A Useful Woman

A Most Unexpected Discovery

Rosalind's eyes had adjusted to the dark, allowing her to see farther into the ballroom. There, almost hidden by the deeper shadow under the musicians' gallery, lay an odd black bundle. It might have been a rolled-up rug, except it was too uneven, and it gleamed, in patches, as if the torchlight from outside were catching on glass or metal. She thought it might be a pile of burlap sacks, perhaps delivered by the workmen downstairs. But such things wouldn't have been so inelegantly dumped in the Almack's ballroom, no matter the time of day.

And if it were a pile of sacks, what was the pool of thicker darkness that spread out around it? That wasn't a shadow. It was the wrong shape.

“Is there something the matter, miss . . .” Rosalind felt Mr. Whelks move to look over her head. “Great God!”

Propriety forgotten, Mr. Whelks shoved past her. The boards echoed under his shoes as he bolted across the ballroom.

Rosalind grabbed up her hems and ran after him as quickly as skirts and coat allowed. Even so, Mr. Whelks had dropped to his knees beneath the gallery by the time she reached his side.

It was not a rug he turned over. Rugs did not have long white hands, or dress in buff and blue. It was not shadow he knelt in, but thick blood—the blood of the young man whose still, startled eyes stared up at them both.

“Who is this?” cried Mr. Whelks. “How . . .”

“Dear Lord,” whispered Rosalind. “It's Jasper Aimesworth!”

“Well-drawn characters and a perfect plot make this historical mystery a winner.”

—
Nancy Haddock, national bestselling author of
Basket Case

“Clever and witty. Wilde artfully portrays Regency London, from its ballrooms to Bow Street, in all its glory and hypocrisy, and provides readers with a heroine worthy of our attention. With its colorful cast and scandalous intrigue,
A Useful Woman
would surely have set the famed patronesses of Almack's atwitter.”

—Anna Lee Huber, national bestselling author of the Lady Darby
Mysteries

BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

A Useful Woman

BERKLEY SENSATION

Lord of the Rakes

The Accidental
Abduction

Published by the Berkley Publishing Group

An imprint of Penguin Random House

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of the Berkley Publishing Group.

Copyright © 2016 by Sarah Zettel.

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eBook ISBN 9780698404281

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Wilde, Darcie. Title: A useful woman / Darcie Wilde. Description: Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition. | New York : Berkley Prime Crime, 2016. | Series: A Rosalind Thorne mystery ; 1 Identifiers: LCCN 2015035789 | ISBN 9780425282373 (softcover) Subjects: LCSH: Women detectives—England—Fiction. | Private investigators—England—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | London (England)—Social life and customs—19th century—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Historical fiction. Classification: LCC PS3623.I5353 U84 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015035789

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition / May 2016

Cover art by Matthieu Forichon.

Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Tim and Alex,
the light and the mystery of my
life.

When the Dance Finishes Early

L
ONDON
, F
EBRUARY
15, 1812

When she told the story afterward, Rosalind would say the noise woke her. The truth was, however, she had never actually been asleep.

She'd come home unusually early from the Wednesday ball at Almack's. She'd been tempted to stay, but if she did, she knew she'd have blurted out her secret. As it was, she feared she'd given herself away.

No. That is not possible. No one noticed anything. They would have spoken out.

Her acquaintances among the assembly would just assume her high color and her breathlessness came from the dancing. Who wouldn't be excited? It was every well-bred girl's dream to be allowed to waltz in Almack's famous rooms.

Perhaps I should have stayed.
Rosalind tiptoed into her own, far more modest chamber. Annie, the upstairs maid, trailed behind with the lamp, yawning and blinking. No. Leaving looked odd, but staying would have been far worse. Rosalind wasn't sure whether she should laugh or cry at her own lack of discretion and discipline. She'd been unable to keep her eyes from Devon. She smiled and blushed every time he glanced
toward her, and that was a countless number of times. Worse, she was tripping over everybody else's feet because she kept looking for him in the crowd instead of paying attention to her partner. She'd needed to have a headache and leave before someone said something out of turn to Mother. She'd write to Devon later, probably through his cousin Louisa, and explain the reason for her sudden departure. He would understand.

Mother had been put out, of course. Mother never left any party early if she could help it. She did, however, agree that Rosalind could take the carriage and her maid, as long as she sent both straight back as soon as she got home.

Rosalind peered into the boudoir she shared with her older sister, Charlotte. Charlotte had stayed home with her own headache, which might or might not have been real. Rosalind was inclined, this once, to believe that it was. Despite the fact it was barely midnight, Charlotte looked to be asleep in bed, wrapped up tightly in her covers.

It's just as well.
Rosalind closed the door so as not to disturb Charlotte while Annie, fumbling, and still yawning, got her ready for bed.
I have to think. I have to plan.

Because tonight Devon Winterbourne had made his intentions perfectly clear. He hadn't gone so far as to actually propose, of course, but he nearly had. Rosalind felt her blush rising again, and was glad the room was dim enough that the maid couldn't see her color.

I must calm down.

She also must decide exactly how to tell Charlotte about Devon. She couldn't be giggling and girlish when they spoke. Depending on her mood, Charlotte was as likely to laugh in her face as she was to help, and Rosalind was going to need help. Neither Mother nor Father was going to look favorably on an alliance with Devon Winterbourne, certainly not at first.
Mother had ambitions for Rosalind as well as for Charlotte, and Father was determined the girls should marry into fortunes, not just titles.

“My bright stars are not to be hidden out on fusty old estates!” Father cried. “They are meant to shine in the heights of heaven!”

Father was fond of making speeches like that. But he truly meant this one, and therein lay the problem. Devon was the son of a duke, but he was a
scorpion
, a second son, with limited prospects of his own. By prospects, of course, everyone meant money. His brother, Hugh, was young and strong, if profligate. Hugh Winterbourne also had women trailing after him in long strings, any of which he might marry at any moment. So there was next to no chance of Devon ever inheriting the title. Worse, Devon had a reputation of being under the thumb of his devout, reclusive mother. This wasn't true, of course, but it was the gossip.

But if Rosalind could get Charlotte on her side, she'd stand a much better chance with both parents. Charlotte had Father's ear, and she always knew best how to manage Mother.

Rosalind climbed into her bed and let down the curtains, but she lay awake with her blood fizzing in her veins and her mind tumbling over every detail of the moment: Devon's hesitation, the way his hand felt in hers, how they'd danced and they'd laughed and stepped on each other's feet. Neither one of them could waltz worth a ha'penny, and they whispered in merry agreement that this surely meant they'd get on famously all their lives.

Lady Blanchard had taken note. She was another problem and she'd have to be talked 'round quickly. Maybe even before Charlotte. Thankfully, Lady Blanchard wouldn't go to Mother, at least not yet. She had warned Rosalind, though.

Be careful, my dear. Do not fix your heart on someone who can do so little when your family needs so much.

It's my marriage, not theirs!
Rosalind squeezed her eyes shut. She'd have to apologize for that, and quickly. Lady Blanchard's title and standing, not to mention her longtime attachment to Mother, would be a marvelous help if Rosalind was to navigate the tricky shoals of parental approval.

But one way or another she would do so, because Devon waited on the far shore.

That was when Rosalind heard curtains rustle, followed by the stealthy slide of fabrics. She turned over and tried to ignore it. Probably Charlotte just needed to make use of the chamber pot. But that particular noise did not occur. Instead, there was more furtive rustling, and the grating noise of something heavy dragging across the floorboards. Curiosity got the better of her. Rosalind hooked one finger around the velvet bed curtains and eased them back to peek.

A single candle flickered on the bedside table. Rosalind had to blink before she could correctly make out what she was seeing. There was Charlotte, fully dressed and kneeling down by her bed, pulling out a bandbox from underneath. Another, larger box sat beside her.

Rosalind flung the curtains back and scrambled out of her bed. Charlotte whirled, clutching her coat to her chest.

“Rosalind!” Charlotte hissed. “What are you doing? Go back to bed, you little idiot!”

Rosalind ignored this. “What's happening? Are you
eloping?
”

Charlotte hesitated for a single heartbeat and then began pulling her coat on. “Yes,” she answered acidly. “How very clever of you. I'm eloping. He's waiting downstairs now.”

“You can't! Mother will have a fit! And Father . . .”
If you elope now, they'll never consent to Devon! They'll lock me in the attic!

But Charlotte wasn't listening. “I'll write, I promise.” She
grabbed up her boxes, pushed past Rosalind, and shouldered her way out the boudoir door. Rosalind ran out into the corridor in time to see Charlotte struggling to get herself and her luggage down the back stairs. Charlotte was not naturally stealthy or subtle, especially when encumbered, and she banged and clattered down the stairs.

If the servants aren't all awake now, they will be soon.

“Who is he?” Rosalind demanded as she thudded down the stairs behind Charlotte. “At least tell me that!”

Charlotte didn't so much as pause. They reached the kitchen and she marched to the garden door. “Go back to bed, Rosalind! You'll ruin everything!”

“I won't!” Rosalind grabbed her sister's wrist. “Not until you tell me. You don't understand, Charlotte.” She added more softly. “Something's happened to me as well.”

“Something's always happening to you. Now get off!”

Charlotte yanked her wrist from Rosalind's startled grip and shoved through the door to the back garden. Rosalind stared, but only for a moment. Then, her determination hardened and she ran out behind her sister. The cold of the flagstones bit into the soles of Rosalind's toes despite her woolen stockings. Beyond the garden wall, the watchman shouted, “Five of the clock and all's well!”

No it's not!

Even running gingerly on her toes, Rosalind still managed to catch up with Charlotte, who was wrestling with boxes and hems. This time when she grabbed Charlotte's arm, Rosalind hung on tight. “Tell me who it is, or I'll wake the house!” She wanted to believe she was thinking of her sister and her good. She wanted to help, to do the right thing. An elopement would be a scandal. Mother and Father would be beside themselves and they'd never listen to her or hear reason about Devon. Ever.

Charlotte brought her booted foot down hard on Rosalind's toes. Rosalind squeaked in pain, and surprise, and let go. Charlotte ran, or at least trotted, for the gate.

What doesn't she want me to see?
thought Rosalind as she staggered behind.
I must know the man.

Rosalind reached the gate. A hired coach and four waited in the muddy lane outside. The coach door was open and Charlotte was climbing in. Rosalind hesitated, straining for a glimpse of the man, afraid she'd made the wrong decision, that she should have run back at once, screaming to wake their parents as well as the servants . . .

Her father leaned out of the carriage to pull in the step and shut the door.

The world froze. At least, Rosalind froze. In front of her eyes, the hired driver touched up the sturdy horses so that the coach rattled and creaked into motion. The curtains in the coach's back window were down. They did not lift to afford her any last parting glimpse of the occupants, and yet she knew she had not been mistaken. She knew Father's profile—his hooked nose and his strong brow—in any light.

Rosalind's thoughts leapt from a standstill to a full gallop. She turned on her sore and frigid feet and dashed back into the house. She ran through the dining room to Father's book room.

The door stood open. The smell of burning paper hung in the air, and the last embers of various ledgers and papers smoldered on the hearth. The imported Italian desk was completely clear for the first time in Rosalind's memory, except for the one letter left lying squarely in the center of the blotter.

It was addressed to her mother. Rosalind barely attended to that. She just broke the seal and read:

Althea, My Dearest Wife:

How difficult it is to write these words! How many tears roll down my cheeks to stain this page as I think of you even now sleeping so soundly in your bed, blissfully unaware as to what this cruel, cold morning holds in store for you.

I have always worked diligently at business in order to provide the living that you and our lovely daughters deserve. Alas, several recent speculations have not turned out as well as I had hoped. This failure has weighed heavily on my mind for some time, but I have labored unceasingly to free myself of the obligations and restore our fortunes. Of course, I could not tell you, for I had no wish to risk any perturbation in that domestic harmony which I know means the world to you, as it does to me.

But now—oh, the pain of having to write this!—certain men who swore me friendship and assistance have treacherously gone back on their word. And worse—far worse!—they have spread infamous lies about my character and conduct, such that I now am hounded without stint by moneylenders and false friends seeking restitution for debts I never contracted and do not legally owe.

Because of the calumnies spread by these smiling fiends who once shook my hand and behaved to all appearances in the manner of gentlemen, I am left with no choice. I must run! I must fly! I am to become a fugitive in my own country lest I be taken up for these false debts.

Now, you must be strong, my darling! You must remember when these men come to you that they are liars and infamous customers. You must hold your loving heart firm against the falsehoods they will seek to pour into your ears. I know your courage. You will never lose faith in your dearest Reginald. You
know in the depths of your soul that I will return to restore our family's reputation and fortune, as soon as I am able.

To help you in this time of greatest trial, I leave you our daughter Rosalind. Her steady good sense will surely serve to keep and comfort you until I am able to return and clear my good name of these libelous charges and unjust debts. Our loyal and thrice-darling daughter Charlotte has bravely consented to be my companion and helpmeet in the toils of my exile.

Adieu, my dearest! Have courage! Know that my heart is breaking as I write. Think of your darling Reginald alone in the cold world without one friend to succor him. His only thought is of the day he will be able to reunite all our family and restore tranquility to our home.

May God bless and keep you both!

Your eternally loving husband,

R.T.

It was Mrs. Kendricks, the housekeeper, who found Rosalind an hour later, still sitting in the book room, breathing in the scent of burning papers, and holding her father's parting letter in her numbed fingers.