A Counterfeit Suitor

Book 5: Rosalind Thorne Mystery

by Darcie Wilde

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

It is every mama's dearest wish that her daughter marries well. But how to ensure that a seemingly earnest suitor is not merely a fortune hunter? Rosalind is involved in just such a case, discreetly investigating a client's prospective son-in-law, when she is drawn into another predicament shockingly close to home.



Rosalind's estranged father, Sir Reginald Thorne—a drunkard and forger—has fallen into the hands of the vicious scoundrel Russell Fullerton. Angered by her interference in his blackmail schemes, Fullerton intends to unleash Sir Reginald on society and ruin Rosalind. Before Rosalind's enemy can act, Sir Reginald is found murdered—and Fullerton is arrested for the crime. He protests his innocence, and Rosalind reluctantly agrees to uncover the truth, suspecting that this mystery may be linked to her other, ongoing cases.



Aided by her sister, Charlotte, and sundry friends and associates—including handsome Bow Street Runner Adam Harkness—Rosalind sets to work. But with political espionage and Napoleon loyalists in the mix, there may be more sinister motives, and far higher stakes, than she ever imagined . . .

Release date: November 30, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

London, December 1819

“He says yes!”

Alice’s shout jolted Rosalind from contemplation of her latest piece of correspondence. So did the fact that her friend leapt to her feet and began dancing about the small parlor, waving a piece of paper over her head.

“He said yes! He said yes!”

“Is that a letter from Mr. Colburn?” asked Rosalind mildly. Alice Littlefield supported herself as a writer, a translator, and gossip columnist. Last year, however, Alice had received an invitation from the publisher, Henry Colburn, to submit a novel manuscript.

“And he said yes!” Alice thrust the letter at Rosalind and recommenced her exuberant dance.

Rosalind read:

“Alice, this is wonderful!” Rosalind got to her feet and embraced her friend. The two women were a study in contrasts. Alice was tiny, quick, and dark, whereas Rosalind was tall, pale, and statuesque with darkly golden hair and a pair of steady blue eyes.

“Of course, I knew he would accept,” Alice said loftily. “Being such an excellent judge of literary merit.”

“Of course,” Rosalind answered with perfect sobriety. The pair of them stared at each other for a full ten seconds before bursting into laughter. The fact was that in the month since she’d taken Mr. Colburn her manuscript, Alice had been scarcely able to sit still for five minutes altogether. It was something of a trial on their friendship, because at that same time, Alice had also moved into Rosalind’s house in Little Russell Street.

Alice fell back into her chair by the window. Rosalind’s small parlor had been made even more cramped by the addition of a table that was perpetually piled with Alice’s books and papers, not to mention her portable writing desk and assorted ink pots. Rosalind kept her desk with its neat stacks of correspondence and account and visiting books beside the hearth.

“Oh, I can’t wait to see the look on my dear brother’s face when I tell him!” Alice crowed. “He was so set against the idea for so long.”

“You cannot entirely blame him,” said Rosalind. “It was a risky proposition. Your editor at the Chronicle could have taken offense.”

“Never. The Major was thrilled when I told him. The possibility that his gossip column might now be written by a ‘celebrated novelist’ has him counting new sales in his sleep.” Alice grinned broadly. “We must celebrate, Rosalind! Where shall we go? What should we do?”

“I’m so sorry, Alice, I can’t tonight. I must keep my appointment with Mrs. Walford to attend the opera.”

“Oh! It’s the season opening! This letter from Mr. Colburn drove it right out of my head. Have you heard from Sanderson yet?”

“This is his letter here.” She held up the piece of correspondence. “He reports that he was entirely successful in his errand and will meet me in the salon tonight.”

Like Alice, Rosalind lived in what was frequently termed “distressed circumstances.” Her life had begun promisingly enough. She was the younger daughter of a charming baronet who was prized as a party guest by all the best hostesses. Her mother had charted her course through London’s social networks with a skill that got her into the visiting books of some of the city’s most prominent ladies. Rosalind had even attracted the attention of Devon Winterbourne, the younger son of the Duke of Casselmaine.

Then it had all gone wrong. Rosalind’s charming and delightful father had fallen into debt. Sir Reginald has always gambled, but debt tempted him deeper into gaming and speculation. When none of this was enough, and his friends began to turn away his begging letters, he turned to forging letters of credit.

At last, unable to find his way out of the morass he made, her father fled. He left behind nothing but the ashes of burnt dunning notices and a letter assuring his wife and youngest daughter of his eternal love.

His oldest daughter, Charlotte, he took with him.

It had been too much for Rosalind’s mother. She had supported Sir Reginald with every ounce of her energy, and he had abandoned her. Her nerves snapped. When she died, Rosalind was left to make her own way.

With help from her mother’s friends, Rosalind learned to apply her talent for organization and her understanding of London’s social world to help these ladies of the haut ton manage their households and their seasons. Gradually, she developed a reputation for being a useful woman for the ambitious hostess to know, and cultivate. This allowed her a genteel, if frugal, living and kept her at least on the periphery of the world in which she was raised.

Two years ago, however, Rosalind’s world had changed again. A murder had occurred at the most improbable location—the ballroom at the famous Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Rosalind was engaged to make sure no taint of scandal became attached to the assembly rooms, or to its famous patronesses. In the end, Rosalind had done this and discovered the murderer as well.

Now, Rosalind continued her life as a “useful” woman, but the requests for help with particularly delicate matters became more frequent. She found herself consulted by a number of powerful families of London who wanted, or needed, to be preserved from scandal, and even prison.

It was in this capacity she was engaged to attend the opera this evening.

“You know, Rosalind, I’ve been on the verge of becoming annoyed with you about this current business of yours,” Alice said. “You have been more than usually secretive about it.”

“I’m sorry, Alice. The truth is, I’ve been rather uncertain about it all.”

Alice detected the change in Rosalind’s tone and the light in her eye. “Well, perhaps if you’d tell me what it is . . .”

Rosalind smiled. “I will, and right now, because I’m going to need your help. You see, about a month ago I was approached by a Mrs. Walford, on the recommendation of Mrs. Gregory. Mrs. Walford said she wanted to give a charity ball to raise money for the widows and orphans of the late wars, before the ton scatters for Christmas.”

“But what Mrs. Walford really wanted . . .” Alice leaned forward eagerly.

“Was for someone to look into the background of a young man her daughter had met,” said Rosalind. “Mr. Horatio Salter.”

“Oh wait, this was the man we came upon so conveniently at Mrs. Holding’s private concert last month? The concert you suggested that George and Hannah and I should attend with you?”

“It was also where George was so enormously helpful in getting Mr. Salter talking about all his school chums.”

“And you immediately set about seeing which of the sisters and mothers of those school chums you were acquainted with, so you could start asking leading questions about Mr. Salter?”

“Exactly,” said Rosalind. “Miss Augustina Walford is an heiress, not on the heroic scale, but respectable. The family is from Manchester, so they do not have the connections among the London ton to thoroughly inquire into a suitor’s background for themselves. This leaves them vulnerable to fortune hunters.”

“Not to mention the fact that the London ton will surely look down their very long noses at any Manchester soap manufacturer seeking advice.”

“Gingham,” Rosalind corrected her. “And yes. Despite the fact that Mrs. Walford was raised in London, the family has received all the usual snubs. That is part of what the charity ball is meant to assist with. In the meantime, I have been able to unearth a number of salient facts about the man who wishes to ensnare Miss Augustina Walford.”

Rosalind pulled a stack of letters out of her desk. Alice took them and scanned the pages quickly. “Oh, Rosalind! I mean, I expected debt, but . . . he was part of the 1814 stock fraud?” The fraud had been a major scandal. It started with a rumor in a coffeehouse saying Napoleon was dead. That rumor had spread and mushroomed into a stock-buying spree that had cost the public millions of pounds, ruined whole families, and nearly crashed the entire market.

“A minor player, but yes, he was instrumental in spreading those initial rumors.”

“Well, that seems all very straightforward.” Alice leafed through the letters. “He’s a fraudulent fortune hunter, and mother’s instincts have saved the day. What is it that’s made you uncertain?”

“I don’t know,” Rosalind sighed. “It’s something about Miss Walford herself. She shows all the signs of being attached to Mr. Salter, but there’s a way she looks at him, and at me sometimes, like she’s suspicious.”

“Could she have guessed that you’re checking up on her fiancé? If my mother did any such thing, I would have been furious!”

“I know. I just wish I felt more certain. There’s something at my fingertips, but I can’t quite get hold of it.”

“Well, you will,” said Alice. “You always do. Perhaps it will happen tonight.”

“Yes, it very well might. The plan is that Sanderson Faulks and I will be creating a small scene at the opera, one that will involve Mr. Salter. I hope A.E. Littlefield will write up the incident and include mention of some shocking information”—Rosalind tapped the letters in Alice’s hands—“that has come to his attention.”

“Well, as delighted as I’m sure the Major would be to unearth a member of such a notorious fraud, shouldn’t this go to Bow Street? Or even Parliament?”

“Unfortunately, what we have is rumor—repeated rumor, but rumor all the same. Coupled with what has been confirmed about Mr. Salter’s debts and gaming habits, I’m sure it is true, but I don’t have definite proof yet. I’m hoping that will come next.”

“I’ll get these to George right away,” said Alice. Like Alice, George wrote for the Chronicle, but was generally assigned to what Alice referred to as the “richer” stories. “He can write the main article. It will be a change from writing about Bonapartists.”

“Bonapartists?”

“Yes, it seems England and France are both absolutely riddled with secret societies of Bonapartists. All with terribly dramatic names—the Carbonari, the Friends of This, the Society of That, The Congregation . . . oh no, wait, those are supporters of the Bourbons . . . anyway, the country is full of such societies, half of them are dining at Holland House and trying to get motions passed in Parliament. The other half is sending money to his brother in Philadelphia, or is it Mexico now?”

“Whose brother?”

“Napoleon’s! His brother Louis is settled in America, working on fomenting revolution and setting his brother up a new empire just as soon as all these secret societies manage to get him off St. Helena. There was talk of a hot-air balloon, but that seems to have gone nowhere. The submarine is apparently rather more promising. Although, if I were to place a bet, I’d favor the corsairs who are being outfitted in Argentina. Honestly, Rosalind, don’t you read the papers?”

Rosalind could not tell from her friend’s face whether Alice was serious about any of this. “Forgive me,” she said blandly. “I’m afraid I’ve been rather busy of late.” Since summer, she had been answering an increasing number of pleas from ladies who wanted her help. The benefit to their household budget was measurable, but it was taking a great toll on Rosalind’s reserves of energy and concentration.

“Yes, of course,” said Alice. “Well, as I say, I will get these to George, and I’m sure he’ll appreciate the change. Not a secret society in the bunch.” She waved the letters like a fan, but then some motion outside the window caught her eye. “Rosalind, were you expecting any calls today?”

“No, no one.”

“Well, there’s a lady hurrying up to your, that is, our door.”

Rosalind came to her friend’s side and looked out the window. A slender woman in a plain, dark coat and a broad, concealing bonnet with plenty of lace trimming was walking up the street, and mounted the steps to Rosalind’s door.

It was impossible to see her face from this angle, but Rosalind’s breath grew short anyway.

Why would she come here?

A moment later, the new housemaid, Amelia, came into the parlor. “A lady to see you, Miss Thorne. She sent this in.” She held out a card. “She said you would know her.”

Rosalind took the card without reading it. “Yes, I know her.”

“Rosalind?” began Alice, but Rosalind shook her head. Alice would see soon enough who their visitor was. Right now, she could not trust herself to speak.

The parlor door opened and the maid stood back to let their visitor enter. Rosalind rose slowly to her feet. Alice openly gaped.

The woman was a bit older than Rosalind, and thoroughly out of breath. Her dress was plain, but its blue woolen fabric and cream trim were of the highest quality. Its skirt was fuller, and its waist was lower than current fashion, hinting that changes in the mode were soon to come. Her honey-gold hair was simply but stunningly arranged. Her face was a perfect, pale oval, and she was tall enough to look Rosalind directly in the eye. But where Rosalind’s form was generously curved, this new arrival was slim as a willow wand.

Her clear blue eyes, though, were strikingly similar to Rosalind’s own.

“Hello, Charlotte,” said Rosalind to her sister.

“Hello, Rosalind,” replied Charlotte. “Hello, Alice.”

“Charlotte.” Alice swallowed. “This is . . . a surprise.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. But something . . . it’s very urgent.” She hesitated. “Rosalind, I think we had best speak in private.”

“There’s nothing you can say that Alice can’t hear,” said Rosalind. Her sister’s cheeks were pale, and there were dark rings under her eyes. Rosalind felt her chest tighten with sudden fear. “What’s happened?”

“It’s father,” Charlotte said. “He’s escaped me.”

Escaped. Rosalind felt her knees tremble.

Alice was at her side at once. “Sit down, Rosalind, you’ve gone quite pale.”

“Yes.” Rosalind let her friend steer her toward her desk chair. She sat. She smoothed her skirts reflexively. But as she tried to force her thoughts past Charlotte’s abrupt revelation, they would not move.

“You sit as well, Charlotte,” directed Alice. She threw open the parlor door. The housemaid was already there, looking startled and guilty. “Coffee, Amelia,” said Alice sharply. She also closed the door.

“Mrs. Kendricks is no longer with you?” murmured Charlotte absently. Despite Alice’s offer of a chair, Charlotte remained on her feet, pacing back and forth in the limited space the parlor afforded.

The sight of her agitation was another blow. Charlotte was a highly successful courtesan. Her particular skills included being able to maintain a calm and cheerful façade, no matter what the provocation.

“Charlotte, how did this happen?” asked Rosalind.

“I don’t know.” Charlotte yanked on her bonnet ribbon and pulled it off, revealing how very pinched and white her face had become. She looked around for somewhere to put her hat. Rosalind rose and took it from her. Alice shoved aside a pile of books to create a small, clear space.

This done, Charlotte perched on the very edge of the cane-bottomed chair, her back ramrod straight. Fear and frustration filled her eyes. In her dark cloak, she looked far too young and too frail to be the worldly woman Rosalind knew her to be.

It was this sight that forced Rosalind’s thoughts back into motion.

“Tell me what you do know,” she said.

Charlotte nodded once. “I received a letter from Drummond, one of the men I’ve hired to care for Father since we returned to England. He told me that a fire broke out in an alley near the house. Father took advantage of the distraction to flee.

“At first, Drummond was not truly concerned. He expected to find Father in some nearby drinking establishment. Father is kept on a strict ration of spirits,” she added. “It is enough to keep him quiet, but not enough to, well, completely satisfy him.

“It was only when Drummond failed to find him in the pubs that he became alarmed and wrote to me.”

“When was this?” asked Rosalind.

“Four days ago,” said Charlotte.

“Four days!” cried Alice. “And you waited this long to come tell us?”

Charlotte drew herself up. “I have had the sole management of my father for quite some time. You will forgive me if my first impulse was not to come running to the sister with whom I have barely spoken for nearly seven years.”

Alice looked ready to give a sharp retort, which would not be at all helpful.

“Did you go to Bath?” Rosalind asked quickly.

Charlotte’s face tightened.

“I did. We were able to find a man who said he saw father climbing into an enclosed carriage, but that was all. It is as if he’s vanished into thin air.” Charlotte’s voice shook.

“Could he have hired a carriage?” asked Rosalind.

“No, he was not allowed any money.”

Rosalind considered. “Some friend, then?”

“But who?” Charlotte spread her hands. “Since we returned to England, he has not been able to send any letter that my man has not read. There have been no visitors to the house. When he ventures out, he is strictly supervised.”

“Could he have bribed one of the day servants to carry a letter for him?”

“With what?” Charlotte demanded. “I told you, he has no money.”

“Jewelry,” said Alice promptly. “A watch, a snuff box, a stick pin. A pretty promise.”

Charlotte hesitated. “I did question the servants, but I was in such a hurry . . . I suppose it is possible.”

She was not able to add anything, because at that moment, Amelia entered the parlor carrying Rosalind’s massive silver coffee tray.

“Good heavens,” murmured Charlotte. “Of all the things we had, you kept that?”

The elaborate setting dwarfed the side table Amelia set it on.

“Well, it is the family plate,” murmured Rosalind.

“That’s no excuse.”

Amelia stood back, blushing, and Rosalind sent her from the room. As soon as the door closed, Alice moved the tray to her much sturdier writing table.

Rosalind got up to pour out the coffee and hand around the cups. “Sugar?” she asked her sister.

“Yes, please,” answered Charlotte. There was no mistaking the relief in her voice. Rosalind found herself wondering when it was Charlotte last ate.

Rosalind hoped the homey act of pouring and serving the coffee and passing the biscuits (slightly burned at the edges) would help steady her. It was a vain hope. Too many memories forced themselves to the surface of her mind. She remembered all the long, sleepless nights after Father and Charlotte ran away. She had laid awake constructing endless reasons, or at least excuses, to explain what he’d done. She’d found a thousand ways to blame her mother and her sister instead. She’d even blamed herself.

She remembered the last time she’d seen Sir Reginald. She’d been living with her godparents, and he’d forced his way into the house. He was drunk and railing at the heavens, and at her. Her father, whom she still loved in the deep corners of her heart, was demanding money and accusing her of the vilest possible behavior—dishonesty, disloyalty, and even prostitution, although that was not the word he used.

Rosalind remembered staring down at him from the stairway while he heaped abuse on her and her godparents. She remembered the shame that flooded her.

And now he is free again. To go where? To do what? Rosalind added several biscuits to Charlotte’s plate and held out the cup and saucer for her. Charlotte accepted them wordlessly and drank.

Alice waved Rosalind back from the coffee set and served herself.

“Where do you think he’s gone?” Alice asked Charlotte.

Charlotte nibbled at one of the biscuits. “I am assuming he would come to London.”

“To this house?” asked Rosalind.

Charlotte swallowed and set the dry biscuit down. “Possibly. Or it may be he turns up on the doorstep of some old friend. Although I cannot imagine who would take him in. He certainly won’t try to find me, except perhaps to exact some form of revenge.” Her voice shook again.

“After all the years you cared for and supported him,” said Rosalind.

Charlotte looked down into her coffee. Rosalind wondered what memories had risen in her mind. They might be on speaking terms again, but Charlotte had not yet told her anything of her years of exile in Paris, nor of how she’d begun her career as part of the demimonde.

“To Father’s way of thinking, it makes no difference what support I might have given him in the past,” said Charlotte. “I couldn’t give him what he really wanted—the restoration of fortune and reputation.” Her words all had ragged edges, as if they were torn from some deep place. “Therefore, eventually, I was added to his list of enemies.”

“You could have abandoned him.”

Charlotte met Rosalind’s gaze directly. “And you could have abandoned our mother.”

Which was, of course, nothing but the truth. But what good does it do either of us? Rosalind tried to regain a grip on her renegade thoughts. Memory, pride, and recriminations could all be indulged in later. She must deal with what was before her. She could not see where her father was, or what he was doing, but Charlotte was here in this room. She had come here pale and shaken beyond anything Rosalind had ever seen. She spoke of revenge, and her calm voice trembled. These were facts, and she must pay attention to this as well.

“Has something else happened, Charlotte?”

Charlotte looked up at her, and for the first time since they were girls together, Rosalind saw the sheen of tears in her sister’s eyes.

“I am . . . I was . . . to be married.”

“Whh . . .” began Rosalind, at the same time Alice said, “But . . .”

“But I’m a notorious courtesan. What man would agree to take me as his wife?” snapped Charlotte.

“Yes,” said Alice flatly and without shame.

The look Charlotte turned on her was filled as much with contempt as pity. “And you have made your living with the gossip of London’s ballrooms for how many years now? You know very well that if a man is rich enough, he may marry whom he chooses. Well, I have been chosen.”

It seemed to Rosalind the best thing to do was shift the subject. “And this man—your intended—does not know about Father?” said Rosalind.

“He thinks Father is ill and taking the waters under a doctor’s care. I did not . . . I could not hazard the whole truth. Rosalind, if he . . . my fiancé finds out, he will drop me entirely. I know that he will.”

Rosalind felt herself frown. She had only recently come back into acquaintance with her sister, but up until this moment, Charlotte had seemed perfectly comfortable with her role in the demimonde. She had even expressed a preference for her situation over the protected, but much confined, role of wife. What has changed?

One immediate possibility occurred to her.

“Charlotte, are you with child?”

Charlotte’s hand stole to her abdomen, and that was answer enough.

“And your fiancé has agreed to acknowledge the child?”

“It is one thing if I decide to dare the world’s opinion for how I live,” said Charlotte. “I am not prepared to make that decision for a child of mine.”

Rosalind nodded. Above and beyond the social stigma of bastardy, there were a number of laws that placed limitations on any child born out of wedlock. If that child was a boy, there were schools and professions he could not enter. Any right of inheritance could be easily and legally denied him, even if he was the eldest child. If the child was a daughter, well, it did not matter how well connected the father was, the opportunities for a good marriage would instantly vanish.

“How has your fiancé taken the news?” Rosalind asked.

Charlotte’s mouth twitched, like she was trying to smile but could not quite remember how. “He’s thrilled. He has no other children and finds the idea of becoming a father at his age rather . . . charming.”

“I’m glad for you,” said Rosalind.

Charlotte looked at her and saw she meant it. “Thank you.”

“Can you not find some way to explain the truth about our father?”

“It is one thing for a man to make his mistress his wife,” said Charlotte. “It is another to take on responsibility for a forger, a debtor, a drunkard—” She bit the words off and began again. “It is my own fault. I lied to him. How could I have known it would ever matter? But now, if I am caught out in this lie, what else will he begin to doubt?” Her fingers flexed. “I should have known my situation would become insupportable. I should have taken steps while I had the chance.”

The soft anger in those words sent a shiver up Rosalind’s spine. “What more could you have done?”

Charlotte did not answer, which only deepened Rosalind’s sudden chill.

“We must find our father,” said Charlotte. “Before he has the chance to destroy us both.”

She was right, of course. Rosalind’s position, if anything, was more delicate than Charlotte’s. As a woman alone, Rosalind maintained her social standing only as long as she maintained her reputation for gentility and respectability. The revelation of a criminal connection could cause the ladies she depended on to desert her in droves.

The answer was obvious. Rosalind wished it wasn’t.

She set down her coffee cup. “Charlotte, have you any money?”

“Some. Yes.”

“Very well. This is beyond what we will be able to do ourselves. We must hire one of the Bow Street runners to search for him. The fee will be high, but we have no time for anything else. The longer our father is free, the greater the risks.” Even just talking about the actions they could take heartened Rosalind. Anything was better than letting memory and fear roll over her in their chilling waves.

“Rosalind,” said Alice. “You can’t mean to enlist Adam Harkness?”

Adam Harkness was a principal officer of the Bow Street police station. He and Rosalind had met while she was trying to unravel the scandal at Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Since then, he had helped her through a number of difficult, and violent, situations. Rosalind knew him to be honest, diligent, intelligent, and kind.

She felt Alice watching her, and resolutely refused to blush. Because Adam Harkness made no secret of the fact that he harbored feelings for Rosalind. That she returned those feelings was something Rosalind had only been able to acknowledge carefully, and briefly. At least, so far.

But her personal regard for Mr. Harkness was not something she chose to discuss at this time. She ignored Alice and kept her focus on her sister.

“I will only contact him if you agree, Charlotte,” Rosalind said. “We can trust him to be discreet.”

It was a long time before Charlotte spoke again. “Do you know what is so ridiculous?” she murmured. “Even now, after all Father has done and destroyed, all I can think is how humiliating it would be for him to be brought before the court. What does that say about me?”

“As much as it says about me,” said Rosalind. “Because I’m thinking the same thing.”

Charlotte rose to her feet again. She paced the length of the room, once, twice, three times. Alice stared out the window, her face set in a frown. Rosalind knew her friend was holding back a great deal.

I’ll thank her later.

“It’s the decision I never wanted to make,” she said. “Whatever he’s done, he remains my, our, father.”

“I know,” said Rosalind. “But has he left us any choice?”

“No good ones,” muttered Charlotte. “Very well, hire your Mr. Harkness. I will pay the fees. I will also write Drummond again and ask him to press the day servants, in case you’re right about the bribery, Alice.”

“I rather hope I am,” she admitted.

“Pride?” Charlotte tried to force some drawing-room cynicism into the word.

“Not a bit,” replied Alice tartly. “But it would mean he found his own way out, which would be preferable to the other immediate possibility.”

“That someone came to fetch him for their own reasons?” asked Rosalind.

“Yes,” said Alice.

Charlotte pressed her gloved hand against her mouth, her eyes wide. Rosalind wanted to go to her, to offer some comfort. But before she could get to her feet, Charlotte had shifted her whole attitude, becoming at once an aloof and dignified beauty, poised as if to enter a ballroom.

It was like watching her put on her armor. Perhaps that’s what it is.

“Thank you for your offer of help, Rosalind,” Charlotte said. “I’m afraid I must go. I’m expected elsewhere.”

“I will see you out.”

Rosalind handed Charlotte her bonnet and walked with her into the foyer. Fortunately, Amelia was nowhere in evidence.

Charlotte faced her. “I am sorry about this, you know. I kept him as best I could.”

A hundred memories and a dozen regrets flooded Rosalind. She’d always felt that Charlotte was the cannier of the two of them. When she’d gone with their glamorous father, Rosalind had envied her, missed her, and felt sorely betrayed by her. Now she longed for nothing so much as some way to simply have her sister back.

But that could never happen. They had both been changed too much. Whatever came next for them, it would have to be some new kind of relationship.

If anything can come after this.

Despite her doubts, Rosalind reached out and pressed her sister’s hand. “We will find him,” she said firmly. “Our father is many things, but subtle and careful are not among them.”

The