Rescuing Rosalind (Three Original Ladies and Their Gentlemen) by G.G. Vandagriff Page B

crew, could you?”
    “All prize money is shared among the crew, Rosalind. And the Press has been going on for centuries. I did not invent it. Without it, we would never have had the men to crew a ship and beat the French.”
    Left without a reply to this, she sought another way to fight her unruly surge of awareness. Her eyes lit on two beturbaned and plumed matrons, holding up their quizzing glasses and inspecting the company down their long, patrician noses. They whispered together, obviously disapproving. She knew them to be Lady Cowper and the Princess Esterhazy, two of the patronesses of Almack’s. They set themselves up as social arbiters, deciding who could receive their coveted vouchers, who could waltz, and who would be excluded. Theirs was one of the little kingdoms that existed among the ton. Naval officers were apparently in possession of another kingdom.
    “I think I would like it in America,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “Perhaps Elise and the duke will pay my passage. There, I would not be at the mercy of arbitrary rules of conduct.”
    “You deceive yourself, my dear,” Deal said. “Wherever there is society, there are arbitrary rules of conduct. Even among savages. And I believe the Puritans are far more rigid than the ton. Not to mention the Dutch aristocrats who reign over New York society.”
    Why must he always set himself up as being in the right? How annoying! “But in America, there is no aristocracy,” she insisted.
    Westringham entered the conversation. “Perhaps you would have sent us to the guillotine?” His voice held a trace of humor.
    “Just because I hate injustice, do not label me an advocate of the Reign of Terror. There is a middle ground. I think it to be found in America.” Did she sound as unreasonable as she felt? Why had she begun this conversation?
    “You are an extremely unusual young lady,” Westringham concluded.
    “And one whose views, were they known to certain individuals, would make you a persona non grata ,” Deal added. “The ton does not like to be reminded of the poor. In fact, I am of the opinion that they are terrified of them.”
    Fanny shut her eyes to block out the sight of the marquis in the splendid hunter green evening coat that fit his broad shoulders like a second skin while playing up his disturbing eyes. Summoning her most heartfelt voice, she said, “We build our society on the backs of the poor.” Opening her eyes, she looked fixedly at Lady Cowper’s turban and said, “Those who reign over petty fiefdoms set impossibly strict rules for belonging, afraid they will lose what they have.”
    The marquis took her arm at the elbow and squeezed it. “Ever the dramatist.” He looked into her face again, his eyes searching hers. She was uncommonly aware of his hand cupping her elbow. “We all do what we can, Rosalind. But keep your voice down or you are like to be thrown out of this gathering.”
    “I should not care!” she declared, pulling her arm away.
    “But I should,” he said quietly. “I should not want you to suffer ruin for your radical ideals. Again, pray recall the French Revolution. Noble Britons are poised to put any such ideas to death. Your sister’s soup kitchen is only borderline acceptable; you must know that. Perhaps society considers it to be insurance against an uprising by the East End rabble.”
    “Why are you being so disagreeable?” Fanny asked.
    “Rosalind, you have been determined to eat me ever since you saw me this evening.”
    Turning to the viscount, she asked, “What do you think about these matters, my lord?”
    “I am not a deep thinker like you, Miss Edwards. I fear your words make me uncomfortable, lest they should be overheard.”
    “Go then,” she said, her chin up. “I should not like you to be tarred by the same brush that shall tar me if my speaking my mind becomes known.”
    “You are magnificent,” Westringham said softly, looking into her eyes. “Brave, noble . .