CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Like Wildfire
“Believe me, the world will now soon be convinced, that there not only is, but never was, grounds for these reports, which of late have been so malevolently circulated.”
Langdale, Charles, Memoirs of Mrs. Fitzherbert
“Thank you for agreeing to see me so early, Mrs. Fitzherbert.”
Rosalind had been conducted to Mrs. Fitzherbert’s sunny moss-green breakfast parlor by the solemn, portly footman. As soon as she entered, Mrs. Fitzherbert left her toast and tea and came to take Rosalind’s hand.
“Thank you, Miss Thorne, for returning Minney to me,” she said. “She explained all that you did. I fear I judged you prematurely.”
“I am glad I was able to help,” said Rosalind.
“Will you sit?” Mrs. Fitzherbert gestured toward the breakfast table.
“I cannot stay,” said Rosalind. “I came . . .” She hesitated. “I came to say that if you were willing to trust me just once more, I may be able to finish the task you gave to me.”
“How?”
Rosalind told her. Mrs. Fitzherbert listened wordlessly. When Rosalind finished, Mrs. Fitzherbert’s hand strayed to her husband’s miniature. Then she did the last thing Rosalind would have expected.
She laughed.
Mrs. Fitzherbert’s laugh was loud and long and breathless. It turned her face pink and youthful, and for the first time, Rosalind saw the fullness of her beauty and understood how she might have captured a prince.
“Oh, my word!” Mrs. Fitzherbert dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips. “Oh, Miss Thorne. This is entirely perfect. Yes, let us put your plan into practice at once!”
Rosalind let out the breath she had been holding and reached into her reticule. “I have prepared the announcement.” She handed it to Mrs. Fitzherbert. “It should go into all the major papers tomorrow.”
“With pleasure.” And for the first time since Rosalind had entered Mrs. Fitzherbert’s house, that lady beamed openly.
* * *
Half an hour after Rosalind left Mrs. Fitzherbert’s, she was shown into Lady Jersey’s front parlor by a footman in canary-yellow and sky-blue livery who radiated an air of disapproval so heavy that it could have sunk a ship of the line. It was, after all, still a full hour before the time polite society decreed was set aside for morning calls.
Yet another half hour passed before Lady Jersey herself sailed into the room.
“Miss Thorne!” she cried. “You will be so good as to explain yourself this instant!”
“I do apologize, Lady Jersey,” said Rosalind. “If it were not so vitally important to the queen, I would of course have waited until proper visiting hours.”
“What? To the queen?” Lady Jersey exclaimed. “But what is it?”
Rosalind took a deep breath. “Ma’am, I believe there is a plan in place for some new evidence to be brought forth at her trial?”
“Yes, of course. Mr. Brougham has everything prepared. It was why he came to you. Now, if you’re going to begin asking me questions about—”
“You misunderstand me,” said Rosalind hastily. “I know what it is. Mr. Brougham is going to say he had found that there is evidence of the existing marriage between the king and Mrs. Fitzherbert. I must beg you to stop him from making any public pronouncements about it.”
Lady Jersey’s face turned thunderous. “Miss Thorne, it is not your place to—”
“It’s a forgery,” said Rosalind.
Lady Jersey’s mouth snapped shut.
“It is thought that Maria Fitzherbert’s marriage certificate is in circulation, but what is being passed about is a forgery. That’s what she was consulting with me about. When the queen returned and the trial became definite, Mrs. Fitzherbert became afraid that something like this might happen. She thought that either well-meaning friends or some ne’erdo-wells from the newspapers or some such might spread the rumor that the marriage certificate had been found. She begged me to help her put a stop to such gossip before it began. I was too late.” She dropped her gaze, indicating her intense regret. “Please. Speak with Mr. Brougham. Tell him that the paper that has been seen is a forgery.”
Lady Jersey opened her mouth. She closed it again. She drew in a short, sharp breath.
“Miss Thorne, are you certain about what you say?”
Rosalind Thorne looked the most powerful woman in London straight in the eye and lied.
“I have seen the original,” she said. “It is exactly where it should be.” Then she reached into her reticule and pulled out a tightly folded sheaf of papers. “But I have seven copies here, all of which have been offered up for sale.”
“Good Lord,” breathed Lady Jersey. In the next heartbeat, she was running for the door. “Horace! The carriage! At once! I must go to the queen immediately!”
* * *
Sam Tauton plowed straight through the crowd that filled the Bow Street Police Station, with Alice Littlefield hurrying in his wake. The pair of them charged up the corridor that divided the station from the magistrate’s court.
Tauton stopped them in front of a closed door and pounded his fist against it. The door opened, and Adam Harkness looked out, first at Tauton and then at Alice. Alice held up the letter Rosalind had written.
Adam met her gaze, and she grinned at him. Adam’s brows rose. She held out the note, and he took it and nodded to her and closed the door.
“What is it?” Mr. Stafford asked. The chill in his voice said how very little he thought of being interrupted in the midst of taking a statement.
George Dawson was standing in front of his desk at parade rest, staring at some point on the wall and in general imitating a wooden block now that he was not being questioned directly. But Adam saw his gaze drift slowly downward and fasten on the paper in his hands.
Adam opened the note and read Rosalind’s careful writing. He smiled. He could not help it.
“You seem amused, Mr. Harkness,” said Mr. Stafford.
“It is a note from Miss Thorne. It seems there has been a development she thought you should be informed of, Mr. Stafford.”
Mr. Stafford laid down his pen. Captain Dawson let his eyes slip sideways to Adam’s face. Small beads of sweat stood out on his wide forehead.
“What might this development be?” inquired Stafford.
“The Fitzherbert marriage certificate,” said Adam. “Or at least the one that is said to be in circulation. It’s a forgery. One of several.” He held up the note. “Miss Thorne says she has already given the news to Lady Jersey and Mr. Brougham.”
Stafford sat entirely frozen for a long moment. Perhaps it was a petty sensation, but Adam was aware of a deep satisfaction in seeing Bow Street’s spymaster struck entirely dumb.
Finally, Stafford nodded. “Well. I must congratulate you, and Miss Thorne. If the thing goes off, it is very well done.” He closed his book and got to his feet. “I shall go inform Mr. Townsend. I am certain there are . . . persons with whom he will wish to share this excellent news.” Stafford paused. “May I assume that this news will be reported in the newspapers shortly?”
“The matter is in hand even now,” said Adam.
Mr. Stafford walked out the door, which shut silently behind him. Captain Dawson finally permitted himself to turn and to stare openly.
“What the hell just happened?” he asked.
“You’ve been reprieved, Captain,” Adam told him. “And so has your fiancée. By this time tomorrow, it won’t matter what’s happened to the marriage certificate, because no one in the United Kingdom will believe the thing is real.”
* * *
It was eleven o’clock when Mortimer let Ron Ranking into Rosalind’s parlor. The newspaperman’s gaze shifted from her to George Littlefield, who had his long legs stretched out to rest his heels on the hob with an air of perfect ease and comfort.
“Miss Thorne,” said Mr. Ranking. “Littlefield. What’s going on?”
“Thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Ranking,” said Rosalind. “Will you sit?”
He did, carefully, like he thought the chair might break underneath him. “Did you have something to say about what’s been in the papers?” he asked. “Because you have to allow, I gave you every chance . . .”
“Oh, no, it’s not about that. Well, not directly,” said Rosalind. “In fact, I wanted to thank you for your patience. I could not speak before, but now, since I have confirmation, I may give you the pertinent details.”
“And exactly what details are those?”
“They’re saying Mrs. Fitzherbert’s marriage certificate has been found,” George told him. “And that the queen means to bring it forth at her trial.”
“This is not correct,” said Rosalind.
Ranking raised his brows. “Ain’t it, now?”
“No,” repeated Rosalind. “What will be said is that the certificate is a forgery.”
“Well, now.” Mr. Ranking folded his arms. “That would be terribly convenient, now, wouldn’t it? Save some persons a deal of embarrassment.”
“I’ve seen five copies so far,” said George. “They were being printed up by the handful to be sold off to the king’s men or the queen’s men or the papers,” he added sourly. “Whoever’d pay.”
Rosalind nodded. “Mrs. Fitzherbert was afraid something like this might happen,” she said. “She engaged me to try to prevent it. I have just returned from explaining the matter to Lady Jersey, who, as you know, is a great supporter of the queen.”
Ranking looked at her and then at George. A dozen calculations flickered behind his shrewd eyes. He did not believe her tale. Rosalind was not surprised. She had not expected that he would swallow the story as easily as Lady Jersey had, and she certainly was not going to hand him her sheaf of folded papers.
“So what am I doing here?” Mr. Ranking asked. “Why would you tell me this and not leave it to your friend Mr. Littlefield?” He nodded toward George.
“I pay what I owe, Mr. Ranking,” said Rosalind. “You did keep your end of our bargain. I am keeping mine. And if you print this story as I have laid it out for you, tomorrow I will be able to deliver a second item.”
This was the moment. If he refused to accept what she offered, if he instead decided that whatever she held in her hands was not worth what it might cost him to cooperate, the whole plan could collapse absolutely.
“And what would this other little item be?” Mr. Ranking inquired.
“The identity of the person who murdered both Josiah Poole and Thomas Faller.”
* * *
“So, did Ranking agree?” Adam asked.
He and Rosalind sat together in the parlor. The house was empty except for them and the servants. George and Alice were at the Chronicle, both of them preparing pieces that would help shore up the report of the forged marriage certificate.
Rosalind smiled. “He did.”
“Then I hope we do not disappoint,” said Adam. “Because I wouldn’t like to swear we’re going to be able to keep that promise.”
“We know the answer lies with the Pooles,” said Rosalind. “That is more than we had before.”
“We may know it, but what proof is there?” He spread his hands. “And where is it?”
“The connection between the houses is Judith and Tom Faller,” said Rosalind slowly. “What if Faller was the carriage driver? We know he was frequently at the Pooles’ house, because Letitia saw him. Perhaps she was not the only one who did. Perhaps Mrs. Poole or Considen offered him a sum to drive them that day. Perhaps he thought he was participating only in a robbery . . .”
“From what you say, Poole freed Faller from Newgate,” said Adam. “Would he have betrayed a man who bought his freedom?”
“That sort of gratitude can chafe after a while. Poole had a hold on Faller’s wife and on Faller himself. Amelia says he was someone who wanted more for himself and was trying to find a way out of service. Perhaps he was convinced if he did this one thing, it would be the way out.”
“And the morning Amelia met him coming back to the Fitzherberts’?”
“He could have been planning to leave with Judith, but when he got to Poole’s house, she told him about the murder. Perhaps she realized he’d played a part in Poole’s death. Perhaps she broke with him, and he went after her later to try to convince her to take him back.”
“But someone followed him.”
“Or he surprised someone already in the room.”
“It could be.” Adam sighed. “But to all appearances, what evidence we might have had is now destroyed, and Mrs. Poole has determined the one course that truly can keep her family all safe. To say nothing.”
“Mrs. Poole is determined to say nothing,” said Rosalind. “But what of Mr. Considen? Could he be convinced—” She stopped.
Adam had gone still, his eyes unfocused and staring at something he could see only in his mind.
“My God,” he breathed. Slowly, his awareness returned to the room and to her. “My God,” he said again. “That’s what I missed. The walking stick.”
“I don’t understand,” said Rosalind.
“When I was at the Pooles’, I knew something was wrong. Something was missing, but I couldn’t see what it was. It was Considen’s walking stick. It had been burnt. She pointed right at it.” He stabbed one finger toward the hearth. “She said the ashes in the grate were the remains of her husband’s papers, and she pointed right at it. And it was the papers, but it was more than that. She burnt the walking stick, because that was what had been used to murder Thomas Faller.”
“But which of them struck the blow?” asked Rosalind. “Was it Mrs. Poole or her brother?”
“Or both of them together?”
They faced each other for a long, silent moment.
“Mrs. Poole will not permit either of us back into her house,” said Adam. “I’ll need a warrant from Sir David summoning them to the inquest.”
“It may come to that, but there is someone else we might ask first.”
“Not Considen,” said Adam. “He won’t risk his neck, or hers, by talking with me again.”
“No, not Considen,” said Rosalind. “Letitia.”