Chapter Thirty-One
Rosie awoke the next morning to find herself alone. After the decadent night of lovemaking, Andrew had escorted her home in the wee hours, carried her to her bedchamber, and tucked her into bed. She had immediately fallen into a deep sleep and wasn’t sure if he’d stayed. Rolling over to see if she could sniff out his delicious scent on the sheets, she saw a note and box on the pillow next to hers. Sitting up, she unfolded the paper.
Sunshine (the note read),
I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. In lieu, I’ve left you a small memento. I hope you will think of me, as my thoughts will undoubtedly be of you. Until tonight. —A.
Dreamily, Rosie pressed the letter to her bosom. Andrew made her feel like the most special lady in all the world. She picked up the blue velvet box, wondering what he’d gotten her this time. She smiled to herself. Thus far, his unconventional gifts had included gingerbread and a pistol; what would he surprise her with now?
She lifted the lid—and her breath lodged in her throat. Goodness.
The necklace was the most exquisite she’d ever seen. Cast in white gold, it took the shape of flowing vines and delicate leaves, all of it encrusted with brilliant diamonds. The centerpiece was a cluster of blooming flowers, their shape unmistakably those of primroses. Three large diamonds, over a carat each, were suspended from the blossoms like sparkling dewdrops.
When her lover had a mind to give a gift, he truly gave a gift. She ran a fingertip over the stunning piece; she couldn’t wait for her period of mourning to be over so that she could wear it.
As much as she wanted to stay in bed and gawk over the necklace, she had a busy day ahead of her. She glanced at the bedside clock—and gave a little shriek. Heavens, she only had two hours to get ready for the meeting with Lady Charlotte! She hurtled out of bed, ringing for Odette.
Thanks to her maid’s efficiency, she was suitably groomed by the time Emma came to pick her up. Her hair was parted in the middle, curls upswept, a few left to frame her face. She’d worn a stylish black taffeta with a V-shaped neckline, leg-o’-mutton sleeves, and full skirts.
Rosie and her entourage soon arrived at the dowager’s house, a modest abode on the fringes of Mayfair. She waited patiently as her sisters negotiated with their husbands. The men wanted to escort them inside; the ladies said a male presence would hamper the interview (Rosie had to agree). Finally, after whispered back-and-forth negotiations, the men agreed to wait outside on one condition: if their wives didn’t emerge in an hour, they would personally go in and carry them out.
“Let’s hurry,” Emma muttered, casting a backward glance at her large spouse, who stood next to the carriage with his arms crossed, his pale green gaze tracking her every move. “I wouldn’t put it past His Grace to carry out his troglodytic threat.”
Her sisters looked back at their looming husbands, and all of them hastened to the front door.
Once inside, they were ushered by an ancient butler into a sitting room. The space was dated, the dark and faded brocade fashionable several decades ago. Flanked by the Misses Fossey, the dowager countess came over to greet them. In the background, Mrs. James rose but kept her distance.
Introductions and greetings were exchanged.
“Please make yourselves comfortable.” The dowager waved them toward the seating area. “And do call me Charlotte: we are family after all. Indeed, the girls and I had planned to call upon you, Lady Daltry,”—she cast a flustered glance at Rosie—“but we did not wish to intrude upon your privacy.”
Looking into Lady Charlotte’s plump, pleasant features, framed by silver curls and a lace cap, Rosie could not imagine that this mother hen would want to harm her.
So she smiled and said, “You are welcome to visit any time, Lady Charlotte. And please call me Rosie.”
“Rosie, then.” Clearly relieved, Lady Charlotte smiled back at her.
“It is a pleasure to see you again,” Miss Sybil ventured shyly from beside her aunt.
“And you as well,” Rosie said warmly.
Sybil flushed to the roots of her dull blonde hair. Rosie thought the girl could be pretty if she chose more flattering clothes (the loose-fitting grey gown did nothing for the other’s figure) and a more stylish coiffure than the scraped-back topknot. As Rosie was wondering how she might subtly dispense some fashion advice, Sybil’s younger sister pushed forward.
“May I say how much I adore your ensemble, Rosie?” Miss Eloisa gushed. “Your widow’s weeds put the most fashionable gowns to shame. The work of Madame Rousseau, I believe?”
“Why, yes, it is.” Although Rosie was surprised by the turnabout in Miss Eloisa’s manner, she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Madame is a favorite of mine as well.” Eloisa linked arms with her, drawing her toward the sitting area. “You must sit by me for I’m certain we have so much in common to discuss.”
The countess and Miss Sybil followed behind, as did Emma and the clan.
When everyone was settled and tea had been poured, Mrs. James spoke up.
“As charming as this is,” she said—truly, she’d be an attractive woman if not for her sneer, as unsightly as a mustache would be on her face—“I’d prefer we get to the point. Why was I summoned here today?”
“Now, Antonia, you were not summoned,” Lady Charlotte said hastily. “The duchess merely wrote that she hoped to meet with all the ladies in our family during her visit today.”
“I don’t have your appetite for niceties,” Mrs. James retorted. “I call a spade a spade.”
“I, too, prefer directness,” Emma said. “The truth is, we are here on an urgent matter.”
“Oh?” Lady Charlotte’s forehead pleated beneath her frilly lace cap.
“A week ago, someone tried to murder Rosie.”
At Emma’s declaration, Rosie observed the reactions of her new relatives. Papa had warned Mr. Theale and Mr. James not to speak of the matter for their own good, and apparently the men had taken his caution to heart. The ladies appeared shocked by the news. The dowager and Miss Eloisa gasped, Miss Sybil’s hand flew to her mouth, and Mrs. James’ face drained of color.
“Goodness,” Lady Charlotte whispered. “You are unharmed, I hope?”
Having rehearsed the story with her papa, Rosie knew what to say. “I was fortunate that my driver chased off the attacker.”
“How brave you are!” Miss Eloisa’s sapphire eyes were unblinkingly wide. “I’m certain I wouldn’t have half your composure under such circumstances.”
“She wouldn’t need the composure if she’d practiced more caution.” Recovering from her shock, Mrs. James said with cold hauteur, “A lady has no business traipsing about at night. She’s lucky the groom chased the shooter away.”
“Hold up.” This came from Violet, whose tawny gaze had honed in upon Mrs. James’ face. “How did you know this happened at night? No one has mentioned when the attack occurred.”
Tell-tale red appeared on Mrs. James’ sharp cheekbones. “I… I just assumed… that is, don’t most attacks happen in the evening?”
“And how did you know I was shot at?” Rosie said. “I didn’t specify the method of attack.”
Mrs. James’ tongue touched her upper lip. “I just thought that cutthroats used firearms…”
“I find the accuracy of your assumptions fascinating,” Emma said.
Drawing herself up, Mrs. James glared at the room at large. “Are you accusing me of trying to harm Lady Daltry?”
“No, ma’am,” Thea said in her gentle yet resolute way, “but in order to protect Rosie, we must talk to all those who would benefit from her death.”
“Well, I never.” Mrs. James shot up, the jet beads on her bodice quivering. “I refuse to stay and be subjected to these insults!”
“We are merely discussing facts.” Emma’s eyes had a shrewd gleam. “If you know about the attack from another source—for instance, your stepson, who my brother has also interviewed—then you need only say so. While my brother asked Mr. James to keep the details private, it wouldn’t be a crime if your stepson shared them with you.”
“Why would Alastair share a private matter with me?” Mrs. James’ gaze shifted left and right. “As I said, my assumptions were guesses, nothing more. I had nothing to do with the attack on Lady Daltry. Good day.”
She swept out, leaving the room in silence.
“Well, that was awkward.” Miss Eloisa tittered. “The lady doth protest, as they say. You don’t suppose Aunt Antonia is involved in any way?”
“Hush, Eloisa,” Lady Charlotte said, a handkerchief knotted in her hands. “Now is not the time for your wit. This is a serious matter, and we must put our heads together to help Rosie.”
“But, Aunt Charlotte… aren’t we suspects too?” Miss Sybil said timorously.
“Oh, dear.” The dowager’s gaze went to Rosie. “I suppose you are right.”
Rosie didn’t want to lose the newly won goodwill. Besides, now that the ladies had warmed toward her, she thought they were rather nice. And they were her new relations, after all.
She glanced at Em, who lifted her chin slightly as if to say, We’ll follow your lead.
Rosie made her decision. “We mean no insult, Lady Charlotte. We’re merely trying to get to the bottom of this situation.”
“I quite understand,” the dowager said. “And I wish to help.”
“In that case, can you think of anything that might point us to a particular suspect?”
Lady Charlotte clenched her handkerchief, her expression torn.
“I’ll say it since no one else will. Peter has the most to gain,” Eloisa declared. “He’s forever short of funds, and now with the estate on his hands, he’s sunk unless he gets the inheritance.”
“That’s unfair,” Sybil protested. “Peter is no murderer. He’s a kind and gentle man.”
“You’re far too charitable.” Snorting, Eloisa turned to Rosie. “Peter has cried on all of our shoulders, and Sybil’s the only one who feels sorry for him. Then again, she’s a soft touch for hopeless cases.”
Her older sister flushed. “I am not.”
“All your life, you’ve collected strays. Remember our old butler? You were forever making those herbal poultices for his bad leg.” Eloisa rolled her eyes. “Then there’s your spinster friend Miss What’s-Her-Name, who constantly summons you to her deathbed. Peter is more of the same.”
“He is not.” Sybil bit her lip. “Besides, if anyone needs money, it’s Alastair. Remember how he showed up that time, deep in his cups, demanding that Aunt Charlotte lend him funds?”
“Girls, that is enough,” the dowager said. “These are members of our family you’re casting aspersions at. Family is everything; haven’t I taught you that?”
Sybil looked chastened, Eloisa sulky.
Sensing that the interview had come to an end, Rosie didn’t want to push her luck.
“Thank you for your time.” On impulse, she added, “And on the topic of family, if I can be of assistance in any way, please let me know. I’m certain my late husband would want his generosity to be shared with his kin.”
That was a lie, of course. Just because Daltry had been a tight-fisted miser with his relatives, however, didn’t mean that she had to be.
The lines on Lady Charlotte’s face eased. Her eyes warmed. “How kind of you. Your support is appreciated, my dear.”
“And if there’s anything that we can do for you,” Miss Eloisa chimed in, “please let us know.”
“Anything at all,” Miss Sybil said diffidently.
It was an opening that Rosie hadn’t expected. Yet the three seemed in earnest, and she knew she couldn’t let the opportunity pass her by.
“Since you asked,” she said with thudding hope, “I do have a favor to ask.”