She had decided to start by investigating Lysander’s claim that Lucian used to drive his grandfather around at reckless speeds in Evander Beauclerk’s highflyer phaeton.
At her behest, Robin and Howard had asked around in order to determine where Vander had resided prior to his marriage. It had taken them less than an hour to discover that he had lived at the Belvedere, a building known for its luxurious bachelor apartments.
Interestingly, the Belvedere was less than a quarter mile from the Beauclerk family home. Rosalie had therefore hazarded a guess that Vander might have kept his horses and phaeton in his parents’ stables, rather than renting space in a mews just a couple of streets over. The Beauclerks could have afforded it, of course. Gracious, Cedric Beauclerk was probably richer than her father!
But there was little practical benefit to doing so, and had Rosalie been faced with the same decision, she would havepreferred for her expensive matched team to be looked after by the trusted family grooms, rather than the latest hire at a busy London mews who might or might not know anything about horseflesh.
Now, she just needed to figure out how to slip back to the stables without being noticed. Suddenly, the mint-green morning dress embroidered with white dots that Rosalie had donned before breakfast seemed like an exceptionally poor choice. She would stick out like a sore thumb, but of course, as the daughter of a duke, she could not think of a single item in her wardrobe that would blend in around a stable yard, and?—
“Lady Rosalie! Oh, Lady Rosalie!”
Rosalie bit back an oath. She fixed a bright smile on her lips before she turned.
Vander’s mother was climbing down from a glossy cherrywood landau. Although she had recently become a grandmother, Azita Beauclerk remained one of the great beauties of theton. She had been born and raised in Hyderabad, India, and there were only a few grey hairs in her glossy black mane and the faintest trace of smile lines on her smooth, copper skin.
Rosalie curtseyed. “Good morning, Mrs. Beauclerk.”
She hurried up to Rosalie, taking her hands. “I know just why you have come! You are welcome, my dear. Very welcome, indeed.” She looped her arm through Rosalie’s and tugged her toward the steps of the stately townhouse. “Come, we will have tea and talk.”
“Oh, err… thank you.” Rosalie allowed Mrs. Beauclerk to lead her inside. Mrs. Beauclerk was obviously not privy to the real reason she had come. But now that she had been caught, there was nothing to do but brazen it out.
Mrs. Beauclerk led her to a parlor richly appointed in shades of cream and gold. The butler brought in tea, a spicy blend that Rosalie found unique and delicious.
Much to Rosalie’s surprise, Mrs. Beauclerk pulled out a small notebook and pencil. “First of all, what is your favorite color?”
Rosalie blinked. “My… favorite color? It’s pink, but?—”
“Pink!” Mrs. Beauclerk exclaimed, making a note. “Excellent. Excellent!” She looked up. “Do you prefer a pale pink, or something brighter?”
“Um… I generally prefer bright colors.”
“Very good.” Mrs. Beauclerk made another note. “And how would you describe your personal style?”
“My personal…” Rosalie took a sip of her tea to hide her confusion. What an unusual series of questions! Last night, the topic everyone wanted to discuss with her was her sudden betrothal to Lucian. Why did Mrs. Beauclerk want to know about her personal style?
She attempted a self-deprecating smile. “I fear I’m hopeless when it comes to fashion. I rely on my mother and my lady’s maid, Bernadette, to help me choose my dresses.”
Mrs. Beauclerk was one of the most fashionable women of theton, so Rosalie had imagined that she might respond to this statement the same way her mother did—with despair.
But she smiled knowingly and tapped her temple. “Yes, you have better things to do. All of those causes you support! I like that about you.” She busied herself making another note in her little book.
Rosalie was trying to figure out how she could turn the conversation to Evander’s carriage when Mrs. Beauclerk asked, “And what metal do you prefer?”
“Metal?” Rosalie asked, baffled.
“For jewelry,” Mrs. Beauclerk clarified.
“I’m sure I couldn’t say. I don’t wear a lot of jewelry.”
“Let me see.” Mrs. Beauclerk leaned forward, took Rosalie’s hand, and examined it. “I think you can wear silver or gold. Some redheads can only wear silver, but then, you will be forever polishing it.” She tilted Rosalie’s hand from side to side. “But I think we will be all right, so long as it is not a very yellow shade of gold.”
At least Mrs. Beauclerk’s strange questions finally made sense. “Mrs. Beauclerk, are you helping Lucian choose my wedding ring?”
“But of course.” Mrs. Beauclerk released Rosalie’s hand and sat back. “You did not know? I assumed that was why you came.”
“No, ma’am. There is actually something else I wanted to ask you.”
Rosalie paused, trying to figure out the most polite way to enquire if her son had aided his friend in abusing an old man.
