A Useful Woman by Darcie Wilde Page A

there?”
    â€œMorgan,” murmured his wife. He waved his hand, annoyed.
    â€œI could not say,” Rosalind told them. She was certainly not about to disclose that Devon might have been there because of her.
    â€œHad he . . . that is to say, Mr. Aimesworth . . . was it a fit, possibly?” murmured Lady Blanchard. She had lowered her gaze to contemplate her teacup. “A stroke? He hadn’t . . . had he been ill?”
    A stroke would not have produced so much blood
. But this was another thought Rosalind kept to herself.
    Lord Blanchard, however, spared Rosalind the necessity of making any answer. “I know exactly what it was. Stupid not to have thought of it before. Young Aimesworth was a member of White’s, wasn’t he?”
    â€œI’m sure I don’t know,” said Rosalind. White’s was one of the most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in London. It numbered the Prince of Wales and several of the royal dukes among its membership.
    â€œWell, I do, and he was. Probably, the young idiot was up in the gallery as part of some fool bet.” White’s was as famous for its members’ outrageous gambling as Watier’s was for its chef and its wine cellar. “Grab a tassel off the curtains, write your initials on the wall of Almack’s, bet you five pounds you can’t, that sort of nuisancy thing. He got up there, overbalanced on the rail, or a ladder, or some such. Then he fell and broke his fool neck.”
    â€œI don’t think Mr. Aimesworth was the sort—” began Lady Blanchard, but Lord Blanchard was already shaking his head.
    â€œDepend on it, Jane, that is what happened. Young idiot,” he repeated. “Sorry for his parents. Only son, wasn’t he? Shouldn’t have been playing with his life like that.”
    It was a simple explanation, and perfectly plausible. Lady Blanchard should have seized on it, but Rosalind saw the doubt shining in her friend’s eyes.
    A scratch at the door signaled the arrival of the footman. “Lady Jersey and Mrs. Drummond-Burrell for Lady Blanchard,” he told them all. “They beg my lady’s pardon but say the matter is very urgent.”
    â€œIt has to be gotten over with, Jane,” said Lord Blanchard quietly. Rosalind bit her tongue to keep from blurting out her own impatience. She couldn’t possibly ask Lady Blanchard her own questions while the lady patronesses were calling.
    â€œSimmons, you may show the ladies in.” Lady Blanchard rose to her feet. “Then send Mrs. Pauling with more tea. No, coffee. Lady Jersey prefers coffee at this hour.”
    Simmons bowed and left to carry out these instructions. Lord Blanchard closed his hand briefly on his wife’s shoulder, just exactly on the curve where shoulder joined neck. A bare heartbeat later, Lady Jersey strode in.
    Society’s daughters were routinely drilled in the art of elegant deportment. Lady Jersey, however, seemed to have neglectedthese lessons, or skipped them altogether. All of her movements were brash, abrupt, and expansive. The moment she entered any room, she became the focus of attention, much the way a charging horse might.
    Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, on the other hand, spent all her energies in an attempt to be unassuming. She shadowed Lady Jersey closely, like a Spanish duenna. Her dark eyes met Rosalind’s, and narrowed. Young, she might be, but that sharp look told Rosalind she understood the endless internal calculations and compromises that made up a moment in society, and that she was good at them. Neither she nor Rosalind spoke. It was for Lady Blanchard as hostess to perform the introductions, and until then, they had to remain silent.
    â€œMy dear, dear Jane!” Lady Jersey sailed up to Lady Blanchard, shawl and hems billowing. “I knew we would find you home. Lord Blanchard, you will excuse the intrusion at such an hour, but we are in the midst