Page 49
* * *
Charlotte came the next morning before the breakfast things were properly cleared and took one look at Rosalind’s face.
“What happened?”
Rosalind told her the part that was hers to tell: an old question about her birth, impossible to prove or disprove, and a whisper already moving toward the Stamfords’ ball on Friday. She kept her mother’s private history out of it.
Charlotte listened without interrupting, which was alarming enough by itself.
“And Lord Dover?” she asked when Rosalind had finished.
“That is the difficulty.”
“No. I suspect the whisper is the difficulty. Lord Dover is the tall gentleman who looks at you as though the rest of us are badly placed furniture.”
Despite herself, Rosalind almost smiled.
“He once trusted a woman who wanted his title more than she wanted him,” she said. “If this turns ugly on Friday, standing beside me may cost him half the Season.”
“And he first noticed you when half the Season did not know your name.”
“I know.” Rosalind rose and crossed to the window, then turned back. “That is why I will not use what he feels for me against him. If the room turns, I shall give him the way out. Cleanly. Before he thinks himself obliged to stay.”
Charlotte stared at her. “That is either very noble or very pig-headed.”
“Probably the second.”
“Will you change your mind if I tell you so?”
“No.”
“Then I shall save my breath.” Charlotte stood too. “But you are not facing that room alone. I shall be beside you where everyone can see me.”
“You need not do that.”
“I know. That is why it counts.” Charlotte came over and caught Rosalind’s hand. “I saw you first, remember? I am not looking away now.”
Rosalind squeezed her fingers.
Charlotte held on for one moment, then released her and became brisk again. “There is another matter.”
“What matter?”
“What you are wearing.”
“Charlotte.”
“If a room means to whisper about you, it may do so while looking at you properly.” She headed for the door. “Come upstairs.”
Rosalind followed her, laughing despite the fear that had sat with her all morning.
In the bedchamber, Charlotte went straight to the wardrobe and opened it.
“The green,” she said.
Rosalind looked at the gown Augusta had chosen for her, the gown her father had nearly touched once and failed.
“The green,” she agreed.
