CHAPTER FIFTY

In a State of Collapse

“What a pity it is when truth is not accompanied by any charms!”

 

Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting

It was perhaps a contradiction, but it was in times of immediate crisis that Rosalind frequently found her mind to be sharpest.

“Get her into bed,” she said to George. She turned and found Mortimer had already summoned Laurel and they both stood in the doorway. “We need brandy immediately,” she told them.

“Right then.” Mortimer vanished into the corridor.

“I’m all right,” gasped Alice as they eased her down onto her bed. “I’m all right.”

“You’re not,” replied Rosalind. “Laurel, bring Mrs. Napier to help, and send down to Mrs. Singh for tea and a hot water bottle.”

“At once, miss.” She also vanished.

“I’m sorry,” Alice croaked. “I’m sorry. I can’t . . . I tried . . .”

“Shhh, sister dear,” murmured George as he pulled off her shoes. “You did everything you needed to. It’s all right now. It is.” He pulled the counterpane over her.

“You must think . . .”

“I think you are my best friend and twenty times as brave as anyone else I know.” Rosalind laid a hand on her forehead. Despite the heat of the day, she was ice cold. “Send for whatever she needs, George. I’ll be back in a moment.”

George nodded, and Rosalind took herself back down to the parlor. Mr. Brougham stood in front of the fireplace. He was pretending not to read the invitations on the mantel. Rosalind felt a stab of anger at having to pull her hostess’s mask on to deal with this man at this moment, with Alice upstairs, pale and shaking, and Tom Faller dead.

A second man dead. And Judith and the certificate . . . where?

Rosalind forced her features into the acceptable expression of placid calm.

“I do beg your pardon, Mr. Brougham,” she said. “But a matter has arisen which I find I must attend to.”

He wanted to know what it was. His curiosity thrummed through the air between them. She held his gaze, letting her demeanor inform him that she would say nothing. He would have to ask and, by asking, would reveal himself to be entirely discourteous.

It occurred to Rosalind that she could simply tell him the truth—that the certificate had been stolen and that two men connected to the theft were dead. He was not only a representative of the queen but also a representative of the government. If she told him what she knew and referred him to Sir David, her part in this could be done. She would be absolved of responsibility, and he, and others, would take over.

It is wounded pride that holds me back, that is all. I want to be the one to solve this problem.

Except, of course, that wasn’t all. Whatever she said now would be repeated and enlarged upon. In a matter of days, the whole of London would know not only that the king’s marriage certificate was real, but also that the king’s marriage was real.

Mrs. Fitzherbert would be dragged into the unforgiving light of public judgment, along with her daughters. The king, the government, it would all topple. It might fall. This was not exaggeration. It was the truth.

But it was Mrs. Fitzherbert’s face that was clearest in front of her mind’s eye. She had asked for Rosalind’s help to protect her girls, to help them walk freely into a future unencumbered by her past mistakes. That was what was at stake here.

So, Rosalind faced Mr. Brougham with her back straight and her demeanor calm. He met her gaze, and she knew he wanted to quiz her. More, he wanted to barge up the stairs and find out who had come in and what had happened. And all Rosalind had to hold him back was the strength of propriety.

It was enough. Mr. Brougham bowed. “Thank you for receiving me, Miss Thorne. I hope I may call again to continue our conversation?”

“You will find me at home Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

Mr. Brougham accepted the dismissal and took his leave. Rosalind stood where she was until she heard Mortimer close the front door. Then she grabbed her hems and flew up the stairs.

Outside Alice’s door, she met Mrs. Napier with a tray of tea and oatcakes. “I’ll take that in. Thank you.” She took the tray from the housekeeper’s hands and backed through the doorway into Alice’s room.

Alice was sitting up, huddled against George, who had wrapped one arm around her shoulders. She clutched the empty brandy glass in one hand and her brother’s hand with the other.

Rosalind set the tray down on the bedside table. She took the brandy glass from Alice’s clenched fingers and replaced it with a cup of tea.

Then she sat on the edge of the bed. “Tell me what happened.”

Alice bowed her head. It broke Rosalind’s heart to see her so ashamed.

George answered for them both. “You were right,” he said. “Judith is Judith Faller. Mrs. Percivale gave us an address in Camden Town. We drove out and . . .” He swallowed. His color was nearly as bad as Alice’s, and Rosalind had the distinct feeling that he was able to hold on to his outward calm only because he would not break down while his sister needed him.

Rosalind poured out a second brandy and gave it to him. George sipped, and then he gulped.

“Thanks,” he said. “We found . . . well, Alice found Tom Faller dead in Judith’s room. We sent for Sir David right away, but Camden’s not his jurisdiction, it seems, and there was a muddle, and I had to get Alice out of there.”

“Does Adam know about this?” asked Rosalind.

“I don’t know,” said George. “I don’t even know where he is. Do you?”

“At the Pooles’, I think. I don’t know.” Frustration washed over Rosalind. “I’ve been trapped here all day.”

George faced her, his manner grim. “Rosalind, you have to believe I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. I have to get to the Chronicle. If I don’t get this into the paper and framed right . . . Ranking may already know, Rosalind. He could have followed us today, and as soon as he finds out who Faller is, he’ll play up the connection to you and Mrs. Fitzherbert. We have to try to get the story out before he does.”

“Go,” she told him. “I’ll take care of Alice.”

“Alice can take care of herself, thank you,” croaked Alice. But her voice shook.

Still, the defiance was good to hear. It meant she had begun to recover.

“George, on your way, stop at the Pooles’.” Rosalind gave him the direction. “Adam may still be there, but if he is not, send to the White Swan as soon as you are able. Mr. Tauton may know where to find him.”

“I will.” George pressed Rosalind’s hands and bolted out the door.

Rosalind turned back to Alice. “Here.” She handed her friend an oatcake. “You need something in you beside brandy and tea.”

Alice looked like she wanted to dispute the matter, but she took note of Rosalind’s set expression and evidently decided it was not worth it. She accepted the cake and nibbled. It must have tasted good, because nibbles turned to full, enthusiastic bites, and soon the cake was gone.

Rosalind handed her another.

“Thank goodness for Mrs. Singh,” Alice said. “How did we manage without her all this time?”

“I have no idea,” answered Rosalind. “I mean to raise her wages at the quarter day. After today, I’m sure I’ll have numerous ladies attempting to lure her away from us.”

Alice munched on her new cake and drank her tea. “I find I do not like the sight of blood very much.”

“Few people do,” replied Rosalind.

“I thought he’d been shot,” she remarked. “But it seems not. It seems he was beaten.”

Rosalind, who had seen the results of a man beaten to death before, felt her stomach turn over. “I’m so sorry, Alice.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Who was that downstairs? The time for calls should have been over before we got here.”

Trust Alice to have noticed, even as she was collapsed from shock.

“That,” said Rosalind, “was Mr. Henry Brougham.”

Alice straightened up, and just like that, she was herself again.

“Brougham! The queen’s attorney! What was he doing here?”

“It seems that despite best effort, the story has escaped us. Someone has spread the rumor that Mrs. Fitzherbert’s certificate is abroad in the world.”

“Oh, Lord. Oh, Rosalind. Ranking . . .”

“May be the least of our worries,” said Rosalind. “Lady Jersey knows.”

Alice pressed her hand against her mouth. “That means everybody knows.”

“Or will soon. And they know that I’ve been consulted by Mrs. Fitzherbert.” And Countess Lieven was prepared to give them all a titillating reason why.

“Rosalind, you need to tell Mrs. Fitzherbert and, oh, Lord, Amelia . . .”

“I can’t . . .”

“If you say you can’t leave me, I shall be very annoyed with you.” Alice scrambled out of the bed and stood perfectly steady, all her color returned to her cheeks and all the strength to her voice. “I’ll stay here in case Adam, or anyone else, comes. You go.”

Rosalind wanted to ask if she was sure. She wanted to insist that Alice was more important than anything else. But Alice tilted her head and glared down her nose at Rosalind. It was a gesture she had known since they’d met at school, and Rosalind’s heart squeezed with a combination of pride, admiration, and fear.

She hurried back downstairs and sent Mortimer for a cab, Claire for her things, and Mrs. Napier with instructions to tell Mrs. Singh to assemble a cold collation for whoever might come to the house that evening.

Within minutes, Rosalind had climbed into a hired cab and was speeding on her way to Mrs. Fitzherbert’s, trying to formulate some kind of plan for what she would say.

Thomas Faller was dead. Josiah Poole was dead. Poole had been commissioned to acquire the certificate. Faller might well have helped, either for the sake of the payment or for the sake of his wife, who was employed in Poole’s household.

But were they killed to get the certificate from them or to silence them so they could not say what had become of it? And if the certificate was not in the hands of the king and his allies, and it was not with the queen and her allies or with the papers or with the Pooles, where on earth was it? Rosalind had a sudden vision of the piece of paper sitting on a dust-heap in a dark alley while all the world surged around looking for the thing that was lying there in plain sight.

And this includes me.