CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
In the Queen’s Defense
“The Princess of Wales speaks highly of Mrs. Fitzherbert. She always says, ‘that is the Prince’s true wife; she is an excellent woman.’”
Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting
Henry Brougham was a youthful, handsome man, Rosalind reflected as the man leading the queen’s counsel entered her parlor. He had a long face and a cheerful, open gaze. His dark hair swept back from a high, pale forehead. He wore his perfectly tailored coat, elaborate neckcloth, and close-cut breeches with an air of perfect comfort. His bow to her was compact and respectful.
“I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Brougham,” said Rosalind as they were both seated. “Will you have some tea? Do you take milk or sugar?”
“Just a little sugar, if you please. And I am delighted to finally meet you,” he replied. “My good friend Lady Jersey is full of tales of the astonishing and useful Miss Thorne.”
“Complimentary, I trust,” said Rosalind as she handed across the cup.
“Oh, you know Lady Jersey’s style.” Mr. Brougham leaned back, quite casual and relaxed. “One day she sings your praises, the next day she is appalled by some small matter, and the next it is forgotten, and everything is right as rain.”
This did not comport with the Lady Jersey Rosalind knew. She could certainly be capricious, but she had a long memory, especially for small grudges. She was known to strike whole families off the visiting list for Almack’s for the tiniest of slights.
This, however, was not an observation Rosalind could make to Mr. Brougham. The parliamentarian, however, did not lack for subjects of conversation. He chatted amiably about the lovely summer weather and the latest performance of Shakespeare at the King’s Theatre. He added a few words of praise for Alice’s novel, which were such to suggest he might have actually read at least some of it.
This very polite, very small talk lasted for exactly as long as it took Mr. Brougham to drain his teacup.
“Now, Miss Thorne, I suppose you are wondering why I have come to call on you when any truly polite gentleman would have waited at least until the morrow.”
“I admit, I had wondered,” she replied blandly.
“I am here, Miss Thorne, because rumors have reached Her Majesty that a certain document has gone missing. One that interests Her Majesty very much.”
Rosalind felt her hands grow cold. Not trusting herself to speak, she merely arched her brows.
“May I speak plainly, Miss Thorne?” he asked.
“I would much prefer it, Mr. Brougham.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Mrs. Fitzherbert’s marriage certificate has left her hands, and it is in circulation. This is the reason for your visit to that lady’s household.”
“May I inquire as to the source of these rumors?” Had Countess Lieven carried out her threat? Or was there another source? Someone in Mrs. Fitzherbert’s orbit? Or had Mrs. Poole spoken to some old acquaintance?
Or had Ron Ranking put two and two together? But if that was the case, surely, they all would have seen it in the papers this morning.
But Mr. Brougham clearly had no intention of satisfying her curiosity. “Who knows how these things start? But the word is out now, and we must deal with the matter.”
Had that word reached Mrs. Fitzherbert yet? What was she saying in response?
There was no way to know, because she was stuck here, with this man, chatting pleasantly, as she had been all day, while Adam chased down the phantom of George Dawson, and Alice was . . . Where on earth was Alice?
Rosalind pushed her fear down and returned her focus to the man in front of her.
“May I ask, Mr. Brougham, are you here on Her Majesty’s behalf, or are you acting for yourself alone?”
The question clearly stung, as she had meant it to. “Everything I do is on my country’s behalf, Miss Thorne,” he said frostily. “We are a nation of laws, which must be obeyed even by the king. If he will not follow the law, then he will answer to it.”
He meant it. Rosalind was sure of that. He was perfectly prepared to bring the king to book, to use Adam’s expression. What was more, he wanted to do it. But whether that was for the sake of the laws of England or for the uplifting of Henry Brougham, Rosalind found she could not tell.
“Well, then, surely, you can ill afford to be distracted by a simple rumor at such a delicate time,” she said.
Mr. Brougham leaned a little closer and beamed. Rosalind could imagine herself as a young woman becoming quite flustered by his proximity.
“Miss Thorne,” he said softly. “I suspect it is not rumors but you who are attempting to distract me.”
Having delivered this statement, he sat back, regarding her as if she were a particularly complex puzzle to be solved. Rosalind let him look. She did not fuss or fidget; she would not give him any opening. She could not.
“Miss Thorne, will you tell me, as a representative of Parliament who is currently engaged on a question of national import, why Mrs. Fitzherbert has asked for your help?”
Rosalind remained silent.
“You decline to answer,” said Mr. Brougham. “Which is as I would expect from a lady who is much in others’ confidence. Very well. If an appeal to your patriotism will not move you, let us set aside the crowns and coronets and truly consider who we are dealing with. We are dealing with a woman who has been wronged. Her marriage has been a sham from the beginning. You have heard the story of the royal wedding night?”
He did not wait for an answer. “The prince, our king, was so drunk that he had to be held up through the entire ceremony, and then when he did stagger into the bedchamber, he fell, insensible, on the hearth, where his wedded wife was obliged to leave him. She has received nothing but scorn and indifference from him while he publicly flaunts his mistresses, and now it is he who dares to make her supposed infidelities public and sue for a divorce against her. Is that right, Miss Thorne? Is that just?”
Rosalind kept her breathing even and her mouth closed. Mr. Brougham was a fascinating orator, and he clearly understood his audience. He did not shout. His voice was at all times low and intense. He spoke as if she were not just the only woman in the room but the only woman in the world, and all his hopes hung upon her next decision.
She could not afford to be hasty, and she could most certainly not afford to be fascinated. Mr. Brougham’s presence was a stark reminder of how far she had strayed from her normal circles—the parlors and drawing rooms of London’s hostesses, and their personal matters. Part of her wanted to shout that she did not belong here, that questions of Crown and country had nothing to do with her and never could.
But even as Mr. Brougham gathered himself for what he surely intended to be his closing argument, Rosalind heard the sound of the front door slamming open. A moment later, she heard George’s urgent voice and Alice’s painful gasp.
Rosalind was on her feet and racing for the parlor door. She did not excuse herself or even acknowledge there was still a visitor with her. She just ran into the foyer and saw George and Mortimer supporting a fainting Alice toward the stairs.
“Good Lord, Alice!” she cried. “George, what happened?”
“Faller is dead,” said George. “And Alice found him.”