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  Then, across the course of a year, disaster struck for both families.

  Rosalind’s and Alice’s fathers nursed similar ambitions for their daughters, but they also nursed similar vices in themselves. Both men gambled, and drank, and engaged in speculation, and the results for both had been the same. After years of living beyond their incomes, they’d finally lost their ability to pay their debts, or borrow from friends, or anyone else for that matter.

  When ruin finally threatened, Rosalind’s father responded by running away.

  Mr. Littlefield’s response left his children not only penniless but orphaned.

  Therefore, George could be forgiven for sounding genuinely distressed when he exclaimed, “Alice is intent on destroying her livelihood!”

  “Oh, piffle, George.” Alice, having refused coffee, helped herself to a slice of toast from the rack and dropped down onto the stool in front of the fire.

  “And how is Alice doing this?” Rosalind asked the room at large.

  “Tell her, Alice. Tell her what you’re going to do!” The naked anger in his voice genuinely surprised Rosalind. Despite his family’s hardships, George remained an easygoing man, and the pair enjoyed a close relationship that Rosalind sometimes envied. She and her own sister had not fared nearly as well.

  “If you would sit down and calm down, I would be glad to tell her everything.” Alice pointed her half-eaten toast toward the sofa.

  But George ignored this direction and rounded on Rosalind. In tones he normally reserved for discussing Parliamentary corruption and failed drainage systems, he announced, “She’s going to turn novelist.”

  Rosalind paused to suppress all possible traces of a smile. Only then did she raise her brows and look to Alice for confirmation of this outrage. Alice lifted her chin, which was really all the answer Rosalind needed.

  “I’ve spoken with Mr. Henry Colburn. In fact, it was George who introduced us . . .”

  “I wish I’d made you stay home!”

  “. . . and Mr. Colburn said that should A.E. Littlefield be inclined to write a novel, he would be delighted to consider the manuscript for publication at the earliest possible date.”

  Shortly after their father’s suicide, George and Alice had both turned to writing to make their livings. The majority of the Littlefield income now came from the twice-weekly paper the London Chronicle. George was a feature writer, while Alice provided society gossip under the sobriquet of A.E. Littlefield. This and some other odd jobs enabled them to live, but not well. There were times, especially when the season was over and London quiet, that it became difficult to make ends meet.

  “What Colburn wants,” George sneered, “is another book of overwrought tittle-tattle, like that Glenarvon thing Lady Caroline wrote, and he thinks Alice can give it to him.”

  “Which she can,” replied Alice. “And she can do it using prose that is a much less violent shade of purple and is sprinkled with rather fewer mawkish Irish ballads.”

  “And when she’s sued for libel, and the Major removes her from her regular column, then what?”

  Rosalind did not remark on this immediately. Instead, she poured a fresh cup of coffee and held it out. George stared at it and then, resigning himself to the inevitable, seized the cup, sat himself on the end of the sofa, and drank. Alice crossed her ankles, rolled her eyes, and held out her hand. Rosalind poured a second cup.

  Now that she had their attention, and a moment of silence, Rosalind said, “George, this isn’t like you. What is really the matter?”

  “It’s one thing to air the haut ton’s dirty linen when they’re tossing you the titbits themselves, or if you’re Lady Caroline, daughter of a duchess and married to a peer of the realm. It’s quite another thing when you’re a penniless nobody.”

  “If it sells, we won’t be penniless,” replied Alice tartly. “And I intend to publish anonymously.”

  “It won’t stay anonymous. It never does.”

  “Have either of you spoken to any of Mr. Colburn’s other authors?”

  Brother and sister stared at Rosalind, both with their cups halfway to their mouths, their expressions such precise mirrors of each other that Rosalind’s self-control finally gave way and she let out a long laugh.

  “You’re journalists!” she cried. “Has either of you considered interviewing the other persons Mr. Colburn is publishing to find out what manner of man he is and how he conducts his business? You could also speak with a solicitor about the libel laws. I should think, George, you would know at least one law clerk, but if not, perhaps Alice can speak to Mrs. . . .”

  It was at this moment that the parlor door opened, and Rosalind’s housekeeper, Mrs. Kendricks, entered the room. Mrs. Kendricks was a rail-thin, competent, and usually unflappable woman. But just then a distinct color flushed her cheek and worry creased her brow.

  “I do apologize, Miss Thorne,” Mrs. Kendricks said. “But you have another visitor. Lady Jersey is . . .”

  Wherever or whatever Lady Jersey had been before, she was now in Rosalind’s front room.

  CHAPTER 3

  Unseasonable Arrivals

  . . . from far, from near, fashion and folly poured

  forth their victims.

  Lady Caroline Lamb, Glenarvon

  “I did not expect you to have callers so early, Miss Thorne.

  It is hardly the social hour.”

  Rosalind, George, and Alice all struggled to their feet as Lady Jersey strode into the parlor. If the room had seemed somewhat crowded before, it instantly became cramped. Sarah Villiers, Lady Jersey, was a stout, short woman. Her force of personality, however, was such that she instantly filled any allotted space.

  Ladies of the haut ton were instructed from infancy to be quiet, modest, and entirely unobtrusive. At some stage, Lady Jersey had thrown all such lessons over her shoulder. Ignoring the trio standing in awkward surprise, she stalked about the room, peering at Rosalind’s few pictures and ornaments as if bent on making an immediate purchase.

  But then, Lady Jersey could afford to disregard those proprieties the world demanded of other women. She presided over that great hub of social London—Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Newspapers and wits scoffed at Almack’s weekly subscription dances with their strict dress code and meager refreshments. But the fortunes of whole families turned on the matches arranged at those highly exclusive assemblies. As the foremost among Almack’s gatekeepers, Lady Jersey held unrivaled social power, and she had no scruples at all about wielding it exactly as she saw fit.

  There was no reason for the woman who ruled London society to be prowling Rosalind’s narrow parlor before ten o’clock in the morning. Fortunately, proper manners provided refuge from the sudden shock.

  “Lady Jersey, how do you do?” said Rosalind. “May I introduce Mr. George Littlefield and his sister, Miss Alice Littlefield?”

  “Yes.” Lady Jersey looked the Littlefields up and down through her quizzing glass with the same glare she’d used on Rosalind’s Dresden shepherdess. “Not, I trust, related to that horrid newspaper gossip, A.E. Littlefield? I am aware that Miss Thorne is forced on occasion to have intercourse with such . . .”

  “Heavens, no,” murmured Alice. “I’m sorry your ladyship should think it. Well, George, it is past time we were on our way.”

  “Yes, of course.” George did not bat an eye as he made his bow. “Miss Thorne. Lady Jersey. Pray, don’t trouble, Mrs. Kendricks. We will show ourselves out.”

  As the Littlefields took their admirably prompt leave, Alice paused just long enough to give Rosalind a glance that spoke volumes. Specifically: If I do not receive a full report of this visit, the consequences will be severe.

  Mrs. Kendricks, excused from having to attend to the departing Littlefields, retired to the chimney corner.

  Lady Jersey sighed. “I do wish you would remember to keep regular hours, Miss Thorne. There cannot be a moment’s delay in this matter.”

  “I am ready to help however I can.”
r />   Rosalind had made Lady Jersey’s acquaintance during the previous season. Unthinkably, a man had been murdered inside Almack’s. Rosalind had discovered the murderer, although to Lady Jersey’s way of thinking, this was of secondary importance. For her, the vital acheivement had been that Rosalind prevented the scandal from destroying the reputation of the ballroom or its committee.

  “Your sense of duty has always been most admirable, Miss Thorne. I said so to Lady Melbourne when I recommended you to her. ‘You may depend on Miss Thorne in all particulars, ’ I said. ‘She is entirely calm and levelheaded, and she understands that such affairs must be managed with the utmost discretion . . .”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am—”

  “Was there ever anyone more unreasonable than that wife of his! Taking the most private family business to a lawyer! Perhaps her own parents are of no standing, but to demonstrate so little consideration for her nearest relations . . .”

  Lady Jersey’s volubility was the stuff of social legend. Rosalind knew from personal experience that waiting for her to draw breath would be an exercise in extreme patience.

  “I suppose one could excuse that woman, perhaps. All things considered . . . The house she was raised in . . . the duchess was a great lady, there is no denying. These is none like her today. I met her several times, you know. Still, the irregularities of the domestic arrangement . . . and the general permissiveness. It had to have some effect on Lady Caroline.”

  While Lady Jersey flung forth this verbal whirlpool, Rosalind signaled to Mrs. Kendricks. The housekeeper moved silently to her side.

  “Still. One would think any person would have been grateful to be admitted to such a household as Lady Melbourne’s.”

  Rosalind made a discreet scribbling gesture. In response, Mrs. Kendricks handed across her housekeeping book and pencil.

  “It should have been a brilliant match! An unparalleled match.”

  Rosalind opened the notebook to a fresh page and began writing.

  “If she’d only been discreet! If she’d only understood how long and how hard Lady Melbourne labored to help her!” Lady Jersey glowered at the tidy writing desk with its stacks of correspondence. “You just have time to change into something decent. You have something, don’t you? I suppose I might loan you one of . . .” She turned, and stopped. “Miss Thorne, what in heaven’s name are you doing?”

  “A few notes for my housekeeper. Thank you, Mrs. Kendricks.” Mrs. Kendricks made her curtsey and took the note, the breakfast tray, and herself out of the room. “If you will please sit down, Lady Jersey? Mrs. Kendricks will bring you fresh coffee while I get ready.”

  The fact that everything was moving in the direction she hoped for seemed to catch Lady Jersey off guard. “Yes. Very good. Very prompt. I was certain we might rely on you.”

  “I do have one question.”

  “Well? What is it?”

  “Where are we going?”

  Lady Jersey leveled Rosalind with a quelling glower.

  “Oh, Miss Thorne, do try to pay attention! I’ve been perfectly plain! We are going to Melbourne House. Lady Melbourne is in need of your particular assistance.”

  This was no small pronouncement. Lady Melbourne was one of London’s preeminent social and political hostesses. True, she was no longer in her prime, but the Melbourne name, the family, the house, and the lady herself still represented the highest circles of London society, and that was despite a level of notoriety that would have destroyed a lesser woman.

  Indeed, if there was one person who wielded more influence over social London than Lady Jersey, it was Lady Melbourne.

  “Of course,” replied Rosalind calmly. “I do apologize. And the matter is . . . ?”

  Lady Jersey sighed sharply. “Really, Miss Thorne! I have never known you to be so woolly-headed! Did I not just explain? Some very valuable, highly confidential letters have been stolen from Lady Melbourne’s personal papers. It is to be your duty to recover them.” She leaned forward and hissed. “They’re about Lord Byron, Miss Thorne! And there can be no question but that they have all been stolen by that woman!”

  CHAPTER 4

  The Troubles Of Lady Melbourne

  Few men can be trusted with their neighbor’s secrets,

  and scarcely any woman with her own.

  Elizabeth Lamb, Viscountess Melbourne,

  private correspondence

  What Rosalind knew about the connection between Melbourne House and the notorious aristocratic poet George Gordon, Lord Byron was limited. When Lord Byron and his epic poem Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage had become London’s ruling sensations, Rosalind was mired in the depths of her family’s dissolution. Despite this, the salacious details of the poet’s affaire de coeur had so pervaded society that they reached even her.

  The facts, as Rosalind knew them, were these:

  Lady Melbourne’s daughter-in-law was Lady Caroline Lamb. Lady Caroline (who held that title in her own right, quite separate from her husband) was married to the Honorable Mr. William Lamb.

  While married to Mr. Lamb, Lady Caroline had conducted a romantic affair with Lord Byron.

  That, in and of itself, was not the problem (at least, not as these things were reckoned among the fashionable). The problem lay in how Lady Caroline conducted that affair.

  She stalked Lord Byron through the ballrooms. She (apparently with his cooperation) visited his home dressed as a page boy. She allowed herself to be seen emerging quite alone from his carriage at all hours.

  It hardly seemed possible that matters should escalate, but they did. When Lord Byron ended the affair to marry a Miss Anne Isabella Milbanke, Lady Caroline refused to give him up. Worse, she became increasingly and publicly hysterical at his rejection of her. At one ball, they said, she broke a glass and slit her own wrist. At another, they said, she tried to throw herself out a window.

  Some of these stories were certainly exaggerations. Rosalind, for instance, refused to believe that Lady Caroline had actually lit a bonfire and burned all her correspondence from the poet while dancing round the blaze.

  It was indisputable, however that Lady Caroline had capped off her indiscretion by writing an account of her torrid romance in the novel Glenarvon. The novel had, among other things, savagely satirized Elizabeth Lamb, Lady Melbourne. The woman who now summoned Rosalind to her home in Piccadilly Square. Regarding some missing letters.

  Regarding Lord Byron.

  * * *

  Rosalind was no stranger to aristocratic houses. But even among London’s many brilliant residences, Melbourne House stood out as marbled and gilded grace on the grand scale. The fabulous Grecian portico, the domed entrance hall, and the pair of sweeping staircases were all designed to inspire awe, and this they achieved admirably.

  A liveried footman conducted Rosalind and Lady Jersey to a pale green salon on the second floor. While fairly intimate as compared to the public rooms below, it was still larger than an entire floor of Rosalind’s rented house. A mural depicting the classical graces decorated the ceiling. Antique marble and alabaster vases stood in well-spaced niches. A pair of footmen and another pair of uniformed maids also occupied their appointed places. A fifth woman, quite probably the lady’s maid, stood beside the mantel.

  Elizabeth Lamb, Viscountess Melbourne, sat facing the doorway in a gilded, tapestried chair. Crossing to their hostess was like approaching the queen to be presented, and Rosalind felt certain this was not an accident.

  “I am so very glad you could come, Miss Thorne.” Lady Melbourne’s voice was deep and low. One would have to stand close to hear her clearly. Rosalind suspected this was not an accident, either. “And thank you so much for bringing her to me, Lady Jersey. Do please sit down. I trust, Lady Jersey, you have given Miss Thorne some explanation as to what’s happened?”

  “I have informed Miss Thorne of the whole of the circumstances, Lady Melbourne. Indeed, I was able to positively confirm to her . . .”

  While Lady Jersey explaine
d to Lady Melbourne the depth and detail of her explanations to Rosalind, Rosalind had time to study the woman who had sent for her. Age had streaked her hair with white but had left her a studied dignity and a clear, knowing eye. It was easy to see the beauty that was reported to have captivated so many famous men. She still dressed at the height of the fashion. But where Lady Jersey’s dedication to the current mode made her look fussy, Lady Melbourne seemed perfectly at ease in her burgundy damask frock with a magnificent Indian shawl draped loosely around her shoulders. The only concession she could find to Lady Melbourne’s married state was a wisp of a cap held in place by a silver comb.

  Despite this exquisitely crafted nonchalance, Lady Melbourne’s hands betrayed her true situation. She gripped the chair arms as if she feared to release them, this despite the fact that her knuckles were scarlet and horribly swollen. In fact, the skin had split in several places.

  Rheumatism, thought Rosalind, for the signs were unmistakable. She must be in pain. But she will not betray any sign of weakness to a stranger.

  Lady Jersey was still talking. “. . . and I do assure you, Lady Melbourne, it will take Miss Thorne no time at all to discover what that woman has done with your letters and see them restored . . .”

  “Yes, yes, dear Sarah,” breathed Lady Melbourne. “You’ve been admirably thorough in your account of Miss Thorne’s many virtues. But while I do recognize it must be a trial to your patience, perhaps you’ll allow me to put one or two questions to your protégé myself?”