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Synopsis
Set in Regency London, this charming Jane Austen-inspired mystery series features Rosalind Thorne, a resourceful young woman with a talent for helping ladies of the ton with their most delicate and pressing predicaments. But now she’s faced with a task of royal proportions. Literally.
KingGeorge IV is petitioning Parliament for a divorce from his queen on the grounds of her adultery. But rumor has it that the king secretly married Maria Fitzherbert—long before he married the queen. Now Mrs. Fitzherbert has been robbed—and she’s frantically calling on Rosalind for help.
Because what those thieves took is proof that she and King George did really marry. That single piece of paper could destroy Mrs. Fitzherbert and her family—or it could prove the king guilty of bigamy.
Rosalind races to investigate. With her is ex-Bow Street officer, Adam Harkness, with whom Rosalind shares a complex and rapidly intensifying bond. But a case of theft soon turns to murder . . .
Josiah Poole, a disreputable attorney specializing in helping debtors—and who was seen entering Mrs. Fitzherbert’s house—is found brutally murdered. Mrs. Fitzherbert has debts. Could she have staged the theft, and employed Mr. Poole to sell the marriage certificate? Or is the truth even more complicated? Mrs. Fitzherbert’s daughters have secrets of their own. And Poole himself had no shortage of enemies.
With suspicious coincidences mounting, and more danger encroaching, Rosalind and Adam must move quickly to unravel a history-making mystery that might just lead them straight to the palace itself . . .
Release date: December 24, 2024
Publisher: Kensington Books
Print pages: 448
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The Matter of the Secret Bride
Darcie Wilde
“They’re here!”
Alice Littlefield seized the brown paper parcel from the startled footman and raised it over her head. All the friends and family gathered in the front parlor of 9 Orchard Street hurrahed and raised their punch cups.
Rosalind Thorne smiled indulgently at Alice’s open delight and raised her cup along with her guests. Alice’s brother, George, was here, along with his wife, Hannah. Sanderson Faulks lounged beside Honoria Aimesworth and Mr. Clements.
And, of course, Adam Harkness stood at Rosalind’s side, smiling his quiet, devastating smile.
“I can’t believe it!” Alice darted through the little crowd to the tea table. “They’re really here!”
She unceremoniously dropped the package onto the table and herself into the nearest chair. Amelia McGowan—a plump, ginger-haired young woman—hurried to Alice’s side. The pair clasped hands and laughed with wordless excitement.
Up until a few months ago, Amelia had worked as a maid for Rosalind and Alice. Now she worked to establish a charity school for young women in service who wished to better their situation. That she was also Alice’s sweetheart was a fact their friends kept to themselves.
Adam took up the pair of scissors Rosalind had placed on the mantel for exactly this moment. He handed them to Rosalind, who, in turn, handed them to Amelia, who handed them to Alice. Alice slit the package’s twine. The paper fell open to reveal three quarto volumes, bound in red morocco and stamped with gold lettering:
A second cheer rose from the assembly, except from the dandy Sanderson Faulks, who confined himself to decorous applause. Alice rose to her feet and gave a single dignified nod, as if she were the queen acknowledging the crowd at the opera, and then handed round the books so they could be more readily admired.
“Congratulations, sister dear.” George kissed her on the cheek.
“Even though you never wanted me to turn novelist?” Alice inquired cheekily. “And you were sure I should lose all hope of making any sort of living?”
“Don’t tease, Alice,” Hannah, George’s sturdy, black-haired wife, admonished lightly. “He is terribly proud of you. I can barely get him to talk about anything else.”
“That is not true,” said George indignantly. “I am perfectly able to talk about our brilliant infant, and the madness in Parliament, as well.”
“Oh, Lord, we are not bringing that up!” groaned Honoria Aimesworth. A pale woman with the studied grace that came from years of strict training in deportment, Honoria had refashioned her life after scandal and tragedy. Now she was creating something of a stir among the haut ton as a woman of independent means and mind.
Rosalind had not expected Honoria to still be in town to join the party. It was August, and normally, everyone who could afford to do so would have abandoned the swelter and stench of London for the country or the Continent.
This summer, however, Parliament was being called to a special session to consider King George’s petition for divorce from Queen Caroline, and fashionable society was determined not to miss the spectacle.
George Littlefield sighed. “I don’t see as we will be able to help it, Honoria. I hear the king’s divorce has even led to arguments among the lady patronesses at Almack’s.”
The entire gathering turned to Rosalind. Adam raised his brows, assuming an air of polite inquiry.
“I had not heard,” she replied coolly. Adam’s eyebrows lifted farther. The fact was that Rosalind had heard a great deal, but now was not the time to repeat any of it.
“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if the lady patronesses were at odds,” George went on. “Everyone else is. Between the king’s endless investigations and the queen making her return to English shores into a royal progress, we’ll probably have a paper shortage from all the special editions.” George wrote for the London Chronicle, a twice-weekly newspaper that relied heavily on politics and gossip for its sales.
“It is impossible to keep up,” agreed Mr. Clements. Ernest Clements presided over Rosalind’s favorite circulating library. He had been helping with the efforts to advance the cause of Alice’s book by introducing her to a number of the most prominent owners of lady’s bookshops. Consequently, Rosalind had felt it only right to invite him to the party. “I have had to employ a pair of young men to eject patrons who grow too heated over the news. A fistfight broke out in the reading room this Monday.”
“Was the winner for the king or the queen?” asked Alice.
“Oh, the queen, of course,” Mr. Clements replied. “Nearly everyone is for the queen. It is her name they are chanting in the streets.”
“In the reading rooms and the streets perhaps,” drawled Mr. Faulks. “In the clubs it is all for the king.”
“Well, king he may be,” Amelia sniffed. “But he’s a rascal all the same. The man forced the queen to keep one of his mistresses as her maid, and he charged the people for her diamonds!”
“My brothers would thrash the man who treated me with so little respect,” agreed Hannah Littlefield.
“A warning to you, George,” said Honoria. “Personally, I hope the queen’s attorneys make him highly uncomfortable with a full exposure of his clandestine marriage to a Roman Catholic.”
Mr. Clements, George, and Hannah exchanged wary glances. Mr. Clements had been born Ernesto Javier Garcia Mendoza y Clemente. He had changed his name to suit English fashions, but not his religion, even though the public celebration of mass remained illegal and Catholics were barred from any number of professions, including the majority of public offices. Hannah, for her part, had been born into a large Italian family. She and George were married in a Protestant ceremony, but she quietly kept the faith of her ancestors. Since his marriage, George had written several anonymous pamphlets on the subject of Catholic emancipation.
It was Mr. Clements who spoke first. “Miss Aimesworth, you make the fact that she is a Catholic sound like a greater offense than the secret marriage.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Clements,” said Hannah. “I should have been more careful with my choice of words. It is the breaking of the succession laws and the concealing of his marriage that I meant to decry. Not the lady’s religion.”
Mr. Clements bowed.
“I’m not going to defend His Majesty,” said George. “But he does have some cause for grievance against the queen. There really can’t be any excuse for her to be traipsing about the Continent with such a crowd as she has . . .”
This proved to be too much for Alice. “Rosalind, you must forbid any more talk of the king’s divorce. I will not have it at my party!”
“I agree, Alice,” said Rosalind. “This is a celebration, and we shall have no arguments over controversial subjects. Mr. Faulks, you were hinting earlier that you had some interesting news from your friend at the Edinburgh Review. What can you tell us?”
Sanderson, who never failed to enjoy being the center of attention, drew himself up. “As it happens, I am given to understand that the next issue may include mention of a certain new novel.”
“Oh!” Alice clapped both hands over her mouth. Amelia squeezed her shoulder. “You don’t . . . He didn’t say . . .”
“Of course, I could not ask whether such mention was favorable.” Sanderson spoke regretfully to his punch cup. “But it is possible I overheard a word or two later, as we were enjoying a friendly drink. I do believe all Littlefields will be quite pleased with the results.”
“Oh!” cried Alice again. She ran to hug Amelia, George and Hannah, and then turned to Sanderson—suddenly all decorum and correct deportment—and curtsied. Sanderson placed a hand over his breast, careful not to disturb the folds of his elaborate cravat, and bowed.
The gathering laughed at this display, and talk turned easily to small matters, light gossip, and stories of family and friends.
For Rosalind, it was almost too much to take in.
Up until recently, she had lived on a knife’s edge. Rosalind had all but given up on the possibility of finding herself in the situation she now occupied—mistress of a comfortable and independent establishment, living a life that was both useful and absorbing.
Now, surrounded as she was by so many friends, Rosalind felt her heart swell with a pride and gratitude that she seldom allowed herself to acknowledge.
Adam, of course, noticed and moved just an inch closer.
“You are radiant,” he murmured.
“You are a flatterer,” she replied under her breath.
He raised one brow. She lifted her chin. He grinned the astonishing crooked grin that lit his blue eyes, which reminded her of the times when this room was empty except for the two of them. Rosalind felt her cheeks begin to warm.
“Mercy,” she breathed.
“If that is what you wish,” he replied.
“For now.”
This scandalous remark was rewarded by Adam’s abrupt blush. Rosalind attempted to hide her grin behind her punch cup, but found herself in danger of dissolving into a fit of undignified giggles.
Fortunately, she was saved from this eventuality when her newly hired footman, Mortimer, pushed open the pocket doors that led to the dining room and announced, “Dinner is served.”
Rosalind’s greatest asset when it came to entertaining was her cook, Mrs. Singh. When she lived with her family in India, Mrs. Singh grew up in the hybrid kitchens of English households. There she absorbed the techniques of French and English cuisine, along with the English language. Mrs. Singh had lived in London for some years now and had been glad to leave the rigors of a large establishment for Rosalind’s smaller home. The advantage to her was more regular hours and the ability to go home in the evening to her sister and her sister’s children.
When Mrs. Singh discovered Rosalind enjoyed piquant flavors, she began to include dishes from her native Punjab in her menus. Her samosas, tikkas, and highly spiced vegetable ragùs added welcome variety to the unyielding English dinner regimen of sauced turbot and roasted beef.
Tonight Mrs. Singh had outdone herself. She liked Alice personally and had exerted all her considerable talents on the author’s behalf. There was a fish soup, followed by leg of lamb accompanied by a vegetable biryani and a series of side dishes with early greens, new potatoes, and fresh cheese. All was crowned by a dessert course of sugar-topped cake and sweet dumplings.
The cake had been reduced to crumbs and Rosalind was just about to suggest the party return to the parlor for tea when a great banging arose from the depths of the house.
“What on earth?” exclaimed Alice.
Someone, Rosalind realized, was hammering at the kitchen door. All conversation momentarily fell quiet while Mortimer stepped smartly away to see what might be the matter.
“Have you gotten yourself into trouble again, Rosalind?” remarked Honoria.
“Not that I am aware of,” Rosalind answered. But her mind began leafing through her list of current commitments just the same.
The house was small enough and well ventilated enough that voices could sometimes be heard from the cellars. The entire gathering heard those voices now. The words were indistinct, but the tone was loud and insistent.
Adam wiped his hands on his napkin. “Should I . . . ?” he began.
Before he could rise to his feet, Mortimer had returned, a folded note in his hand.
“Apologies, Miss Thorne,” Mortimer said. “But the man says it is extremely urgent, and he insists he must have an answer at once.”
Rosalind frowned and rose, taking the note from him. “You will all excuse me for a moment,” she said to her guests.
Rosalind retreated to the back parlor, which she used as her writing room. She moved to shut the door, but not quickly enough. Both Adam and Alice had already come in.
Adam closed the door. Alice hurried to Rosalind’s side.
“What is it?”
Rosalind turned the note over. The paper was heavy, and the ink quite dark, which told her this missive came from a person of means. The sealing wax was scarlet and imprinted with a curling letter F. “I don’t recognize the hand or the seal.”
Rosalind broke the seal and unfolded the missive. As was her habit, she read the signature first. Her eyes widened in shock.
“Rosalind? What is it?” asked Adam.
“It is a . . . request to call.” Surprise had made her throat go dry. She swallowed and tried again. “At once.”
“At this hour? That seems a bit precipitous,” said Alice. “Who is it from?”
Rosalind found she had to swallow again. “Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert.”
“The Mrs. Fitzherbert . . . ?” began Adam.
“You can’t mean . . . ,” said Alice at the same time.
“Yes,” said Rosalind. “I do mean. This is from the Mrs. Fitzherbert.” She met their startled gazes. “The king’s wife.”
The definite facts about Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert and the man who was now King George IV were very few.
While still Prince of Wales and still a bachelor, George Augustus Frederick of Hanover had taken up with Maria Fitzherbert, a twice-widowed Roman Catholic woman. She had acted as his hostess and companion for several years and had been seen daily with him in public. He wore a miniature of her around his neck. Mrs. Fitzherbert was received into the best houses. In fact, having her attend a gathering was considered a coup for any hostess, because where Mrs. Fitzherbert went, the prince followed.
Gradually, however, the relationship declined, and the prince began being seen most frequently with Frances Villiers, who was then Lady Jersey. Mrs. Fitzherbert’s name remained a watchword for the prince’s notorious profligacy, but she herself faded from the public eye.
All the rest was rumor. Those rumors, however, remained omnipresent and remarkably persistent. The most persistent of all was that at some point, Mrs. Fitzherbert and the Prince of Wales had secretly married.
Such a marriage, if it happened, would be illegal. The Royal Marriages Act placed strict limits on the circumstances under which the assorted princes and princesses could marry. The act forbade the heir to the throne from marrying an English citizen without the approval of both the monarch and Parliament. In addition, should the heir attempt to marry a Catholic, they would give up their place in the line of succession. They would also lose all their titles and privileges, including their (considerable) income from the civil list.
For a man like the prince regent, whose debts ran to hundreds of thousands of pounds, this last should have been the greatest deterrent.
Despite that, the rumors persisted. They persisted even after Prince George married Princess Caroline of Brunswick and after he fathered a child with her. Even after he openly discarded Mrs. Fitzherbert and then Lady Jersey and then Lady Hertford.
They came positively roaring back after George III died and the prince regent became the king.
While Rosalind had heard all the commonplace remarks on this subject, she had never devoted much thought as to whether this clandestine union actually took place. Speculation about the private lives of royalty was a popular pastime for the press and the people at all levels of society, and if facts were few, fancy routinely filled the gaps. It had even once been rumored that staid, domestic King George III had secretly married a Quaker woman named Hannah Lightfoot.
But no one had ever clapped eyes on Hannah Lightfoot. Everyone had seen Maria Fitzherbert.
And now, it seemed, Rosalind would see her face-to-face.
Alice agreed to take over the hostess duties so her celebration could continue. Sanderson agreed to loan Rosalind his carriage and driver, so there was no delay around acquiring conveyance.
“In return, I will expect a full description of the lady and her demeanor,” Sanderson told Rosalind. “With the queen’s return, the world is anxious to know what Mrs. Fitz is up to.” Sanderson was a much-sought-after supper guest, in part because London’s hostesses knew him to be a font of amusing gossip.
“Can I come?” asked Amelia. “You’ll need someone to talk to the staff.”
“Will we?” Rosalind raised her brows.
“Well, something’s gone wrong, or she wouldn’t be sending for you, now would she?” said Amelia. “So you’ll need to know what they’re saying belowstairs.”
“You’d abandon me for a chance to hear some tidbit of gossip?” cried Alice indignantly.
“Never!” Amelia looped her arm around Alice’s waist and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “I’m abandoning you for the king’s gossip.”
Rosalind barely managed to keep a straight face. “Amelia, please stay here and help Alice look after our guests. If it turns out I need your help, I promise I will not hesitate to call on you.”
All this time, Adam stood with his hands folded behind him, as if awaiting his turn. When Rosalind faced him at last, her smile was apologetic.
“Will you come with me?” she asked. “If the situation is so dire as to require immediate attendance, we may have need of you.”
“If you had not asked, I would have followed.”
Of this, Rosalind had no doubt. She was confident in her ability to protect herself, and Adam respected her judgment and her skills. But she was not a fool. A woman traveling alone after dark could find herself a target of mischief-makers even in ordinary times, which these were decidedly not. London’s streets were restive. Queen Caroline was widely believed to have been cruelly wronged by the king. Londoners of all classes and conditions were taking to the streets in support of her. Not only were fights breaking out in otherwise quiet establishments, like Mr. Clements’s library, but also houses were being robbed, carriages halted, and the drivers pulled down if they refused to take their hats off and call, “God save the queen.” Adam’s presence might stop at least some forms of trouble before they began.
But it was not only the public unrest that gave Rosalind pause. Her work among the ladies of the ton had more than once included dealing with the consequences of blackmail, theft, and even murder. She was fully aware that domestic disarray could have a very high price and that those involved could become desperate. Mrs. Fitzherbert was at the heart of the suit for divorce that the king was bringing against the queen. Or if she was not now, she soon would be.
How desperate might that make those involved?
In the end, Rosalind and Adam were able to reach their destination without any untoward incident. Tilney Street was located in a quiet, prosperous neighborhood. Mrs. Fitzherbert’s house, number six, was a large residence. Its otherwise simple facade was made striking by the many graceful windows, especially on the curved balcony that overlooked the expansive walled garden.
If the mob was abroad tonight, it had chosen other places to be. Nonetheless, Adam surveyed the darkening street for a long moment before he helped Rosalind down from the carriage. As they walked together to the door, she felt a distinct tension radiating from him.
“What is it?” Rosalind murmured.
“We’re being watched,” he replied just as quietly. “Or the house is.”
Rosalind suppressed a shiver. It was difficult to keep herself from looking around. Adam, however, kept his gaze rigidly ahead, and she followed his silent example.
They reached the door. Both the lantern and the knocker were in place, indicating the owner was currently in occupancy. Adam knocked for them, and the door was instantly opened by a young footman in striking scarlet livery.
This was a surprise. It was tacitly understood that only royalty’s servants wore scarlet. Rosalind felt an urge to raise her brows.
“Miss Thorne and Mr. Harkness for Mrs. Fitzherbert,” Adam was saying to the footman.
“Good evening, Miss Thorne. Mr. Harkness.” The man bowed. “My mistress is expecting you and has instructed me to bring you in at once. This way please.”
As they followed the footman up the broad staircase and down the carpeted hallway, Rosalind was aware of an inexcusable attack of butterflies in her stomach. She had met and helped women on many rungs of society’s shifting and unsteady ladder. Mrs. Fitzherbert, however, was of a different order. Her name was a watchword in society. Once, it had appeared in the papers on a daily basis. It had been featured on invitation cards that circulated among the highest members of the haut ton. It had been printed in thunderous—and near libelous—pamphlets. It had been shouted in Parliament.
Everyone knew who she was, and yet even after all this time, no one could agree exactly what she was. Some declared she was a virtuous woman who had refused to surrender herself to a man outside the bounds of marriage—even when that man was the heir to the throne. To others, she was the worst sort of opportunist, wielding her feminine temptations to enrich and empower herself, and perhaps even to claim a crown.
So it was a surprise when the first word that occurred to Rosalind as the footman showed them into the sitting room was maternal.
Maria Fitzherbert was short and plump. Silver streaked her dark hair, which was mostly covered by a modest lace cap. Her dress was black silk of the best quality, and it did nothing to hide the fact that her bosom and hips were larger than was considered fashionable. Her face was lined from laughter as well as concern, and her large dark eyes were as intelligent as they were anxious.
At her throat, she wore a painted miniature on a blue velvet ribbon. Rosalind attempted not to notice it displayed the likeness of the former Prince of Wales.
Mrs. Fitzherbert came forward to take Rosalind’s hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Miss Thorne. I apologize for such a late, and hasty, invitation.”
“Mrs. Fitzherbert, I am glad to meet you,” Rosalind replied. “If I may introduce Mr. Adam Harkness?”
“Mrs. Fitzherbert.” Adam bowed.
“Mr. Harkness?” said Mrs. Fitzherbert. “It seems to me I have heard your name. You are with Bow Street?” Worry deepened the creases on the lady’s brow.
“I am here entirely in a private capacity,” answered Adam. “Given the urgent nature of your note, Miss Thorne did not want there to be a delay should additional assistance be required.”
“Yes, yes. Very correct, I am sure. Thank you for your consideration.” Mrs. Fitzherbert’s tone was breathless and uncertain. It was plain she was quite upset. But the house seemed quiet. The comfortably appointed room was calm and in good order, with the lamps and fire brightly lit.
“Will you not sit?” Mrs. Fitzherbert gestured to a pair of brocade chairs and took her own place on a striped settee. Like her clothing, all Mrs. Fitzherbert’s furnishings were the best quality and thoroughly fashionable.
“I . . . I hardly know where to begin.” Mrs. Fitzherbert clasped her hands together. “I thought to have some tea, but”—she gestured helplessly toward the empty table—“it is hardly an ordinary social call, is it?”
“It is not,” agreed Rosalind. “And I am sorry it has been made necessary. However, we should perhaps address the matter directly? It is quite clear something alarming has occurred.”
“Yes, it has.” Mrs. Fitzherbert drew a deep breath. “But the situation is extremely delicate, and I must ask for your complete discretion on the matter.” Her eyes flickered toward Adam.
“Anything you say to Mr. Harkness or me will be held in strictest confidence,” Rosalind assured her.
A shadow of anger passed across Mrs. Fitzherbert’s features. Rosalind wondered how many times this woman had heard that promise, only to have it broken. She twisted her plump hands as her gaze drifted from Rosalind, to Adam, to a painted portrait that hung above the fireplace. The portrait showed two dark-haired girls—one still a child, the other in adolescence. Both were dressed in white ruffled gowns, with white roses in their hands. The sight of the painted faces seemed to harden something inside Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“I have been robbed,” she said. “It happened today, while I was away from home.”
“What was taken?” asked Adam.
Mrs. Fitzherbert hesitated. She twisted her hands again. When she did speak, her voice was low and hoarse. “My marriage certificate.”
Rosalind blinked. “Your . . .”
“My marriage certificate,” Mrs. Fitzherbert repeated. “Signed and witnessed, testifying to my marriage to George Augustus Frederick of Hanover, then Prince of Wales.”
So.
The rumors were correct. A wedding had taken place. George IV had married a Catholic. The law declared that this action rendered him ineligible to occupy the throne. And yet he had already been declared the lawful king and he was said to be as busy planning his coronation as he was with his divorce from Caroline of Brunswick.
But here in this calm, fashionable parlor sat his other wife—a living woman, never divorced but never fully acknowledged.
If proof of their marriage was revealed, his eligibility to hold the throne could be challenged by Parliament or indeed by any or all his brothers. Or by the people themselves.
It felt like an opera or a fairy tale. But it was as real as the woman in front of her. Rosalind forbade her gaze to stray down to the miniature at Mrs. Fitzherbert’s throat. Part of her was already backing away, whispering, This is too much. There are too many consequences. This is beyond me.
If Adam was as stunned as Rosalind by this revelation and its implications, he was also able to set them aside more quickly.
“When did you discover the certificate missing?” he asked.
“This afternoon,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert. “I was out paying my morning calls. When I returned, I went to my room to change my dress. There I found my strongbox had been broken open and all my papers scattered about.”
“Was anything else missing?”
Mrs. Fitzherbert shook her head. “Not even the banknotes. I need it back, Miss Thorne, Mr. Harkness,” she said abruptly. “It must be returned quietly and without fuss. I know you make it your business to help ladies with deeply private troubles, and I will pay whatever it costs.”
“My man of business will be in touch about the details, should it be decided we can be of material assistance,” Rosalind told her. “May I ask, however . . . Have you sent word to . . . your husband?”
“No,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert flatly. “I have not spoken to him in a number of years. He has made it very”—her voice broke—“very plain that he does not wish to continue our alliance on a footing of domestic intimacy, and I have determined I do not wish to continue under any other circumstance.”
The combination of pain and dignity in Mrs. Fitzherbert’s declaration went straight to Rosalind’s heart.
“I understand this is difficult for you,” she said. “However, he would have far more resources at his command than any we can bring to bear upon this matter.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert shook her head. “My husband was never a strong or a discreet man, and in the years since our separation, he has become much degraded. If I tell him the marriage certificate has been stolen, it is very likely that he will panic, and in his panic, he will speak to the wrong person. If that happens, neither he nor I will be safe from what comes afterward.”
Because she was Catholic. Because King George had no legitimate heir. What he did have, however, was five brothers, none of whom were particularly fond of him. If one of the royal dukes chose to contest the succession, the effects would reverberate throughout the whole kingdom for a generation.
There were already calls for the king to abdicate because of the way he treated the queen. If his previous marriage were proved . . . the king’s enemies would come for him. The mob would come for him.
Rosalind knew her silence had stretched on for too long, but she could not seem to muster an answer.
Instead, it was Mrs. Fitzherbert who spoke. “You will now perhaps ask yourself why I did not destroy the paper, for the good of the king and the kingdom. Knowing me only from rumor, you wonder, perhaps, if I intended to profit from it in some way?”
Rosalind felt Adam stiffen ever so slightly at this imputation of her character. But she calmly absorbed the accusation and the anger behind it. It was plain that Mrs. Fitzherbert felt wounded and exhausted. She could not be blamed for her suspicions or a defensive tone.
“This could not come as a surprise,” Rosalind said. “We must consider all possibilities, including those which are unpleasant.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert wilted slightly. “I apologize. You see, if it was only myself who could be hurt by this, I would simply leave London and exile myself to the Continent. But I have two wards.” She gestured toward the portrait of the girls over the fireplace. “They are not the daughters of my body, but I love them as if they were. Mary Ann has been with me since she was a girl, and Minney since she was an infant. Now she’s ready to make her debut.”
As Mrs. Fitzherbert looked at the portrait, a host of expressions flickered across her features—pride, fear, determination, love, and fear again. “If I’m publicly libeled as a loose and immoral woman, my marriage certificate stands as the only proof of my fitness to be their guardian. Without it, I could lose them both.”
A father might participate in numerous dalliances without his rights as a parent being
Alice Littlefield seized the brown paper parcel from the startled footman and raised it over her head. All the friends and family gathered in the front parlor of 9 Orchard Street hurrahed and raised their punch cups.
Rosalind Thorne smiled indulgently at Alice’s open delight and raised her cup along with her guests. Alice’s brother, George, was here, along with his wife, Hannah. Sanderson Faulks lounged beside Honoria Aimesworth and Mr. Clements.
And, of course, Adam Harkness stood at Rosalind’s side, smiling his quiet, devastating smile.
“I can’t believe it!” Alice darted through the little crowd to the tea table. “They’re really here!”
She unceremoniously dropped the package onto the table and herself into the nearest chair. Amelia McGowan—a plump, ginger-haired young woman—hurried to Alice’s side. The pair clasped hands and laughed with wordless excitement.
Up until a few months ago, Amelia had worked as a maid for Rosalind and Alice. Now she worked to establish a charity school for young women in service who wished to better their situation. That she was also Alice’s sweetheart was a fact their friends kept to themselves.
Adam took up the pair of scissors Rosalind had placed on the mantel for exactly this moment. He handed them to Rosalind, who, in turn, handed them to Amelia, who handed them to Alice. Alice slit the package’s twine. The paper fell open to reveal three quarto volumes, bound in red morocco and stamped with gold lettering:
A second cheer rose from the assembly, except from the dandy Sanderson Faulks, who confined himself to decorous applause. Alice rose to her feet and gave a single dignified nod, as if she were the queen acknowledging the crowd at the opera, and then handed round the books so they could be more readily admired.
“Congratulations, sister dear.” George kissed her on the cheek.
“Even though you never wanted me to turn novelist?” Alice inquired cheekily. “And you were sure I should lose all hope of making any sort of living?”
“Don’t tease, Alice,” Hannah, George’s sturdy, black-haired wife, admonished lightly. “He is terribly proud of you. I can barely get him to talk about anything else.”
“That is not true,” said George indignantly. “I am perfectly able to talk about our brilliant infant, and the madness in Parliament, as well.”
“Oh, Lord, we are not bringing that up!” groaned Honoria Aimesworth. A pale woman with the studied grace that came from years of strict training in deportment, Honoria had refashioned her life after scandal and tragedy. Now she was creating something of a stir among the haut ton as a woman of independent means and mind.
Rosalind had not expected Honoria to still be in town to join the party. It was August, and normally, everyone who could afford to do so would have abandoned the swelter and stench of London for the country or the Continent.
This summer, however, Parliament was being called to a special session to consider King George’s petition for divorce from Queen Caroline, and fashionable society was determined not to miss the spectacle.
George Littlefield sighed. “I don’t see as we will be able to help it, Honoria. I hear the king’s divorce has even led to arguments among the lady patronesses at Almack’s.”
The entire gathering turned to Rosalind. Adam raised his brows, assuming an air of polite inquiry.
“I had not heard,” she replied coolly. Adam’s eyebrows lifted farther. The fact was that Rosalind had heard a great deal, but now was not the time to repeat any of it.
“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if the lady patronesses were at odds,” George went on. “Everyone else is. Between the king’s endless investigations and the queen making her return to English shores into a royal progress, we’ll probably have a paper shortage from all the special editions.” George wrote for the London Chronicle, a twice-weekly newspaper that relied heavily on politics and gossip for its sales.
“It is impossible to keep up,” agreed Mr. Clements. Ernest Clements presided over Rosalind’s favorite circulating library. He had been helping with the efforts to advance the cause of Alice’s book by introducing her to a number of the most prominent owners of lady’s bookshops. Consequently, Rosalind had felt it only right to invite him to the party. “I have had to employ a pair of young men to eject patrons who grow too heated over the news. A fistfight broke out in the reading room this Monday.”
“Was the winner for the king or the queen?” asked Alice.
“Oh, the queen, of course,” Mr. Clements replied. “Nearly everyone is for the queen. It is her name they are chanting in the streets.”
“In the reading rooms and the streets perhaps,” drawled Mr. Faulks. “In the clubs it is all for the king.”
“Well, king he may be,” Amelia sniffed. “But he’s a rascal all the same. The man forced the queen to keep one of his mistresses as her maid, and he charged the people for her diamonds!”
“My brothers would thrash the man who treated me with so little respect,” agreed Hannah Littlefield.
“A warning to you, George,” said Honoria. “Personally, I hope the queen’s attorneys make him highly uncomfortable with a full exposure of his clandestine marriage to a Roman Catholic.”
Mr. Clements, George, and Hannah exchanged wary glances. Mr. Clements had been born Ernesto Javier Garcia Mendoza y Clemente. He had changed his name to suit English fashions, but not his religion, even though the public celebration of mass remained illegal and Catholics were barred from any number of professions, including the majority of public offices. Hannah, for her part, had been born into a large Italian family. She and George were married in a Protestant ceremony, but she quietly kept the faith of her ancestors. Since his marriage, George had written several anonymous pamphlets on the subject of Catholic emancipation.
It was Mr. Clements who spoke first. “Miss Aimesworth, you make the fact that she is a Catholic sound like a greater offense than the secret marriage.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Clements,” said Hannah. “I should have been more careful with my choice of words. It is the breaking of the succession laws and the concealing of his marriage that I meant to decry. Not the lady’s religion.”
Mr. Clements bowed.
“I’m not going to defend His Majesty,” said George. “But he does have some cause for grievance against the queen. There really can’t be any excuse for her to be traipsing about the Continent with such a crowd as she has . . .”
This proved to be too much for Alice. “Rosalind, you must forbid any more talk of the king’s divorce. I will not have it at my party!”
“I agree, Alice,” said Rosalind. “This is a celebration, and we shall have no arguments over controversial subjects. Mr. Faulks, you were hinting earlier that you had some interesting news from your friend at the Edinburgh Review. What can you tell us?”
Sanderson, who never failed to enjoy being the center of attention, drew himself up. “As it happens, I am given to understand that the next issue may include mention of a certain new novel.”
“Oh!” Alice clapped both hands over her mouth. Amelia squeezed her shoulder. “You don’t . . . He didn’t say . . .”
“Of course, I could not ask whether such mention was favorable.” Sanderson spoke regretfully to his punch cup. “But it is possible I overheard a word or two later, as we were enjoying a friendly drink. I do believe all Littlefields will be quite pleased with the results.”
“Oh!” cried Alice again. She ran to hug Amelia, George and Hannah, and then turned to Sanderson—suddenly all decorum and correct deportment—and curtsied. Sanderson placed a hand over his breast, careful not to disturb the folds of his elaborate cravat, and bowed.
The gathering laughed at this display, and talk turned easily to small matters, light gossip, and stories of family and friends.
For Rosalind, it was almost too much to take in.
Up until recently, she had lived on a knife’s edge. Rosalind had all but given up on the possibility of finding herself in the situation she now occupied—mistress of a comfortable and independent establishment, living a life that was both useful and absorbing.
Now, surrounded as she was by so many friends, Rosalind felt her heart swell with a pride and gratitude that she seldom allowed herself to acknowledge.
Adam, of course, noticed and moved just an inch closer.
“You are radiant,” he murmured.
“You are a flatterer,” she replied under her breath.
He raised one brow. She lifted her chin. He grinned the astonishing crooked grin that lit his blue eyes, which reminded her of the times when this room was empty except for the two of them. Rosalind felt her cheeks begin to warm.
“Mercy,” she breathed.
“If that is what you wish,” he replied.
“For now.”
This scandalous remark was rewarded by Adam’s abrupt blush. Rosalind attempted to hide her grin behind her punch cup, but found herself in danger of dissolving into a fit of undignified giggles.
Fortunately, she was saved from this eventuality when her newly hired footman, Mortimer, pushed open the pocket doors that led to the dining room and announced, “Dinner is served.”
Rosalind’s greatest asset when it came to entertaining was her cook, Mrs. Singh. When she lived with her family in India, Mrs. Singh grew up in the hybrid kitchens of English households. There she absorbed the techniques of French and English cuisine, along with the English language. Mrs. Singh had lived in London for some years now and had been glad to leave the rigors of a large establishment for Rosalind’s smaller home. The advantage to her was more regular hours and the ability to go home in the evening to her sister and her sister’s children.
When Mrs. Singh discovered Rosalind enjoyed piquant flavors, she began to include dishes from her native Punjab in her menus. Her samosas, tikkas, and highly spiced vegetable ragùs added welcome variety to the unyielding English dinner regimen of sauced turbot and roasted beef.
Tonight Mrs. Singh had outdone herself. She liked Alice personally and had exerted all her considerable talents on the author’s behalf. There was a fish soup, followed by leg of lamb accompanied by a vegetable biryani and a series of side dishes with early greens, new potatoes, and fresh cheese. All was crowned by a dessert course of sugar-topped cake and sweet dumplings.
The cake had been reduced to crumbs and Rosalind was just about to suggest the party return to the parlor for tea when a great banging arose from the depths of the house.
“What on earth?” exclaimed Alice.
Someone, Rosalind realized, was hammering at the kitchen door. All conversation momentarily fell quiet while Mortimer stepped smartly away to see what might be the matter.
“Have you gotten yourself into trouble again, Rosalind?” remarked Honoria.
“Not that I am aware of,” Rosalind answered. But her mind began leafing through her list of current commitments just the same.
The house was small enough and well ventilated enough that voices could sometimes be heard from the cellars. The entire gathering heard those voices now. The words were indistinct, but the tone was loud and insistent.
Adam wiped his hands on his napkin. “Should I . . . ?” he began.
Before he could rise to his feet, Mortimer had returned, a folded note in his hand.
“Apologies, Miss Thorne,” Mortimer said. “But the man says it is extremely urgent, and he insists he must have an answer at once.”
Rosalind frowned and rose, taking the note from him. “You will all excuse me for a moment,” she said to her guests.
Rosalind retreated to the back parlor, which she used as her writing room. She moved to shut the door, but not quickly enough. Both Adam and Alice had already come in.
Adam closed the door. Alice hurried to Rosalind’s side.
“What is it?”
Rosalind turned the note over. The paper was heavy, and the ink quite dark, which told her this missive came from a person of means. The sealing wax was scarlet and imprinted with a curling letter F. “I don’t recognize the hand or the seal.”
Rosalind broke the seal and unfolded the missive. As was her habit, she read the signature first. Her eyes widened in shock.
“Rosalind? What is it?” asked Adam.
“It is a . . . request to call.” Surprise had made her throat go dry. She swallowed and tried again. “At once.”
“At this hour? That seems a bit precipitous,” said Alice. “Who is it from?”
Rosalind found she had to swallow again. “Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert.”
“The Mrs. Fitzherbert . . . ?” began Adam.
“You can’t mean . . . ,” said Alice at the same time.
“Yes,” said Rosalind. “I do mean. This is from the Mrs. Fitzherbert.” She met their startled gazes. “The king’s wife.”
The definite facts about Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert and the man who was now King George IV were very few.
While still Prince of Wales and still a bachelor, George Augustus Frederick of Hanover had taken up with Maria Fitzherbert, a twice-widowed Roman Catholic woman. She had acted as his hostess and companion for several years and had been seen daily with him in public. He wore a miniature of her around his neck. Mrs. Fitzherbert was received into the best houses. In fact, having her attend a gathering was considered a coup for any hostess, because where Mrs. Fitzherbert went, the prince followed.
Gradually, however, the relationship declined, and the prince began being seen most frequently with Frances Villiers, who was then Lady Jersey. Mrs. Fitzherbert’s name remained a watchword for the prince’s notorious profligacy, but she herself faded from the public eye.
All the rest was rumor. Those rumors, however, remained omnipresent and remarkably persistent. The most persistent of all was that at some point, Mrs. Fitzherbert and the Prince of Wales had secretly married.
Such a marriage, if it happened, would be illegal. The Royal Marriages Act placed strict limits on the circumstances under which the assorted princes and princesses could marry. The act forbade the heir to the throne from marrying an English citizen without the approval of both the monarch and Parliament. In addition, should the heir attempt to marry a Catholic, they would give up their place in the line of succession. They would also lose all their titles and privileges, including their (considerable) income from the civil list.
For a man like the prince regent, whose debts ran to hundreds of thousands of pounds, this last should have been the greatest deterrent.
Despite that, the rumors persisted. They persisted even after Prince George married Princess Caroline of Brunswick and after he fathered a child with her. Even after he openly discarded Mrs. Fitzherbert and then Lady Jersey and then Lady Hertford.
They came positively roaring back after George III died and the prince regent became the king.
While Rosalind had heard all the commonplace remarks on this subject, she had never devoted much thought as to whether this clandestine union actually took place. Speculation about the private lives of royalty was a popular pastime for the press and the people at all levels of society, and if facts were few, fancy routinely filled the gaps. It had even once been rumored that staid, domestic King George III had secretly married a Quaker woman named Hannah Lightfoot.
But no one had ever clapped eyes on Hannah Lightfoot. Everyone had seen Maria Fitzherbert.
And now, it seemed, Rosalind would see her face-to-face.
Alice agreed to take over the hostess duties so her celebration could continue. Sanderson agreed to loan Rosalind his carriage and driver, so there was no delay around acquiring conveyance.
“In return, I will expect a full description of the lady and her demeanor,” Sanderson told Rosalind. “With the queen’s return, the world is anxious to know what Mrs. Fitz is up to.” Sanderson was a much-sought-after supper guest, in part because London’s hostesses knew him to be a font of amusing gossip.
“Can I come?” asked Amelia. “You’ll need someone to talk to the staff.”
“Will we?” Rosalind raised her brows.
“Well, something’s gone wrong, or she wouldn’t be sending for you, now would she?” said Amelia. “So you’ll need to know what they’re saying belowstairs.”
“You’d abandon me for a chance to hear some tidbit of gossip?” cried Alice indignantly.
“Never!” Amelia looped her arm around Alice’s waist and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “I’m abandoning you for the king’s gossip.”
Rosalind barely managed to keep a straight face. “Amelia, please stay here and help Alice look after our guests. If it turns out I need your help, I promise I will not hesitate to call on you.”
All this time, Adam stood with his hands folded behind him, as if awaiting his turn. When Rosalind faced him at last, her smile was apologetic.
“Will you come with me?” she asked. “If the situation is so dire as to require immediate attendance, we may have need of you.”
“If you had not asked, I would have followed.”
Of this, Rosalind had no doubt. She was confident in her ability to protect herself, and Adam respected her judgment and her skills. But she was not a fool. A woman traveling alone after dark could find herself a target of mischief-makers even in ordinary times, which these were decidedly not. London’s streets were restive. Queen Caroline was widely believed to have been cruelly wronged by the king. Londoners of all classes and conditions were taking to the streets in support of her. Not only were fights breaking out in otherwise quiet establishments, like Mr. Clements’s library, but also houses were being robbed, carriages halted, and the drivers pulled down if they refused to take their hats off and call, “God save the queen.” Adam’s presence might stop at least some forms of trouble before they began.
But it was not only the public unrest that gave Rosalind pause. Her work among the ladies of the ton had more than once included dealing with the consequences of blackmail, theft, and even murder. She was fully aware that domestic disarray could have a very high price and that those involved could become desperate. Mrs. Fitzherbert was at the heart of the suit for divorce that the king was bringing against the queen. Or if she was not now, she soon would be.
How desperate might that make those involved?
In the end, Rosalind and Adam were able to reach their destination without any untoward incident. Tilney Street was located in a quiet, prosperous neighborhood. Mrs. Fitzherbert’s house, number six, was a large residence. Its otherwise simple facade was made striking by the many graceful windows, especially on the curved balcony that overlooked the expansive walled garden.
If the mob was abroad tonight, it had chosen other places to be. Nonetheless, Adam surveyed the darkening street for a long moment before he helped Rosalind down from the carriage. As they walked together to the door, she felt a distinct tension radiating from him.
“What is it?” Rosalind murmured.
“We’re being watched,” he replied just as quietly. “Or the house is.”
Rosalind suppressed a shiver. It was difficult to keep herself from looking around. Adam, however, kept his gaze rigidly ahead, and she followed his silent example.
They reached the door. Both the lantern and the knocker were in place, indicating the owner was currently in occupancy. Adam knocked for them, and the door was instantly opened by a young footman in striking scarlet livery.
This was a surprise. It was tacitly understood that only royalty’s servants wore scarlet. Rosalind felt an urge to raise her brows.
“Miss Thorne and Mr. Harkness for Mrs. Fitzherbert,” Adam was saying to the footman.
“Good evening, Miss Thorne. Mr. Harkness.” The man bowed. “My mistress is expecting you and has instructed me to bring you in at once. This way please.”
As they followed the footman up the broad staircase and down the carpeted hallway, Rosalind was aware of an inexcusable attack of butterflies in her stomach. She had met and helped women on many rungs of society’s shifting and unsteady ladder. Mrs. Fitzherbert, however, was of a different order. Her name was a watchword in society. Once, it had appeared in the papers on a daily basis. It had been featured on invitation cards that circulated among the highest members of the haut ton. It had been printed in thunderous—and near libelous—pamphlets. It had been shouted in Parliament.
Everyone knew who she was, and yet even after all this time, no one could agree exactly what she was. Some declared she was a virtuous woman who had refused to surrender herself to a man outside the bounds of marriage—even when that man was the heir to the throne. To others, she was the worst sort of opportunist, wielding her feminine temptations to enrich and empower herself, and perhaps even to claim a crown.
So it was a surprise when the first word that occurred to Rosalind as the footman showed them into the sitting room was maternal.
Maria Fitzherbert was short and plump. Silver streaked her dark hair, which was mostly covered by a modest lace cap. Her dress was black silk of the best quality, and it did nothing to hide the fact that her bosom and hips were larger than was considered fashionable. Her face was lined from laughter as well as concern, and her large dark eyes were as intelligent as they were anxious.
At her throat, she wore a painted miniature on a blue velvet ribbon. Rosalind attempted not to notice it displayed the likeness of the former Prince of Wales.
Mrs. Fitzherbert came forward to take Rosalind’s hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Miss Thorne. I apologize for such a late, and hasty, invitation.”
“Mrs. Fitzherbert, I am glad to meet you,” Rosalind replied. “If I may introduce Mr. Adam Harkness?”
“Mrs. Fitzherbert.” Adam bowed.
“Mr. Harkness?” said Mrs. Fitzherbert. “It seems to me I have heard your name. You are with Bow Street?” Worry deepened the creases on the lady’s brow.
“I am here entirely in a private capacity,” answered Adam. “Given the urgent nature of your note, Miss Thorne did not want there to be a delay should additional assistance be required.”
“Yes, yes. Very correct, I am sure. Thank you for your consideration.” Mrs. Fitzherbert’s tone was breathless and uncertain. It was plain she was quite upset. But the house seemed quiet. The comfortably appointed room was calm and in good order, with the lamps and fire brightly lit.
“Will you not sit?” Mrs. Fitzherbert gestured to a pair of brocade chairs and took her own place on a striped settee. Like her clothing, all Mrs. Fitzherbert’s furnishings were the best quality and thoroughly fashionable.
“I . . . I hardly know where to begin.” Mrs. Fitzherbert clasped her hands together. “I thought to have some tea, but”—she gestured helplessly toward the empty table—“it is hardly an ordinary social call, is it?”
“It is not,” agreed Rosalind. “And I am sorry it has been made necessary. However, we should perhaps address the matter directly? It is quite clear something alarming has occurred.”
“Yes, it has.” Mrs. Fitzherbert drew a deep breath. “But the situation is extremely delicate, and I must ask for your complete discretion on the matter.” Her eyes flickered toward Adam.
“Anything you say to Mr. Harkness or me will be held in strictest confidence,” Rosalind assured her.
A shadow of anger passed across Mrs. Fitzherbert’s features. Rosalind wondered how many times this woman had heard that promise, only to have it broken. She twisted her plump hands as her gaze drifted from Rosalind, to Adam, to a painted portrait that hung above the fireplace. The portrait showed two dark-haired girls—one still a child, the other in adolescence. Both were dressed in white ruffled gowns, with white roses in their hands. The sight of the painted faces seemed to harden something inside Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“I have been robbed,” she said. “It happened today, while I was away from home.”
“What was taken?” asked Adam.
Mrs. Fitzherbert hesitated. She twisted her hands again. When she did speak, her voice was low and hoarse. “My marriage certificate.”
Rosalind blinked. “Your . . .”
“My marriage certificate,” Mrs. Fitzherbert repeated. “Signed and witnessed, testifying to my marriage to George Augustus Frederick of Hanover, then Prince of Wales.”
So.
The rumors were correct. A wedding had taken place. George IV had married a Catholic. The law declared that this action rendered him ineligible to occupy the throne. And yet he had already been declared the lawful king and he was said to be as busy planning his coronation as he was with his divorce from Caroline of Brunswick.
But here in this calm, fashionable parlor sat his other wife—a living woman, never divorced but never fully acknowledged.
If proof of their marriage was revealed, his eligibility to hold the throne could be challenged by Parliament or indeed by any or all his brothers. Or by the people themselves.
It felt like an opera or a fairy tale. But it was as real as the woman in front of her. Rosalind forbade her gaze to stray down to the miniature at Mrs. Fitzherbert’s throat. Part of her was already backing away, whispering, This is too much. There are too many consequences. This is beyond me.
If Adam was as stunned as Rosalind by this revelation and its implications, he was also able to set them aside more quickly.
“When did you discover the certificate missing?” he asked.
“This afternoon,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert. “I was out paying my morning calls. When I returned, I went to my room to change my dress. There I found my strongbox had been broken open and all my papers scattered about.”
“Was anything else missing?”
Mrs. Fitzherbert shook her head. “Not even the banknotes. I need it back, Miss Thorne, Mr. Harkness,” she said abruptly. “It must be returned quietly and without fuss. I know you make it your business to help ladies with deeply private troubles, and I will pay whatever it costs.”
“My man of business will be in touch about the details, should it be decided we can be of material assistance,” Rosalind told her. “May I ask, however . . . Have you sent word to . . . your husband?”
“No,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert flatly. “I have not spoken to him in a number of years. He has made it very”—her voice broke—“very plain that he does not wish to continue our alliance on a footing of domestic intimacy, and I have determined I do not wish to continue under any other circumstance.”
The combination of pain and dignity in Mrs. Fitzherbert’s declaration went straight to Rosalind’s heart.
“I understand this is difficult for you,” she said. “However, he would have far more resources at his command than any we can bring to bear upon this matter.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert shook her head. “My husband was never a strong or a discreet man, and in the years since our separation, he has become much degraded. If I tell him the marriage certificate has been stolen, it is very likely that he will panic, and in his panic, he will speak to the wrong person. If that happens, neither he nor I will be safe from what comes afterward.”
Because she was Catholic. Because King George had no legitimate heir. What he did have, however, was five brothers, none of whom were particularly fond of him. If one of the royal dukes chose to contest the succession, the effects would reverberate throughout the whole kingdom for a generation.
There were already calls for the king to abdicate because of the way he treated the queen. If his previous marriage were proved . . . the king’s enemies would come for him. The mob would come for him.
Rosalind knew her silence had stretched on for too long, but she could not seem to muster an answer.
Instead, it was Mrs. Fitzherbert who spoke. “You will now perhaps ask yourself why I did not destroy the paper, for the good of the king and the kingdom. Knowing me only from rumor, you wonder, perhaps, if I intended to profit from it in some way?”
Rosalind felt Adam stiffen ever so slightly at this imputation of her character. But she calmly absorbed the accusation and the anger behind it. It was plain that Mrs. Fitzherbert felt wounded and exhausted. She could not be blamed for her suspicions or a defensive tone.
“This could not come as a surprise,” Rosalind said. “We must consider all possibilities, including those which are unpleasant.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert wilted slightly. “I apologize. You see, if it was only myself who could be hurt by this, I would simply leave London and exile myself to the Continent. But I have two wards.” She gestured toward the portrait of the girls over the fireplace. “They are not the daughters of my body, but I love them as if they were. Mary Ann has been with me since she was a girl, and Minney since she was an infant. Now she’s ready to make her debut.”
As Mrs. Fitzherbert looked at the portrait, a host of expressions flickered across her features—pride, fear, determination, love, and fear again. “If I’m publicly libeled as a loose and immoral woman, my marriage certificate stands as the only proof of my fitness to be their guardian. Without it, I could lose them both.”
A father might participate in numerous dalliances without his rights as a parent being
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The Matter of the Secret Bride
Darcie Wilde
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