One Perfect Rose (24 page)

He laughed and came to stand behind her, sliding his arms around her waist. “You're the height of fashion. Men will be dazzled and women envious. All you have to do is act gracious and regal, as when you played Hippolyta.”

She looked at his reflection in the mirror, his affectionate embrace and handsome face, and knew the image was one she would never forget. Every day she stored up more pictures to carry in her heart through the long years without him.

Hiding her sadness, she said lightly, “Can I carry Hippolyta's weapons to defend myself? Since she was Queen of the Amazons, I'm entitled to at least a bow and arrows.”

“I have better weapons than that.”

He linked his arm through hers and took her downstairs to the study. “Watch. You'll need to know how to do this.”

He went to the desk and demonstrated how to open a secret drawer. Inside was a key. After showing her a second secret drawer containing another key, he removed the painting of a landscape from the wall to reveal a safe. Both keys were needed to open it. She was touched, and a little awed, at his complete trust in her.

Inside the safe was a neat stack of papers and boxes. He selected the largest box. “The most important family jewelry is at the abbey, but there are some nice pieces here.”

He set the box on a table and flipped up the lid. “Your choice.”

She gasped at the glittering contents and wondered if she would ever take such riches for granted. Probably not.

After careful consideration she lifted out a necklace composed of elaborate openwork medallions in the form of a gold and cloisonné floral garland. In the center of each enameled plaque was a small, brilliant diamond. The gems would complement her crystal-studded bodice, and the bluish-green enameled leaves would pick up the color of the gown. “This should do nicely.” She lifted one of the matching earrings and held it to her ear as she glanced in a mirror.

He nodded. “The Hapsburg wedding collar and earrings. Very appropriate.”

“Are you serious?” She stared at the earring. “This was worn by royalty?”

“Only a minor princess,” he assured her. “There were a lot of Hapsburgs.”

She laid the jewelry back in the box, feeling suddenly depressed. Stephen had accepted her, but he had a degree of tolerance rare in any class. Could a foundling and actress really live among people who considered Hapsburg jewels to be among the less important family possessions?

The contrast in their stations produced a sudden, terrifying thought. If she bore a child after Stephen was gone, would his sister try to take the baby away from its “unworthy” mother? Alone, Lady Herrington could probably not manage that, but with the support of Michael, she might. If the new duke did not approve of his brother's wife, Rosalind would be at the mercy of the Kenyons.

She took a deep breath, telling herself to rein in her imagination. That probably wouldn't happen. And if there were any attempts to take her baby—well, she would run away to America and support her child by whatever means available.

Stephen touched her shoulder. “You're very quiet.”

A thought took form in Rosalind's mind, surprising but somehow right. For as long as she could remember, she had deliberately tried to blot out everything that had happened before the day the Fitzgeralds had found her. But if she was going to have a child, it was time to force herself to look at the past. Slowly she said, “I was thinking that I'd like to visit the waterfront someday soon.”

He understood immediately. “You mean where Thomas and Maria found you?”

She nodded.

He frowned. “Five or six miles of the Thames are used for shipping. Do you have any idea where we should start to look?”

She tried to recall anything that might help. “They'd gone to visit the Tower of London, then decided to explore the area a little. To the east, I think Papa said once.”

“That area is called St. Katherine's, after a religious foundation that's been there for centuries. It's a warren of crooked streets and bad housing, which fits what you said about you scavenging.” He stroked her arm with one large hand. “We'll go tomorrow. What do you hope to find?”

She hesitated. “I'm not sure. My roots, I suppose.”

“It doesn't matter to me who your natural parents were,” he said quietly. “Any more than it mattered to Thomas and Maria.”

“I know,” she said in an almost inaudible voice. “But it matters to me.”

She looked at the Hapsburg necklace and felt a bleak, surprising stab of sympathy for Claudia. Neither of them would ever feel that she was good enough.

Rosalind heard the murmurs begin as soon as she and Stephen entered the boxholders' lobby at Drury Lane. As she held his arm and he greeted friends, she heard comments such as, “So there really is a new duchess,” “Does anyone know who her people are?” “The wretched female; I had hopes of Ashburton,” and one masculine voice murmuring, “It's not fair that dukes get the most beddable women.”

Ignoring the remarks, Rosalind kept her head high and concentrated on the introductions Stephen made. To her relief, no one reacted like Lady Herrington. Everyone was polite, and most were genuinely friendly. That was because of Stephen; it was clear that he was held in high esteem and that his absence from society while mourning his first wife had been regretted.

Still, it was a relief to go up to their box. It had been a tiring day. They had spent the afternoon at the shop of London's finest modiste ordering a wardrobe fit for a duchess. Stephen had been an active participant in deciding what his wife should buy. He'd pointed out, with perfect truth, that left to her own devices she would never spend enough money to be fashionable.

When they reached the Ashburton box, she looked around eagerly. Drury Lane was the largest, most splendid theater she had ever seen. Thank heaven Stephen had persuaded her to wear Lady Michael's magnificent gown. Rosalind would have felt like a drab wren in anything from her own wardrobe. “It's beautiful. How many people does the theater hold?”

“A full house is well over three thousand. After the old theater burned down nine or ten years ago, it was rebuilt to be the largest playhouse in London.”

She settled in one of the comfortable seats, spreading her skirts carefully. “I could become accustomed to such luxury.”

He smiled as he sat beside her and took her hand. “Good. I want you to.” His thumb provocatively stroked her gloved palm. “But my favorite theater will always be the barn in Bury St. James.”

“We didn't perform there,” she pointed out.

“Didn't we?”

The wicked gleam in his eyes made her blush. She lifted her fan to hide her smile and slowly wafted cool air over her heated face. Fans were convenient accessories for a woman onstage, and Rosalind was very good at using one. Elegant fanning was a vital skill when so many curious eyes were on the mysterious new duchess.

The play began, and at least some of the audience turned their attention to the stage instead of her. She leaned forward with excitement at Kean's first entrance.

He was a small man with an oversize head, but his flashing dark eyes and stage presence were riveting. Tonight he was to do
Othello
, one of his most famous roles. He played the tragic, jealousy-ridden Moor with murderous intensity. Rosalind was so caught up by the performance that she forgot everything else, until Stephen's hand clenched convulsively on hers.

She turned and saw that his eyes were squeezed shut and his body rigid with pain. “Stephen!” she whispered with alarm.

She started to rise, but his grip on her hand tightened and he gave an infinitesimal shake of his head. Of course he would despise having his weakness made public, and the theater was so well lit that any unusual activity would draw unwelcome attention.

She forced herself to turn her gaze to the stage again, though she continued to watch him from the corner of her eye. Perspiration glazed his face, and his hand became chilly. Her whole awareness was attuned to him, to the point where his every labored breath resonated through her and she heard none of Kean's thundering words.

Acutely aware that this attack was lasting longer than previous ones she had witnessed, she said urgently, “We should leave. Let me call a porter to help you.”

His eyes opened, flashing with real anger.
“No.”

Reluctantly she obeyed, her sightless gaze going back to the stage. Gradually Stephen's grip on her hand relaxed. It happened none too soon. The first interval had arrived, and with it a knock on the door of the Ashburton box. She gave her husband an agonized glance. “Stephen…?”

He opened his eyes, and she saw the flat gray color of pain. “I'm fine.” After a visible effort to collect himself, he raised his voice. “Come in.”

Rosalind released his hand and swiftly changed chairs so that she was between Stephen and the door. That way visitors wouldn't see him quite so clearly.

She wanted to shriek at everyone to leave. Instead, she smiled and acknowledged introductions, deliberately drawing most of the attention to herself. She was not beautiful, but she knew enough of acting to give the illusion of vivacious beauty.

As she played the belle, Stephen slipped into the role of fond, indulgent husband, saying little and not moving from his chair. For someone watching as closely as she, it was obvious that he was not well, but no one else seemed to notice.

It was a relief when the next act began. Several people lingered, as if hoping to be invited to stay, but she gave them Maria's most aristocratic glance and they left.

As the next act began, Stephen said with humor lacing his strained voice, “You're taking to this duchess business with remarkable speed.”

She took his hand again. “I will play whatever role you wish of me.”

“The only role I want is that of wife,” he said softly.

She smiled and lifted his hand to her cheek. “That is not a role, but the reality.”

The rest of
Othello
passed without incident. She managed to persuade Stephen to leave before the farce began, but only by claiming she was tired, which was true. Even though her husband was gray with fatigue, he would not have left for his own sake.

On the ride home, he asked, “What did you think of Edmund Kean?”

“He's a very powerful actor. I can see why he's earned such a reputation.” She hesitated. “No doubt it's daughterly prejudice, but I think that Papa is his equal.”

“I agree.” He took her hand. “You were a great success. I trust that allays your fears of how society will see you?”

“Most of them.” She returned the squeeze of his hand. “As long as you're with me, I'm safe. Everyone likes you.”

“I haven't been duke long enough to make many enemies,” he said dismissively.

She noticed, not for the first time, how he brushed off compliments. Perhaps that was because he, too, had been raised to believe that he could never be good enough.

They made the rest of the trip in silence and retired as soon as they reached Ashburton House. For the first time since their marriage, they did not go to bed and make love. Instead, Stephen fell asleep in her arms, his head on her breast.

Tenderly she stroked his back and shoulders. The role of wife had dimensions she had not expected. She must be not only his lover and friend and companion but his conspirator, for she was not the only one with something to prove.

Though she could not save his life, she made a vow to do everything within her power to help him save his pride.

Day Thirty-eight

The next day dawned with a pale autumn sun. Since their destination was miles to the east, Stephen had hired a six-oared wherry, one of the long rowboats that carried passengers along the river. Not only would a boat be smoother than a carriage but faster.

He also took some precautions because the neighborhood they were going to visit was not a particularly safe one. One of the precautions was asking two of his footmen, both veterans of the late war who had served under his brother, to accompany them in normal clothing instead of their usual aristocratic livery. It was all very well to risk his own rather worthless life, but it wouldn't do for Rosalind to be endangered.

Rosalind was enthralled by the trip, studying the sculls, lighters, and barges that glided over the water in all directions. “I had no idea the river was so busy,”

“London would not exist without the river. If you think it's busy here, wait until we get below London Bridge, into the Pool of London. That's where the great seagoing ships are moored. Since you were found in that area, you probably came to London on either a coastal or cross-channel vessel.”

She nodded, her gaze going up to Blackfriars Bridge as the wherry shot through one of the arches. Stephen studied her rapt profile, enjoying her pleasure in new sights. He wondered if she would remarry among the nobility. She had entranced every man she'd met the night before at the theater. Granted, high sticklers would not approve of her actress past, but soon she would be a rich and lovely widow. She could have almost any man she wanted.

He considered who might be good enough for her, then decided that he was not ready for such an exercise in self-torture. He'd ask his brother to look out for her and keep the fortune hunters away.

The Pool of London was jammed with sailing ships at anchor and the swarming lighters that carried the cargo to the quays. The wherry slowed as the oarsmen chose their route carefully. Soon they passed the massive, forbidding walls of the Tower of London.

Stephen told the boatmen to moor at the first set of water stairs to the east of the Tower. That would put them in the St. Katherine's area. If Rosalind remembered correctly, the Fitzgeralds had found her there. After giving his footmen orders to follow at a distance, he helped his wife from the boat.

She stepped onto the dank stone water stairs, then swayed, her face pale. “That smell!” she exclaimed. “I've never forgotten that. We must be close.”

The odor was a distinctive combination of the filth of crowded humanity combined with the stench of rotting fish on the mudflats, the tang of hops, and a faint, exotic trace of cargoes from foreign lands. Interesting, but hardly pleasant.

He frowned at her pallor. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

She took a firm grip on his arm. “No. But I want to do it anyhow.”

They climbed the steps to the bank and chose one of the narrow streets at random. The dilapidated houses on each side were darkened by coal smoke and age. After they had walked two blocks, he asked, “Do you recognize anything?”

She looked around, pulling her cloak more closely even though the morning was not cold. “No, but the look is right. There was a church, and a brewery.”

“St. Katherine's church is nearby, and there is certainly a brewery—I can smell the hops now.” He guided her around a pile of unidentifiable trash. “There's talk of tearing down the whole neighborhood to build another enclosed dock like the ones used by the East India Company. None of this would be much of a loss.”

They went deeper into the maze of filthy streets. Rosalind scanned the neighborhood with restless eyes. “It's quieter than I remember.”

“I thought it best to come early in the day.” He caught a quick, furtive movement from the corner of his eye. A rat. “Those who have jobs are at work, and with luck the ungodly aren't up yet.”

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Stephen had the incongruous thought that she was like a flower growing in a byre.

A filthy, ragged man was coming toward them, his ferretlike gaze curious. Even though Stephen and his wife wore their plainest clothing, they stood out in such mean streets. The man studied Rosalind with insulting thoroughness as he passed.

Her fingers clamped on Stephen's arm. “That man…” Her words caught.

“Do you know him?” He looked over his shoulder, but the man was already gone.

“No, he wouldn't be old enough. B-but he reminded me of someone from then.” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.

Grimly preparing for the worst, Stephen asked, “Did that other man hurt you?”

“He…he offered me something to eat,” she said haltingly. “A sausage, I think. I didn't like the way he looked at me, but I was so hungry I took the food. He caught me, and, oh, God, he kissed me and…and put his hand under my skirt. He stank, and his tongue…I thought he was trying to eat me.” She wiped her mouth again, hand shaking.

Feeling homicidal, Stephen said, “He molested you?”

“Only to a point. I bit his tongue until it bled, then ran away when he screamed and dropped me.” She made an effort to collect herself. “I managed to keep the sausage. As I recall, I hid in a mound of trash and ate it there.”

Stephen felt a terrible combination of helplessness and rage as what she had endured came to vivid, horrifying life. “How did you survive? Where did you sleep?”

She began walking again, her steps quick and tense. “There are plenty of small corners that a child can squeeze into. Of course, other things hide there.” She tugged her left sleeve up, revealing a small, almost invisible scar under the elbow. “That's from a rat bite.”

He wanted to take her in his arms and carry her away from this place, back to the wherry and the safety of Mayfair. But she wanted this, so he controlled himself. “Does anything bring back memories of your life before you were orphaned?”

“The boat that brought me to London,” she said slowly. “It was a rough voyage.” She paused, then said with surprise, “We sailed from a place where they spoke French, and I understood it. At least, I understood as much as a child that age understands anything.”

“With whom were you traveling?”

“A woman.” Rosalind came to a halt, her eyes unfocused. “I wasn't sick, but she was. I remember bringing her something to eat. She groaned and told me to go away. I couldn't understand why she was so unwell.”

“Was the woman your mother?”

“No!” Rosalind said sharply. “Not my mother.”

He wondered what caused her vehement denial. But now was not the time or place to probe more deeply. He tucked her arm in his and started walking again, turning a corner into another street. As Rosalind had said, it was quiet. Several times he sensed someone watching from a grimy window, but the few people they passed on the streets regarded them with indifference.

As he warily avoided a thin, slinking dog, he said, “Now that I see the place, it's easier to understand why no one bothered to help an orphaned child.”