Rose stood and followed her sister into the hall.
“Didn’t you hear anything we talked about this morning, Rose?”
“You asked me to speak to the girls on etiquette. That’s what I was doing.”
Gabriella pinched the bridge of her nose. “Rose, darling, none of these young women will be entering Society.” Though her voice was gentle, Rose balked at the rebuke.
Her jaw tensed until it ached. “I was just trying to help.”
Her sister leaned in and hugged her, but Rose couldn’t shake her stiffness. “I know. I know. It’s just most of the girls here will be going into service of some sort. Whether it’s to the larger houses for maid service, or a shop who needs an assistant. Things of that nature.”
“Oh.” Rose’s shoulders fell, and she felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. “I’m a disaster, aren’t I?”
“You aren’t a disaster—wait, I have an idea. It might be fun for the girls.”
Wary optimism touched Rose. “What?”
“Antonia could host a tea.” Antonia was the sister just older than Gabriella. “These young women have been through terrible ordeals. I think that would make for a special treat. What do you think?” She was their one sister who hadn’t married a title. Mr. Tatton. He was a pleasant, if somewhat intense, man, and a barrister.
Rose frowned. “She’s about to have a baby. Do you think she’s up for it?”
“I think she would love the idea. Why don’t you instruct the girls on taking tea—the upper crust way?”
Disappointment rippled over Rose. She’d so wanted to prove herself worthy. “I suppose that will be all right.”
“Brilliant. I’ll have tea sent right up.”
Rose stepped back in the room. “How would you ladies fancy having tea with a barrister’s wife?”
Eight
Thursday Evening
The Martindale musicale was a crush. Rose’s stomach coiled in a nest of mangled branches. With thorns. That blasted Mr. Whitmore had been silent as a grave since he’d pranced her within feet of Sebastian at the masked ball. Shehatednot knowing something. It brought back horrendous memories of never knowing where her husband was. Or whom he was with. Or how many children he’d sired—
“Is everything all right, Rose?”
She started, shocked by her lack of focus. “Oh, hello, Claire.” This was her sister closest in age. Claire had the signature dark hair of the Ryleigh clan. The green eyes and the sharp tongue. Goodness, they sounded like creatures bound for a burning stake. “I’m fine. I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
“One can only stay confined for so long.”
Claire was on the way to her second child, due a month or so after Christmastide. She wasn’t unseemly large yet, at the least, she was hiding it well. “You look good,” Rose told her.
“You as well. I’m surprised to see you in such a festive color, considering your husband hasn’t been gone yet half a year.”
Rose glanced down at the soft red silk. It was deliciously scandalous. The last time she’d seen Mr. Whitmore, she’d been wearing a maid’s costume! “I refuse honor a man who treated me with such disgrace” was all she said of her late husband, turning her gaze over the throng.
Claire’s silence drew her attention. A small smile curved her sister’s lips. “Good for you, Rose. He was most unworthy of your hand.”
Tears pricked her. “Thank you,” she whispered. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll visit the retiring room before the music starts.”
Claire took her hand and squeezed it. “Of course, dear. I’ll hold a chair for you.”
Rose made her escape. A lone tear fell, and she quickly brushed it away as she hurried up stairs devoid of guests, but instead of turning left for the retiring room, she was able to peer into a row of doors before she located Martindale’s library. She entered and shut the door softly behind her then dashed for the windows.
“You’re late,” Mr. Whitmore said.
She gasped, her gaze darting in the direction of his voice. A dark corner.
