”
Dorothea, Countess Lieven, had lost none of her sparkle. The wife of the Russian ambassador to the Court of St. James’s, she was widely regarded as a fascinating individual. Certainly numerous aristocratic gentlemen and powerful politicians were said to have found her so. For the most part, the countess spoke French, which was also the language of the Russian court. Her English, however, was quite good, but Rosalind suspected she liked people to forget just how good.
“Now, Miss Thorne, do tell me all the news. How does the delightful Miss Littlefield? I have received a copy of her book, you know. It is most amusing! I shall surely be recommending it to all my friends.”
“I shall make sure to tell her, your grace. I’m sure she will be most pleased.” Indeed, Alice would be beside herself, and her publisher, Mr. Colburn, would probably faint from sheer joy.
Rosalind ate her cake and made polite small talk. This primarily consisted of Rosalind offering up bits of slight gossip that gave the countess an opportunity to expound on people and circumstances she knew, which she did at dramatic length.
Rosalind tried to keep her mind on what was said, but she could not help imagining what a meeting between Mrs. Dowding and Countess Lieven would look like.
If it was a play, it would sell out its season.
Once a polite interval had passed, Rosalind handed her plate to the waiting footman.
“I am surprised to find you still in town, your grace,” she said. “I had understood you were planning to summer on the Continent.”
The countess sighed deeply. “Ah, well, that was our hope. But all plans are overturned by the queen’s trial. My husband must stay in town in order to observe how matters progress, you understand. Therefore, I am trapped here to swelter and repine.” These depressed words were delivered with a sardonic smile meant to erase any seriousness from them. “But at least I am not alone. I understand Lady Jersey has recently visited you, Miss Thorne.”
“She was so kind as to call,” Rosalind acknowledged. It was possible this was the reason for the countess’s surreptitious invitation—she simply wanted to hear what the famously talkative Lady Jersey was saying behind her back.
And yet Rosalind could not bring herself to believe that was the only thing her grace wanted.
“Did she mention the current royal affairs?” the countess asked. “I am sure she positively poured out her bosom to you.”
There it is.
“We may have spoken about the matter,” said Rosalind cautiously. “It is, after all, very much on everyone’s mind.”
“It is certainly on Lady Jersey’s.” A hint of exasperation crept into the countess’s voice. “She speaks of nothing else these days. And when she speaks, she cries.” Her mouth formed a moue of disapproval. “I believe she needs to stand awhile in the English rain to cool off.”
Rosalind dropped her gaze.
The countess laughed. “Come, Miss Thorne, I am sorry. Lift your eyes and do not mind me. It is only I am so disconcerted. You see, I cannot understand how my good friend Lady Jersey, who so prides herself on her taste and ton, can press the case of such a coarse and ill-bred creature as Caroline of Brunswick.” She shuddered delicately. “I can’t tell you what horrible faces one sees nowadays in the streets and the main roads, and how insolently they come up and bawl in one’s ears.”
It was an invitation to recount her own experiences, but Rosalind said nothing. She had been acquainted with the countess for some years and was obliged to her for her help on more than one occasion. But at the same time, she knew that Dorothea Lieven was not to be trusted. She was an intelligent and sophisticated woman who danced through society’s politics as lightly as she waltzed through its ballrooms. Countess Lieven made no secret of the fact that her goal was to further her husband’s career, and that meant her loyalty and her actions were to herself—and to the tsar, the countess would have added—but not to anyone else.
Rosalind could not permit herself to forget that for one moment.
“I am surprised, your grace,” she said. “You seem so well informed on Lady Jersey’s opinions, I should not think you’d care to hear any more about them.”
The countess raised her hand to hide her smile. “You see straight through me, as always, Miss Thorne. Yes, I admit, I am consumed with nothing more than vulgar curiosity.”
Rosalind permitted one brow to rise a fraction of an inch and waited.
“Poor Lady Jersey.” The countess tsk-tsked. “She cannot comprehend that anyone might see the world differently than she does. And who can blame her? Her view has benefited her so greatly for so many years. But it does leave her with some notable blind spots.” The countess smiled at some memory. “Including how fear of her influence might compel others to rash actions.”
Rosalind remained silent, her thoughts working furiously. The influence of women like Lady Jersey was routinely laughed at. And yet it was also a very real thing. The hostesses of London brought men together or forced them apart. In social gatherings, they set the subjects of conversation and so piled ideas upon ideas. They could sit alone with the powerful and talk and talk until minds were changed and purses were opened. They started rumors. They ended careers.
Lady Jersey and her drama and her tears brought the strength of the queen’s side into society’s drawing rooms. From there it would travel into Parliament. And the palace.
The words she and the countess spoke next would travel, as well, and along some of the same paths, because the countess would make sure it happened.
Countess Lieven leaned forward. “Well, perhaps if we engage in some of that plain speaking that is so popular among you English? You have gone to see Mrs. Fitzherbert. This we have from the newspapers. Lady Jersey, and all her various tear-filled sentiments, have come to see you. One does not need to do much work to infer that these activities have something to do with the particular rumors surrounding King George and Mrs. Fitzherbert.”
“What rumors are those, your grace?” inquired Rosalind.
The flicker of annoyance in the countess’s dark eyes might have been genuine.
“It is only because there are so many,” Rosalind went on. “If I began to work through them all, we would be here past suppertime.”
“Which would never do,” replied the countess with mock seriousness. “The one in particular I speak of is that Mrs. Fitzherbert intends to appear at the trial.”
Rosalind started; she could not help it. Countess Lieven settled back, with an air of someone who had taken a necessary trick at the card table.
“Lady Jersey has made it her work to remain at the center of influence,” said Rosalind carefully. “And naturally, Mrs. Fitzherbert’s name must come up during such circumstances as the palace finds itself in. But I assure your grace that, to the best of my knowledge, Mrs. Fitzherbert has no plans to insert herself into matters between the king and the queen, either publicly or privately. She is entirely devoted to her daughters, and she wishes only for a quiet, private life.”
She watched the countess’s dark eyes glitter as she absorbed Rosalind’s words and how they were spoken.
But are they what she wanted to hear? Rosalind could not tell.
At last, Countess Lieven leaned forward. “Miss Thorne, will you be advised by me?” Rosalind felt her spine stiffen. The countess’s tone was entirely serious, without her usual sparkling mixture of irony and levity.
“I will certainly hear whatever it is your grace cares to say.”
“When you speak with the queen . . . Oh, do not look so modest. You will be speaking with her or one of her people quite soon, if you have not already . . . Advise her as strongly as you can to take the settlement she is offered and go quietly to her exile.”
Rosalind said nothing.
“This is not a fight she can win, though all the English laws and the hearts of the people stand with her. She must understand that the men surrounding the king are very like him. They have large ambitions but paltry imaginations. It is a dangerous pairing, because it leads them to very obvious and uncivilized solutions.”
Rosalind wanted to protest. She wanted to laugh. The countess could not possibly mean to be hinting . . .
And yet. Countess Lieven’s face was no longer a cynical blank. She was quite serious.
A chill ran down Rosalind’s arms. At the same time she was conscious of a spark of anger. What drove it or where it came from, she could not say. She knew full well that the countess saw her unease. The corner of the other woman’s mouth curled in satisfaction.
Rosalind rallied. She had to, even though it might be difficult. The anger was there, and the feeling of slowly sinking beneath an icy surface.
“I am flattered that you think I might come to the attention of Queen Caroline,” Rosalind said, because it was easiest and gave her time to choose her next words. “And were that to happen, I should certainly deliver any message your grace might care to impart, although I do think you might be wise to pick someone with a better chance at being heard.” She paused and let the countess drink that much down. “I will admit, however, it does make me wonder how you might advise Mrs. Fitzherbert, were you given the opportunity.”
The countess arched her perfect brows, considering this. Rosalind fully expected another cool, sparkling laugh and some witticism.
And yet . . . and yet . . .
“Are you fond of the theater, Miss Thorne?”
The question was meant to catch her off guard, and it would have if Rosalind had less experience with the woman in front of her. “Very,” she said.
“It is so difficult to be a truly great performer. There are so many different skills required, most of which we mere citizens do not stop to consider. For example, there is knowing how to leave the stage when the applause is still with one. That is a mark of true greatness.” The countess gestured, indicating the world outside her perfectly appointed room. “I had heard Mrs. Fitzherbert planned to go to the Continent for a while. It seems to me this is an excellent plan, for her and her daughters. Especially if she does not wish anyone to think she was in the throes of planning a return engagement.” Countess Lieven paused. “Or that you were a part of any such plan. I believe the papers are beginning to speculate on the subject already, are they not?”
Rosalind felt herself go very cold. The countess smiled and nodded just once.
Rosalind had been consumed by what felt like an overwhelming mountain of problems—the theft of the certificate, Josiah Poole’s murder, the publicity and papers, Ronald Ranking, Lady Jersey, and now the countess herself.
She had not until this moment thought how her involvement with Mrs. Fitzherbert might look to the world outside—especially when the world outside did not know about the missing marriage certificate. All they knew was that Rosalind had helped a number of ladies plagued by scandal and disgrace return to their places in society or to good marriages or to families that had previously disapproved of them.
She had not thought that it might look like Mrs. Fitzherbert was planning to step into the queen’s shoes as soon as the queen was removed from them, and that she had called on Rosalind to help her do it.
A number of very unpleasant and urgent thoughts flashed through Rosalind’s mind, but foremost among them all was the memory of the king riding slowly back and forth in front of Mrs. Fitzherbert’s door.
Had he truly left the palace without being seen? Had no one among the staff there, among his aides, counselors, and friends, spoken of where he had gone?
The strength of feeling, realization, and suspicion put her in danger of losing her countenance. She must take her leave, and she must do it at once.
Rosalind steeled her quaking knees and made herself stand smoothly. “Thank you for your welcome, your grace,” she said. “It was very kind of you to see me on such short notice.”
“But not at all.” The countess rose with her. “You are welcome here at any moment. My staff know that I am always at home to Miss Thorne.”
Rosalind thanked her and allowed the footman to show her out to the entrance hall, where the maid met her with her bonnet and pelisse.
Rosalind let herself be helped into her things, her heart hammering against her ribs from all that she had heard. The maid curtsied; Rosalind walked to the doors, which were promptly opened for her. She walked down the steps and down the path and out through the gate to the street.
She did not let herself look back, not once. Not even to see if Ron Ranking was loitering at the countess’s area railing.
She did not truly believe the countess might be watching her leave, but she would not take even the smallest risk that her face could be seen.
Not when the countess had so carefully suggested the queen might be murdered by the king’s associates if she did not cease protesting the divorce.
Not when the countess had so calmly threatened to spread the rumor that Rosalind was helping to topple the queen and set Mrs. Fitzherbert in her place.