Scandal And The Duchess
Page 24
“Hmm.” If this lady was one of Steven’s friends, why wouldn’t she want her name sent up to him? “She was alone?”
“Yes, ma’am. Well, apart from her maid.”
A woman conscious of propriety then. Female journalists these days could be seen whisking about alone, which often caused more brow-raising than the stories they wrote, but a respectable lady went nowhere without at least one servant to escort her.
Rose’s curiosity wouldn’t let it lie. If the woman proved to be a journalist, masquerading as a lady, Rose would be sweet as sugar to her but send her off. If the lady truly was connected with Steven, Rose could at least pass on a message to him.
No, truth to be told, she simply wanted to lay eyes on a woman who would come boldly to a hotel and ask for Steven.
“Shall I tell her you are coming down?” Alice asked as Rose straightened her dress and smoothed her hair.
“No,” Rose said abruptly. “No . . . I’ll just go.”
Alice gave her a sage nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
Rose’s hair was still not right from Steven having pulled it out of its pins, no matter how much she struggled with it. She gave another curl a fierce push into place and left the room.
Chapter Eight
Alice accompanied Rose, rather like a guard dog. Rose let her lead the way to a small parlor buried deep inside the hotel’s ground floor. Alice opened the door before Rose could ask her to and announced in a rather grand voice, “The Duchess of Southdown. Ma’am.”
She curtseyed, and Rose went past her into the room.
The woman who rose from the curved sofa, giving Rose a look of confusion, was certainly no journalist. She wore black, as Rose did, widow’s weeds, but her mourning was fresh. Her black hat trailed crepe to her knees, and a thick black veil, which she’d lifted from her face, would cover her completely when down.
“I beg your pardon,” the woman said in a cultured voice. “I am waiting for someone.”
“For Captain McBride,” Rose said. She closed the door behind her, but she was now uncertain she should have come down. “He is out. Is there any message I can deliver to him?”
The woman gave Rose a look as assessing and curious as the one Rose must be giving her. This lady could not have been reading newspapers either, because she showed no recognition of Rose’s name, or the fact that it was now coupled with Steven’s.
“Only this,” the widow said. “Captain McBride has no need to visit while he is in London. Please tell him that.” She paused a beat. “Your Grace.”
The title was delivered in a skeptical tone, as though she didn’t truly believe Rose a duchess of any kind. She thought Rose Steven’s paramour, Rose realized, just as Rose suspected this lady of being one herself.
Steven had told Rose the first morning that his vices were too much drink, too much gambling, and too much interest in the ladies. He’d kissed Rose with fire—any woman would be happy to melt beneath him. Had this one? A small pain entered Rose’s heart.
Practically speaking, however, though this lady might have been Steven’s paramour in the past, at the moment, her face was pale with grief, her eyes red-rimmed. She’d recently lost someone very close to her, and Rose was moved to compassion.
“I will tell him,” Rose said, gentling her voice. “My condolences on your loss.”
The woman’s face started to crumple, but she caught herself and raised a gloved hand to her lips. “Thank you.”
Rose went to her and laid a hand on her arm. “If there is anything I can do . . .”
The woman looked up at her, tears fleeing as she gave Rose a startled look. “No. Nothing. Thank you, Your Grace.” The honorific was delivered with more conviction this time.
The lady gathered her trailing veil and left the room. A maid came out of the shadows in the hall as she emerged, taking her mistress by the arm to lead her away. The lady leaned on the maid, as though depending on her.
Rose’s own maid came forward and stood deferentially, waiting for Rose’s orders. “I never learned her name,” Rose said, watching the pair disappear through a door to the front of the hotel. “Did you?”
Alice shook her head. “Her lady’s maid was properly trained. Never betrayed her with a word, no matter how much I tried.”
Rose had to smile. “Curiosity killed the cat,” she said, shaking her head. “Perhaps we should be ashamed of ourselves and feel better by having a large tea.”
“I’ll have one ordered, Your Grace.” Alice returned the smile, and departed to find the kitchens.
***
Steven walked back into his suite to find Rose there. Two sensations went through him at the same time—a flash of joy that she was there, and a wash of frustration.
She was going to kill him. Steven had been forced to walk around cold, rainy London a long while this afternoon, before his arousal gave him any peace. Once he believed he’d regained a modicum of control, he’d traveled to a street off Chancery Lane to find Tavis Collins and show him the drawings he and Rose had discovered. The errand had taken care of the rest of his impatient desires.
Three cups of tea and a dram of whiskey later, Steven had summoned the courage to return to the hotel.
To find Rose in his parlor, waiting eagerly for him. His desires sprang forth with rampaging enthusiasm, proving they’d been dormant, not tamed.
Steven tried to remain businesslike as he tossed his hat and coat to the rack inside the door. “Mr. Collins suggested what you did—that you return to Sittford House and scour it for your furniture. He agrees the hand-drawn rose is a clue directing you. He also telegraphed a minister in Dundee who will come in person to declare that the page in the register with your marriage recorded is a forgery. The man didn’t want to travel down—Collins suspects he was heftily paid off.”
“Yes, ma’am. Well, apart from her maid.”
A woman conscious of propriety then. Female journalists these days could be seen whisking about alone, which often caused more brow-raising than the stories they wrote, but a respectable lady went nowhere without at least one servant to escort her.
Rose’s curiosity wouldn’t let it lie. If the woman proved to be a journalist, masquerading as a lady, Rose would be sweet as sugar to her but send her off. If the lady truly was connected with Steven, Rose could at least pass on a message to him.
No, truth to be told, she simply wanted to lay eyes on a woman who would come boldly to a hotel and ask for Steven.
“Shall I tell her you are coming down?” Alice asked as Rose straightened her dress and smoothed her hair.
“No,” Rose said abruptly. “No . . . I’ll just go.”
Alice gave her a sage nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
Rose’s hair was still not right from Steven having pulled it out of its pins, no matter how much she struggled with it. She gave another curl a fierce push into place and left the room.
Chapter Eight
Alice accompanied Rose, rather like a guard dog. Rose let her lead the way to a small parlor buried deep inside the hotel’s ground floor. Alice opened the door before Rose could ask her to and announced in a rather grand voice, “The Duchess of Southdown. Ma’am.”
She curtseyed, and Rose went past her into the room.
The woman who rose from the curved sofa, giving Rose a look of confusion, was certainly no journalist. She wore black, as Rose did, widow’s weeds, but her mourning was fresh. Her black hat trailed crepe to her knees, and a thick black veil, which she’d lifted from her face, would cover her completely when down.
“I beg your pardon,” the woman said in a cultured voice. “I am waiting for someone.”
“For Captain McBride,” Rose said. She closed the door behind her, but she was now uncertain she should have come down. “He is out. Is there any message I can deliver to him?”
The woman gave Rose a look as assessing and curious as the one Rose must be giving her. This lady could not have been reading newspapers either, because she showed no recognition of Rose’s name, or the fact that it was now coupled with Steven’s.
“Only this,” the widow said. “Captain McBride has no need to visit while he is in London. Please tell him that.” She paused a beat. “Your Grace.”
The title was delivered in a skeptical tone, as though she didn’t truly believe Rose a duchess of any kind. She thought Rose Steven’s paramour, Rose realized, just as Rose suspected this lady of being one herself.
Steven had told Rose the first morning that his vices were too much drink, too much gambling, and too much interest in the ladies. He’d kissed Rose with fire—any woman would be happy to melt beneath him. Had this one? A small pain entered Rose’s heart.
Practically speaking, however, though this lady might have been Steven’s paramour in the past, at the moment, her face was pale with grief, her eyes red-rimmed. She’d recently lost someone very close to her, and Rose was moved to compassion.
“I will tell him,” Rose said, gentling her voice. “My condolences on your loss.”
The woman’s face started to crumple, but she caught herself and raised a gloved hand to her lips. “Thank you.”
Rose went to her and laid a hand on her arm. “If there is anything I can do . . .”
The woman looked up at her, tears fleeing as she gave Rose a startled look. “No. Nothing. Thank you, Your Grace.” The honorific was delivered with more conviction this time.
The lady gathered her trailing veil and left the room. A maid came out of the shadows in the hall as she emerged, taking her mistress by the arm to lead her away. The lady leaned on the maid, as though depending on her.
Rose’s own maid came forward and stood deferentially, waiting for Rose’s orders. “I never learned her name,” Rose said, watching the pair disappear through a door to the front of the hotel. “Did you?”
Alice shook her head. “Her lady’s maid was properly trained. Never betrayed her with a word, no matter how much I tried.”
Rose had to smile. “Curiosity killed the cat,” she said, shaking her head. “Perhaps we should be ashamed of ourselves and feel better by having a large tea.”
“I’ll have one ordered, Your Grace.” Alice returned the smile, and departed to find the kitchens.
***
Steven walked back into his suite to find Rose there. Two sensations went through him at the same time—a flash of joy that she was there, and a wash of frustration.
She was going to kill him. Steven had been forced to walk around cold, rainy London a long while this afternoon, before his arousal gave him any peace. Once he believed he’d regained a modicum of control, he’d traveled to a street off Chancery Lane to find Tavis Collins and show him the drawings he and Rose had discovered. The errand had taken care of the rest of his impatient desires.
Three cups of tea and a dram of whiskey later, Steven had summoned the courage to return to the hotel.
To find Rose in his parlor, waiting eagerly for him. His desires sprang forth with rampaging enthusiasm, proving they’d been dormant, not tamed.
Steven tried to remain businesslike as he tossed his hat and coat to the rack inside the door. “Mr. Collins suggested what you did—that you return to Sittford House and scour it for your furniture. He agrees the hand-drawn rose is a clue directing you. He also telegraphed a minister in Dundee who will come in person to declare that the page in the register with your marriage recorded is a forgery. The man didn’t want to travel down—Collins suspects he was heftily paid off.”
