innermost thoughts are better kept precisely where they are?
She chewed the end of her pencil, frowning as her mood darkened once more. Even if Helen were miraculously to get hold of another printing press, there would be no more Scribblers until Alec Stewart was dealt with …
‘I don’t believe it! My dear girl, what on earth are you doing here?’ The voice came from behind her and she jumped up, quickly slipping her book and pencil into her reticule.
It was Lord Stephen Maybury. Last time she’d seen him, at Dr Barnard’s, he’d had a heated argument with Alec Stewart. And of course Lord Maybury must still think she was one of Dr Barnard’s girls. Fiddlesticks. She swiftly composed herself. ‘Poetry happens to be an interest of mine, my lord!’ she answered lightly.
He drew a little closer. ‘You don’t write the stuff, do you?’
He was wearing a fine blue kerseymere tailcoat with a striped-silk waistcoat and a shirt with a high, starched collar. Rosalie stifled her instinctive dislike of fashionable men. ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘I have no such talent.’
‘Thank God for that. But—’ she saw Lord Maybury was taking in her plain gown with its long sleeves and high neck ‘—this is rather a different setting from the place where we last met.’ He raised one questioning eyebrow.
She ventured a smile. ‘I can see I must confess to you, my lord. In fact, I was only at Dr Barnard’s for one night …’
‘Ah.’ He was pulling up a chair and beckoned her to sit again. ‘Some kind of challenge?’
She seized on that. ‘Yes. Yes, a challenge! We ladies like to wager occasionally, you know! Although—’ she leaned a fraction closer ‘—some of my more timid friends would be just a little shocked were they to hear of it, so I do hope that it will remain our secret!’
His eyes had fastened on her wedding ring. ‘What about your husband? Would he be shocked, too?’
She’d got into the habit of wearing the ring. So many people assumed Katy was hers that her story of widowhood protected them both. She pretended to dab at her eyes. ‘My husband sadly died some time ago, my lord.’
‘My dear,’ he said sympathetically, ‘you look scarcely old enough to be married, let alone bereaved. Tragic. Well, my lips are sealed about your little adventure at Dr Barnard’s. Indeed, I would not normally visit such a place myself, but certain—circumstances demanded it.’ He looked around. ‘I was, to be honest, about to leave here. Can’t stand much more of this drivel. However— if you were to keep me company for a while, it might be just tolerable. Would you care for a drink? Lemonade is your preference, I believe?’
Before she could reply, he was snapping his fingers for a waiter and murmuring his order.
Then he shifted his chair closer. ‘Do you know,’ he confided, ‘I shall always think of you as Athena, goddess of wisdom. But I would be truly honoured to know your real name.’
‘It’s Rosalie,’ she said.
‘Charming. And here are our drinks.’ He was putting money on the waiter’s tray and passing her a chilled glass. ‘Now, I am so glad,’ he went on with fervour, ‘to learn that you were only at that place for one night! Indeed, my own visit was, as you no doubt noticed, sadly curtailed.’
In the background, the chatter of all the guests rose and fell; her pulse was racing because here, perhaps, was a heaven-sent chance. ‘I noticed you seemed dismayed, my lord, to meet Captain Stewart there. May I ask why you dislike him so very much?’
She saw a shadow cross his features. ‘Do we really have to talk about that dissipated wretch? Couldn’t I just advise you to keep as far away from him as possible? The man is a disgrace.’
Her pulse thudded. A disgrace … ‘I’m aware, of course,’ she said steadily, ‘that he extorts money from former soldiers.’
He’d been sipping his wine, but now he spluttered a little. ‘What?’
‘I know he’s a rackrenter,’ Rosalie explained. ‘Letting out squalid accommodation.’
‘Ah. You’ve heard all about that.’ He ordered fresh drinks from the same waiter, then leaned closer, bringing with him the strong scent of his citrus cologne. ‘You’ll realise, then,’ he went on, ‘that it’s no wonder I and other men of decency cannot tolerate the sight of him! There’s also—no, I really mustn’t talk of it.’
‘Please.’ Rosalie gulped too much lemonade in hope that it would ease the sudden dryness of her throat. ‘Please tell me.’
He pursed his lips. ‘Very well, since I see you have no illusions about the scoundrel. I’m afraid that Alec Stewart is an utter reprobate. Ex-soldiers, ladies of the night—he keeps company with the lowest of the low.’
Ladies of the night. Oh, no. If she’d had any doubts, they were banished in that instant. She put her hand to her forehead, which throbbed with the beginnings of a headache. Linette …
‘I’m extremely sorry,’ said Lord Maybury with concern. ‘I do not mean to offend you, Rosalie, but you are a woman of intelligence and you saw him yourself, at the Temple of Beauty.’
‘You were there also,’ said Rosalie.
Something—some alertness—flickered across his smooth face. ‘I had certain enquiries to make. That was all. I was not there to watch the show—you might have noticed. But I believe Captain Stewart was.’
Yes. Yes, he was. She was going to say so, but her throat was still horribly dry and now her head was starting to swim. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘so stupid of me, but I really am beginning to feel rather unwell.’
Lord Maybury leaned over her, concerned. ‘Indeed, you look quite pale. I hope I haven’t upset you by speaking of that unpleasant man, Captain Stewart. You were most spirited to fulfil your wager by appearing there and now we will say no more of it. Finish that drink and I’ll take you home.’
She got to her feet and was horrified at how unsteady she felt. ‘I really will be quite all right, I assure you …’
‘Do you have someone here who can take you home?’
‘No, I will find a cab …’
She’d dropped her reticule under the table; he bent to retrieve it for her. ‘Correction—I will fetch you a cab. No arguments, please, Rosalie.’
He escorted her down to the entrance hall, where he brought her cloak to her and left her while he went outside to find her a hackney. She saw a seat and rested there with her hands to her throbbing temples.
How could she even for one minute have been taken in that night at Dr Barnard’s by Alec Stewart’s façade of integrity? How ever was she going to deal with him? Why did she feel so ill? This is ridiculous. I will be all right soon. I must simply be tired.
