When I’m sure they have gone, I lower my rapier a little more. “Prahmn, leave. Perhaps you should retire to your country house. Maybe abandon society completely. We can’t have your kind running loose. You’ll not be spared if I see you again.”
Paler than a ghost, the man flinches and then backs out of the drawing room.
I flick my hand toward Lord Mark and Carew to tell them to go after him to ensure Prahmn’s not bleeding too much … on my floors.
Neither moves.
Perhaps they sense that things are not done.
Chapter 46
JAHLEEL—DIDWEWINYET?
The violinists start to play Beethoven’s Ecossaise in G Major, which is of their own volition. The tune is spirited and fast, but no dancers move in the drawing room.
Yet someone starts clapping, clapping and shouting, “Whorish women are taking over!”
The music silences again.
I sheath my cane to lean on it and turn to the Palmerses. It’s time for his battle.
“Enough.” A woman waving a fan wearing a revealing poppy-colored gown comes to the center. “All of you are hypocrites. You’re willing to say these things on a day to celebrate a child’s birthday.”
“The spawn is gone,” Palmers says. “This is about a grown woman, a deceiver, a liar.”
“Your Grace, do we show him out?” Mr. Steele is again at the door.
“Nyet.” I take the young woman’s hand and kiss it. “Madame … Rose … Rosa Saxton. I’m glad you came. Do you have something to address to Mr. Palmers, or anyone else in the crowd?”
Katherine comes to my left. “What’s going on?”
“We are letting Madame … we are letting Rosa Saxton have a moment to express herself.”
“Jahleel,” she whispers. “You almost killed a man for me.”
“The night is young. The tally may improve.”
“I’m a businesswoman,” Rosa says. “My establishment caters to many of you. Perhaps you’ve heard of Madame Rosebud’s.”
An older woman, probably a dowager peer, tuts loudly like she’s in pain. More scowls than before appear—more for Madame Rosebud than for ill-mannered Prahmn.
Rosa waves and blows kisses to a few gentlemen in the crowd, setting off cheers and husbands getting whacked with fans.
I see now where these fans are dangerous.
“It’s quite wrong,” Rosa continues, “to keep punishing people for not being born of peers or to taunt them for doing what they must to survive. My husband’s mother …”
The Earl of Livingston comes from the back of the emptying room. “Your husband, Alexander Melton, is right here. Rosa Melton, my wife.”
Gasps.
A goblet falls and plinks on the floor.
One matronly voice says, “I thought they divorced in Scotland?”
Lord Mark gasps. “Didn’t you say you were never going to marry again?”
Carew accompanies him. “So you pretended to be a drunk and to go to a brothel every night because your wife owns it?”
