Steele’s had not.
He stood front and center in every account. While he was hailed as the hero of the hour, others were cast—although not named outright—as villains.
NeitherThe GazettenorThe Newshad printed those names. But then, they hadn’t needed to. Identities were discerned all the same: by the cut of a coat, by a favored mask, by a signet ring borne too proudly, or a stickpin and cufflinks long associated with a particular title. A few had been foolish enough to wear watch chains or orders of distinction that no disguise could conceal.
London, after all, was adept at such reckonings.
I’d prevailed upon Cosmos to lift Steele’s banishment from Rosehaven House. It had not taken much to convince him. After reading the newspaper accounts, he realized he’d made a fool of himself, an opinion Claire fully agreed with.
In the last two days, I had received far more invitations than usual—to teas, to fetes, to balls—from individuals who wished to hear about the Floralia. It had not taken society long to deduce that I had been somehow involved, even if my name was not mentioned in the papers. I declined most of them. I had no interest in gossip—particularly when so many women had been grievously hurt.
While I had been busy helping the young ladies at St. Agnes, Steele had been occupied with solicitors, determining how the women might be compensated for the injuries they had suffered. I was eager to learn about those arrangements.
He had also discovered that the house where the Floralia was held belonged to Lord Weatherby. That information had not been shared with the press. But, as such things often do, it emerged nevertheless. Already, society was turning its back on him—and, unjustly, upon his family as well.
The clock on the mantel chimed eleven—the hour Steele was due to arrive. It struck me, not for the first time, how deeply I had come to care for him. But this was not a sentiment I could afford to indulge. At least not at the moment. There were too many pressing matters to attend to. Scarcely had the final note faded when a knock sounded at the door, and Honeycutt stepped in.
“The Duke of Steele, my lady,” he announced.
Steele stepped into the room dressed as impeccably as ever, his posture rigid with that same austere self-command I had once taken for coldness. He was not smiling, but then, I would not have expected it. Not today. Too much had happened in too little time—and too much still remained unresolved.
“Your Grace.” I curtsied.
“Lady Rosalynd.” He bowed.
“Please see that tea is served, Honeycutt.”
“It shall be done, my lady,” Honeycutt replied and withdrew.
I indicated the settee. “Please take a seat.” The formality of it felt absurd after what we had endured together only days before.
Once he’d done so, I settled opposite him. “The press accounts have been quite thorough. Surprisingly so.”
“TheGazettereporter requested a private interview,” he said. “I gave him what I could—without revealing names, of course.”
“They discovered them anyway.”
A flash of amusement crossed his face. “They are quite resourceful.”
I allowed myself a small smile. “So it would appear.”
A knock interrupted us before either of us could say more. A footman entered carrying the tea service. After delivering it to the small table between Steele and me, he withdrew.
I prepared a cup of the fragrant Oolong the way Steele preferred. But before I could hand it to him, he rose and joined me on the settee.
“We have been apart too long,” he said by way of explanation, taking the cup from me.
My breath caught—swift and traitorous. He had felt it too. “Yes,” I managed. “We have.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. But then I gathered myself. There were important matters to discuss. “What has transpired?” I asked softly.
After one long glance at me, he started, “I have been contacted through intermediaries acting for unnamed donors. They read the newspaper reports about the suffering those young women have endured and are…eager to contribute to their welfare.”
The absolute gall of those men. For, of course, it had to be men.
“They want to contribute to the welfare of the women they abused,” I said, heat rising in my voice. “No amount of money can atone for their sins.”
“No. It can’t.” Steele rested his cup on the table. “But it will ease their lives. I have spoken with solicitors about the best course to handle those funds. They are quite substantial, and there’s more coming in. The best course of action is for the court to appoint a trustee and establish a trust for the benefit of the women. They will remain unnamed while still being recognized as beneficiaries.”
