The Secret of the Lost Pearls

Book 1: Useful Woman Mystery

by Darcie Wilde

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

The resourceful and intrepid Rosalind Thorne, a heroine after Jane Austen's heart, returns to solve another mystery within Regency-era high society in the latest novel in Darcie Wilde's nationally bestselling historical series. Ideal for fans of Amanda Quick, Lauren Willig, and Deanna Raybourn.
Beyond the glittering ballrooms and elegant parties of Regency London lurk all manner of unexpected dangers. In this captivating mystery series inspired by the novels of Jane Austen, no one is better equipped to help ladies who find themselves wronged than Rosalind Thorne . . .
Rosalind Thorne may not have a grand fortune of her own, but she possesses virtues almost as prized by the haut ton: discretion, and a web of connections that enable her to discover just about anything about anyone. Known as a “most useful woman,” Rosalind helps society ladies in need—for a modest fee, of course—and her client roster is steadily increasing.

Mrs. William Douglas, née Bethany Graves, presents Rosalind with a particularly delicate predicament. A valuable pearl necklace has gone missing, and Bethany's husband believes the thief is Nora, Bethany's disgraced sister. Nora made a scandalous elopement at age sixteen and returned three years later, telling the family that her husband was dead.

But as Rosalind begins her investigations, under cover of helping the daughters of the house prepare for their first London season, she realizes that the family harbors even more secrets than scandals. The intrigue swirling around the Douglases includes fraud, forgery, blackmail, and soon, murder. And it will fall to Rosalind, aided by charming Bow Street officer Adam Harkness, to untangle the shocking truth and discover who is a thief—and who is a killer.

Release date: December 27, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

February 1820

“Campbell!” Asherton hailed Campbell from where he stood with his pretty, young companions. “There you are! We were afraid you weren’t coming!”

Campbell smiled and strode over to his friend. It was a raw gray day, and everyone was bundled up snugly. They made a nice little grouping at the public gate of Langford House—Asherton in his greatcoat, muffled practically to his ears and flanked by the two delectable girls with shawls and muffs. The girls were cousins. Emma and, and . . . Hang if he could remember the other one. Campbell’s attention, and ambition, were fixed on Emma, or, more specifically, on her future fortunes. According to her chaperone, Emma’s guardians planned to settle five thousand pounds a year on her dainty shoulders just as soon as she married.

Naturally, Campbell would have preferred a more manly way of making his living, but even the manliest must eat, dress, and pay his debts of honor.

Thankfully, little Emma was pretty enough to turn necessity into a pleasure. She had a wealth of pale gold hair, bright pink cheeks, pale skin, and wide blue eyes. In Campbell’s experience, dark girls were bound to be obstinate. The fair, frail ones were generally of much sweeter and malleable temperament.

“I’m so sorry!” Campbell bowed deeply to Emma and to Mrs. Rutledge, the girls’ chaperone. “A chance meeting with a man who had some business. It could not be helped. Emma, my darling, do you forgive me?”

The truth was, he’d needed an extra glass of brandy to help him muster the smiles that would be required during this afternoon’s tedium. However, none of the party needed that particular detail.

“I most certainly do not forgive you.” Emma lifted her delicately pointed chin. She shouldn’t call such attention to that dainty feature. Any man with blood in his veins would be sore tempted to nibble on it. “Not yet, anyway.”

You little coquette. Campbell’s grin broadened. We will see just how quickly you forgive.

“If you two are quite finished,” piped up the cousin hanging off Asherton’s arm. What was her name? “I want to see the exhibition.”

“Of course, of course.” Campbell slid his arm through Emma’s. “If you’ll allow me?”

Emma’s giggle signaled her full agreement, and they set off up the path, with Mrs. Rutledge determinedly bringing up the rear.

Lord Langford, the owner of Langford House, was a dedicated art collector. He’d built an entire wing onto his family’s London mansion to hold his acquisitions. Every so often, he would magnanimously throw open the doors to show off his latest trophies. These public days provided a fine opportunity for the lesser gentry to see and be seen. And, of course, they had the advantage of being entirely free, and therefore well within Campbell’s means, even after another bad night at cards.

Not that an afternoon at a gallery viewing was Campbell’s idea of rousing entertainment. Emma, however, had expressed a desire to attend, and ladies must be indulged.

All of them.

Campbell patted Emma’s hand, tipped her a knowing wink, and then slipped back to walk beside Mrs. Rutledge, who followed after them like a fat old crow, all clad in black. Shortly after he’d fixed his attentions on Emma, Campbell had discovered that Mrs. Rutledge was not immune to charm, or bribery, or gin. Since then, he had made certain to supply the old woman regularly with all three.

“Mrs. Rutledge, how are your bunions today?”

“Oh, I can’t complain, Mr. Campbell.” Which meant she would start grumbling as soon as she could draw another breath.

“Well, why don’t you take your ease while we wander the gallery? Look here, they’ve provided a very fine couch for the relief of such troubles as yours. If you’ll permit me?” Campbell took Mrs. Rutledge’s hand and walked her to the brocade settee as if she were a girl he was leading onto the dance floor.

“Oh, well, I’m sure I shouldn’t,” she said as she sat. “The girls . . .”

“Will be perfectly safe with Asherton and me in attendance,” said Campbell. “After all, what could possibly happen to them in such a very public place? Besides . . .” He gave her a wink and his very finest smile. His hand also just happened to press a coin into her gloved palm. “Who’s going to say a word?”

Behind him, the girls burst into a flurry of giggles. Campbell took Emma’s arm and steered her into the crowd.

The walls were fairly covered in paintings. All the gathering seemed to be enraptured by what they saw. To Campbell’s eye, though, they were nothing but an endless line of sentimental landscapes, stiff portraits, and scenes of normal, dull people in normal, dull postures.

He let himself be deaf to Emma’s assertion that they should purchase a catalog. Fortunately, Asherton gave in to the urgings of his girl—dash it all, what was her name?—and bought one of the shilling volumes that listed the paintings, praised Lord Langford as a patron of the arts, and gave some account of the artist’s life.

“Remind me again what’s so special about this particular chap?” Campbell allowed some of his ennui to creep into his voice.

Emma gasped and swatted at his arm with her gloved hand, just as he knew she would. “Oh, Campbell, you are tiresome! I told you all about it, and you clearly haven’t listened to a word.”

Which was true. Not that he didn’t try, but a man with as many concerns as he had couldn’t be expected to remember every detail of every conversation he held with a pretty feather-head.

“Whatever am I to do with him, Claire?” Emma sighed dramatically to her cousin.

Claire! Campbell vowed this time to commit the name to memory.

“You’ll soon take him in hand, Emma, I’m sure,” said Claire archly.

Campbell crooked his brows at Asherton, who returned a tight grin.

Emma took the catalog from Claire and assumed the air of a prim governess. “Jacob Mayne,” she read, “was born in Hertfordshire, the son of a respectable landholder . . .”

“Respectable, maybe,” put in Claire, her eyes shining delightedly. “But they do say the father was given to drink and cruelty.”

“His mother used her entire portion to send him to the Continent to get him out of his father’s way,” added Emma. She didn’t even need to glance at the catalog.

“He fell in love with a French girl whose family had run afoul of Napoleon,” Claire went on. That was the one problem with the pair of them. They couldn’t carry on a conversation singly but had to bat it back and forth like a shuttlecock. It made a man dizzy.

“He tried to bring her back to England, but while they were crossing the Channel, a storm came up unexpectedly, and she fell overboard and drowned,” supplied Emma dreamily. “The other passengers had to hold him back to keep him from jumping into the water after her.”

“Oh, look! That must be her!” Claire dragged Asherton over to a portrait hung dead center on the wall. It showed a delicate dark woman dressed in peasant clothing. Her loose blouse slipped clean off one white shoulder.

“So beautiful!” Emma sighed. “No wonder he tried to kill himself! Can you imagine how his heart must have broken to lose her?”

That was hardly what Campbell imagined as he looked at that tasty bit of shoulder.

“Quite lovely,” he murmured. “But not as lovely as some.” He pulled Emma just the tiniest bit closer. The girl smiled and preened.

“So what happened to our young hero after this tragic bereavement?” asked Asherton.

“He returned home, entirely devastated,” announced Claire. “When he got there, he found his father had died and left behind nothing for his family but a load of debts. He tried to support his mother and sister with his painting, but no one would pay any attention to him. He had to go to work, but he couldn’t stop painting. His grief turned to frenzy . . .”

“They say he’d stay awake for days at a time,” put in Emma. “He would not sleep. He would not eat. All he would do was paint.”

“And in the end he died of exhaustion and heartbreak. His family was forced to sell his work for whatever they could get.” Claire shook her head. “It’s all so awful!”

Campbell found himself staring into the painted eyes of the French peasant girl. The oddest sensation overcame him. It was not quite a sense of recognition, but it was close. And there was something else. Something closer, and more familiar. . .

It was as if he was being watched.

“You’ve gone quiet all of a sudden, Campbell,” said Emma.

“There’s a man staring at you.” He nodded vaguely into the crowd. He used the opportunity to look about him, but mostly he saw the backs of hats and bonnets, men’s coats, and ladies’ embroidered shawls. There was nothing to explain the feeling of someone’s attention fixed on him.

“Silly!” Emma cried delightedly. “No one’s staring at me. How would they dare when I’ve such a fine, strong fellow on my arm to protect me from any impudence?”

“I must be imagining things,” said Campbell ruefully. “I’m sorry. It’s just all this . . .” He waved at the paintings. “To see so much accomplishment from such a young fellow. I can’t help thinking how much of my life I’ve wasted.” Campbell schooled his features into an expression of melancholy. It wasn’t hard. Much of his life had been wasted or stolen from him. How much bad luck could a man endure and remain standing?

“Oh, Campbell.” Emma laid her hand over his where it rested on her sleeve. “You mustn’t talk like that. Things will get better. You’ll have your inheritance soon, and then you’ll make them better.”

Her faith was genuinely touching. Surely such faith, such love, could change the fate of any man.

“Oh, my dear, if only I’d met you first.” He smiled with all the tenderness he felt in that moment. “You would have saved me from those other false loves and kept me on the straight path.”

“You talk as if it was too late.”

“For me, it is. I had potential once. I had dreams once. Now what am I? Old and ruined.”

“You’re not so very old.”

“Then young and ruined, dependent on a fortune which may never arrive—”

“But it will,” said Emma. “I know you will win your suit! I believe in you entirely!” Emma snuggled up closer. She really was quite lucky they were in public.

They wandered about the gallery, nodding politely to the gentlemen and ladies as they passed. Campbell kept a sharp eye out for any familiar face but saw no one. Asherton obligingly steered his little Claire to the opposite side of the room, giving Campbell the opportunity to enjoy dainty Emma’s company alone for a bit.

But as Emma exclaimed at this painting and that, Campbell found he was hard-pressed to keep his thoughts focused. That feeling of being watched had not diminished at all. Campbell was almost ready to swear it was coming from the paintings themselves, especially the one of the French chit.

“Campbell! Campbell!” Asherton’s shout cut across the polite murmurs of the crowd. “You must come see this!”

Campbell quick-marched the giggling Emma into the little alcove where Claire and Asherton stood. Claire has flushed quite pink with excitement, and even Asherton looked positively energized.

“What’s the to-do?” asked Campbell.

“There!” Asherton pointed at one of the paintings.

The canvas was unfinished. Most of the figures were still only rude charcoal sketches. It showed a soldier from the late wars. He slouched in a sagging tent. His tattered uniform hung off his emaciated frame. Even his boots were torn. His face turned toward the viewer, and his attitude was one of utter exhaustion.

“Oh my!” breathed Emma. “Campbell! It’s you!”

“Why, so it is,” Campbell murmured, and understanding bloomed inside him. He should have recognized what hand had painted these pictures that were credited to some unknown Hertfordshire boy. After all, he’d once known that hand almost as well as he knew his own. “I wonder how this could have happened?”

As he spoke, Campbell felt the first genuine smile he’d known all day spread across his face.

Rosalind Thorne would not have said she began her morning by quarreling with Alice Littlefield. There was, however, a rather spirited disagreement.

“Alice, we cannot think about leasing a new house at present,” said Rosalind calmly. “It would be entirely too expensive.”

“It is not too expensive,” said Alice. “With what my novel will bring in . . .”

“Might bring in,” Rosalind corrected her. “The first volume is not even printed yet, and your Mr. Colburn said he can make no guarantees.”

“But over two dozen people have subscribed all ready,” Alice countered. “And you are doing very well all on your own. You told me you have seven ladies waiting on your—”

“Six,” Rosalind said, cutting her off.

“Six,” repeated Alice. “All of them women of good families who can afford to—do forgive me mentioning it!—pay your expenses.”

Rosalind’s hesitancy about money was a source of amusement and exasperation for Alice. Like Rosalind, Alice had been born into a gentleman’s family. They’d both been raised with the expectation that their futures would begin and end with an advantageous marriage. But those expectations had gone very far astray indeed. Now Alice worked as a gossip writer, a translator and, most recently, a novelist. She felt no bashfulness whatsoever about the fees she received for her writing.

Rosalind, on the other hand, had managed to create an ad hoc sort of living by helping the ladies of London with their difficulties—whether that meant arranging a social event or, in some startling instances, assisting with a case of blackmail or even murder.

The problem was that as a lady of gentle birth, Rosalind was forbidden by society to ask directly for money, no matter what task had been performed. To do so would instantly turn her into a workingwoman. Her claims of gentility would be immediately erased, and with them, the social standing she had fought for years to maintain.

“I have only had time to consult with three of them,” Rosalind reminded her. “And I cannot even be sure they will agree to the new terms my man of business is suggesting.”

“You’re just being difficult, Rosalind.”

“I am being practical, Alice,” she countered. “We must think of the future.”

“I am thinking of the future, and that is why we cannot stay as we are.” Alice spread her arms to indicate the small and, Rosalind was forced to admit, rather crowded parlor.

Rosalind had lived in the rented house in Little Russell Street for several years. It had, for the most part, answered very well—until Alice had moved in with her. Now, in addition to Rosalind’s desk, the tea table, and the chairs, the front room held Alice’s writing table, not to mention her many books and periodicals, which had begun to spill over into their equally tiny dining room.

There was no denying the house now felt very full.

Alice, as if sensing a moment’s doubt, pressed her advantage.

“I cannot write if I have to give up the parlor every time one of your ladies comes to call,” she said. “And you cannot possibly hope to meet the habitués of the haut ton if you have to sit practically in their laps! You know even better than I do how much appearance matters. Our current appearance is of poverty.”

“It is not poverty.” Rosalind was ashamed at how peevish she sounded. But she had scrimped and made do for years to maintain her genteel facade.

“For the Marlboroughs and the Jerseys of this world, it might as well be,” countered Alice. “Come, Rosalind, I’m not suggesting we lease Kensington Palace. Just come see this house on Orchard Street with me. It’s perfect, I promise, and the rent is not too very much more . . .”

“It’s more than just the rent,” said Rosalind. “A larger house means we will need more servants, not to mention new linens and curtains and the other furnishings—”

“This is a furnished house, and—”

Whatever Alice was about to add was cut off by a soft knocking at the parlor door.

Both women turned in time to see the door open and a tall, fair man step into the parlor.

“Mr. Harkness!” exclaimed Rosalind.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked. “Amelia said I should just show myself in.”

“And there’s another reason,” said Alice triumphantly. “You really cannot expect to properly entertain your gentlemen callers when you’ve nowhere to put them!”

Adam Harkness knew Alice well, and her indignation served only to make him smile.

“Callers?” he said to Rosalind, with a gentle lift of his brows. “You have more than one, Miss Thorne?”

Rosalind refused to blush. Unfortunately, her cheeks refused to obey her. “Please forgive us, Mr. Harkness,” she said. “Alice and I have been having a discussion.”

“Rosalind and I have been having an argument,” Alice corrected her. “Mr. Harkness, you will please tell her it is imperative that we find a larger house.”

Adam sighed regretfully. “If I had time, I would stay to discuss the matter. But I came only to make my farewells.”

“Oh, yes. I didn’t realize it was so late . . .” Rosalind glanced at Alice. “Perhaps we should take a walk?” she ventured. Alice was her best friend in the world, this morning’s disagreements notwithstanding. There were, however, some things for which Rosalind needed her privacy. Saying farewell to Adam Harkness was one of them.

Alice gave a theatrical sigh, complete with a great rolling of her brown eyes. “No, no, it’s freezing. You’d both catch your deaths of cold, and then I should have to dream of your sad ghosts for the rest of my life. I’ll be in my room.” She breezed out, or rather, she tried to, but her skirt caught on the edge of the footstool, and she had to stop to work it free.

This done, she did breeze. She also glowered meaningfully over her shoulder at Rosalind.

Rosalind shut the parlor door and turned to Adam. He was smiling.

It was Adam’s smile that had undone her from the first. Even more than his quiet bearing, or his strong, weathered face and sharp blue eyes. That small, knowing smile had taken up residence in her usually very calm and practical heart and absolutely refused to leave.

And she had long since gotten past wishing it would.

“Well, I wish you good luck in Manchester,” she said to him. Adam was a principal officer of the famous Bow Street Police Station. A consortium of merchants had written to the magistrates requesting an officer be sent to deal with a recent rash of burglaries. “I will miss you.”

“I’m sorry that I have to leave you just now,” Adam told her. “If anything comes up that you might need, I’ve asked Sam Tauton to look out for you.” Samuel Tauton was another of the Bow Street officers. “And you will write?”

“Of course I will,” said Rosalind.

“Especially to let me know when you’ve changed your address.” Adam’s grin turned cheeky.

Rosalind resolutely ignored this. “I don’t think we will need to worry about that just yet.”

“You might,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I think Alice makes a good point. The house is too small for you both.”

“I know,” she admitted with a sigh. “I just . . .” She fumbled for the correct words.

Since her mother had died, Rosalind had feared for her future, counted every ha’penny that came into her hands, and tried to brace herself against the day when her fragile existence would come tumbling down. It was difficult to believe that she could have finally succeeded in becoming independent.

Or secure.

Adam, as usual, understood much of what she did not say. “The world will not fall apart because you give yourself something you want.”

Rosalind felt the tiniest smile form. “Do you promise?”

“I do.” He spoke with deep solemnity, but a light shone in his deep blue eyes. “And you know that I am to be entirely trusted in all such matters.”

“I do.” Rosalind sighed. Habit made her glance over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening. “It’s just . . . It feels like everything is changing. All the letters, the new house, Alice turning novelist . . . I cannot make myself trust any of it.”

“You don’t have to trust the change,” said Adam. “Trust yourself instead. And Alice.”

“And you?” suggested Rosalind.

“Always.”

Rosalind laid her hand on his cheek. She savored the rough warmth of his skin against her palm and delighted in the tender mischief that shone in his eyes.

The parlor door opened. Rosalind jerked her hand away as if she’d been burned.

“I beg your pardon, miss.”

Amelia McGowan was plump, round faced, and ginger haired, with a spray of freckles across her nose and a light in her green eyes that warned all comers that here was a person who brooked no nonsense.

“There’s a lady in the foyer, Miss Thorne,” Amelia said. “I told her you were not home, but she insisted that I bring her card.”

Rosalind took it and read, “Mrs. Gerald Douglas.”

From the quality of the card and the raised engraving, Rosalind could see her caller was a woman of means and taste. Something else tapped at the back of Rosalind’s mind—a memory that she could not quite identify.

“Thank you, Amelia. Will you make us some tea please?”

“Already brewing,” she replied. “I thought you and Mr. Harkness might be wanting a cup.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot stay,” said Adam, and the regret was genuine. “You may tell the lady Miss Thorne will be available shortly.”

“Yes, sir.” Amelia bobbed her curtsy and shut the door.

“Giving orders to my maid?” Rosalind arched her brows. “You overstep yourself, sir.”

Adam simply took her hand and bowed low over it. Rosalind felt his warm breath on the back of her knuckles. The soft sensation gave life to all manner of fancies she’d thought she’d put away years ago.

He straightened again, smiled again—which made her heart turn over again.

“I don’t expect to be away too long,” he told her. “And never fear, I’ll leave through the back, so we don’t shock your new client.”

He put on his hat, touched the brim in salute, and took himself out through the door that led to the dining room, and then to the kitchen and the scullery, and from there to the garden.

Rosalind stayed where she was. Good-bye, she thought to the place where he had been. Good luck. Come home to me.

Then she turned and opened the door to the lady waiting there, and to whatever her problems might be.

Rosalind expected a stranger to be waiting for her, but to her surprise, she recognized the other woman immediately.

“Bethany!” Rosalind cried. “Goodness! This is a surprise!”

Rosalind had met Bethany Hodgeson during one long summer when they were both girls. A school chum had invited Rosalind down to the country for a house party. Bethany had been there, as well. The daughter of a local squire, Bethany had been a quiet girl, and very aware she was something of the country cousin among the wealthier young ladies. Still, she and Rosalind had become friends and for some years had carried on a lively correspondence. But when Rosalind’s father had vanished and their family had broken apart, that correspondence had fallen away, along with so much else.

“I hope you will forgive my intruding without writing first,” said Bethany.

“I’m delighted to see you,” Rosalind assured her, and she meant it. “I’m only sorry you’ve had to wait. Do, please, come in.”

Bethany had been a pretty girl, and she had grown to be a lovely woman. She had a clear, pale complexion and luminous brown eyes. Her dark hair had been simply dressed by an expert hand. She wore a gray wool dress trimmed with antique lace, well suited both for the raw February weather and the fact that it was barely a month since King George III had died. All of fashionable London was still expected to show at least some restraint of feeling.

Her dress said that prosperity had come to Bethany. But her manner still spoke of the hesitancy that had haunted her as the country girl.

“And how are you?” Rosalind asked Bethany.

“Quite well, thank you.” The reply felt reflexive. Bethany was clearly tired and more than a little ill at ease. “I am married, of course. My oldest son has just turned two and keeps the whole household on its toes.”

“You have my congratulations.”

Before either of them could make another remark, Amelia entered the parlor, bearing the tea tray. The tea set had been a Christmas present from the Littlefields—lovely Staffordshire pottery with roses and violets decorating the delicate cups and the pot.

Rosalind went through the rituals of pouring out, fixing the cup to her guest’s liking and inquiring if she’d prefer a slice of bread and butter or a biscuit.

Once they were settled, Rosalind asked, “What brings you to London?”

“The season, of course. It is our hope that my sister-in-law Penelope will be properly introduced into society.”

“Well, the season may be somewhat subdued this year,” said Rosalind. “Nonetheless, I hope you will all be able to enjoy yourselves.”

“Yes, the king’s funeral brought us to town early. Douglas’s grandfather was to attend and wanted Douglas with him. Since Douglas was named his heir, Sir Jasper has become very dependent on him.”

“You make it sound like a recent development.”

Bethany blushed and took a hasty swallow of tea to cover it. “It is. We received the news only two years ago. The fortune is . . . It’s considerable. As you might imagine, it has changed the prospects for our entire family, and now that Penelope is old enough, Douglas wants her to make a sound match.”

Rosalind sipped her tea and waited.

Bethany set cup and saucer down.

“Rosalind, you must forgive me. The reason I’m here is that I was talking to Lucinda Harding. She’s Mrs. Robert Nicholls now, but I think you know that.”

“Yes, indeed. I had a letter from her just last week.” In fact, Rosalind had been helping Lucinda deal with a rather complex matter of her own. Lucinda’s mother was being robbed of her monthly income by an unscrupulous banker. To make matters worse, the man had been sharing his takings with Lucinda’s uncle.

If it was Lucinda who had sent Bethany here, then that explained some of her unease. This was not to be a social call.

“I cannot think why I am having such a problem speaking plainly,” said Bethany.

“It is never easy to consult a stranger,” said Rosalind. Bethany’s expression said that she expected better of herself. “You may be sure that I hold whatever you tell me in the strictest confidence.”

“Thank you. I believe I’ve told you about my youngest sister? Leonora?”

“Yes, of course.” Bethany had two sisters—Leonora and Mariah. They’d still been little girls when she and Rosalind met.

“Leonora was always a pretty girl, lively and, well, more than a little silly. It’s not entirely her fault,” Bethany added quickly. “Our mother was unwell for much of our childhood. She did not have the strength or attention to give over to raising three girls, and my father has always found observation more to his taste than exertion. It eventually happened that Nora—that’s what we call her—eloped with a . . . friend of my husband’s. She was barely sixteen at the time.”

“I see.” Rosalind was careful to keep any trace of sympathy out of her tone. Bethany did not seem the sort who would welcome it.

“Yes.” Bethany flushed. “You see, Mr. Cantrell expected to be paid for either Nora’s return or their marriage. Douglas declined.” She spoke the words flatly, but her pain showed clearly in her expressive eyes. “He and Cantrell had been friends. In fact, they’d planned on going into business together. Douglas took Cantrell’s . . . behavior as a personal betrayal.”

“That must have been very hard for you.”

Bethany drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Yes, it was. Nora was gone for three years.”

“But she did return?”

“She quite literally turned up on our doorstep, with a valise in one hand and a ruined bonnet in the other. She told us that Cantrell had died and left her destitute, and there was nowhere else for her to go.”

“That must have been a shock.”

Bethany’s smile was wry and fleeting. “Mother took to her bed for three days. It was one of the few times in my life I have truly been tempted to emulate her. Douglas was furious, but, well, of course we could not turn Nora away.” Rosalind could not help noticing how Bethany spoke these words a little too quickly. “My husband is a good man, Miss Thorne,” she went on. “But he is also a proud man. He’d brought Cantrell into our house and trusted him absolutely. Cantrell’s behavior, and Nora’s—it wounded him gravely, and he is finding it very difficult to forgive.”

Rosalind made a quick guess. “May I take it this all happened after your husband came into his inheritance?”

“You would think that would be the case, but it was not. Douglas did not learn that his position within the family had changed until fully a year after Cantrell and Nora left.”

That was surprising. “Were they in love, then?”

“I am ashamed to say I don’t know,” said Bethany. “I didn’t see any sign of lovesickness in Nora before they vanished. Mariah—she’s my other sister—said she nev. . .