Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

I t was not hard to learn who exactly Miss Francesca Monroe was. News of fresh blood in London, particularly of the noble variety, spread fast within their circles, even if the Nottinghams currently inhabited the less-than-center rung of society. And the facts were as bad as Rose had feared.

While not a daughter, Miss Francesca Monroe was most definitely related to Lady Cordelia Monroe—the imperious woman behind Rose's sister's scandalous marriage. The families, despite being cousins, had become estranged since that disastrous turn of events, and Rose had no desire to be anywhere close to the conflict when a woman as ruthless as Lady Cordelia was involved. Miss Monroe might only be Lady Cordelia's niece by marriage, but a handful of conversations in the right places had informed Rose that the younger Madame Monroe was every bit as ambitious and shameless as the older one.

"Do you think it shall be a boy or a girl?" Violet's question permeated Rose's personal reflections.

Rose looked up. Her sister, rounder than ever and positively glowing, was poking her swollen belly with the curiosity of a child prodding a sleeping animal. It was impossible not to laugh.

"I assume a boy is wished for?" Rose replied.

"Conventionally, yes. It would be nice to secure the Rodworth line." Violet huffed, still poking. Her fingers trailed after visible movement from the growing child. "But Eva is such a darling that I do not think I would mind having yet another child just like her. It would save us a pretty penny on her dresses."

"You only spend half a fortune on Eva's wardrobe because you wish to. You do realize only five people in the world ever see her."

"Oh, but that's not true."

Rose raised a brow. Violet grinned.

"It's six people, because she has two nurses," the viscountess added.

The sisters laughed. Violet resumed her reading, and Rose was given the opportunity to have her thoughts wander once more.

She wanted to question Lady Cordelia's presence in London. Their aunt had rarely been seen ever since the falling out between their families. Society did not know the machinations behind Heather's disastrous betrothal, no matter how happily her story might have ended. But society had noticed how Lord and Lady Shallingsworth had begun cutting the Monroes soon after the hushed-up event. Given that Papa and Mama had been more widely respected than Lady Cordelia, people had decided to side with them rather than with her no matter what they did or did not know about the situation.

Sadness tugged at Rose's chest at the reminder that with Papa gone now, so had their sense of protection. Aunt Cordelia might choose to spread whatever rumors she wanted about the widowed Lady Shallingsworth and her two daughters—and the ton would readily believe her. A lady by birth was always more likely to be believed over one by marriage, after all.

"Why are you here with me every morning? Don't you have gentleman callers to entertain?" Violet interrupted again, her book tossed aside. Rose suppressed the urge to tease her sister about never finishing a book—even if it was true. "Did Mama not declare it important that you and Brooke marry this year?"

"She only thinks that because she believes London to be the only place to find a husband," Rose replied.

"Well, it certainly offers the most choices."

"Of men as well as women. I do not need to remind you that the majority of eligible bachelors are usually vying for the same three women—or, even, the same one."

"Those are aberrations." Violet flitted her fan as if shooing off the comment before beginning to vigorously cool herself. "The duke himself, despite being the catch of the Season, has been diligently sharing his attention amongst multiple candidates, I believe."

"Indeed, he has." Rose tried to ignore the subtle stab of disappointment that came with the admission. Since when had she allowed herself to start caring for the man? She tried not to frown too blatantly, thankful that Violet had never been as observant of those around her as her other sisters were. His Grace was a friend, an ally whose kind attentions ensured that the Nottinghams did not drift away from social consciousness entirely. He was never meant to be more than a friend.

It was Rose's own fault to have been carried away by those dances—for allowing her usual sanity to abate in the midst of their banter. He did not dance a set with her at each ball, or converse privately with her at each dinner party, because he wanted to. It was only a cover for what he truly needed from her—information to find him a suitable bride.

And Miss Francesca Monroe of the fiery red hair and tall, imperious bearing was a candidate for the job while Rose never would be.

She stopped her moroseness before she could actually shed any unbecoming tears. There was a reason she called on Violet every day this past week, apart from wishing to keep her sister company as the latter neared confinement. Seeing any gentlemen, whether they were trying to call on Rose or on Brooke or even Mama, reminded Rose too much of the one gentleman whom she actually wished to see. And since Lady Lucille and all the other old infirm ladies Rose used to call on regularly were not in good enough health to accept visitors, Violet was the most convenient invalid Mama would allow Rose to spend so much time around.

Spending time in Rodworth Place and away from Mama's constant fretting over having to move by the end of the London Season was simply an advantageous aftereffect.

The sound of moving chairs echoed from Rodworth's study into the drawing room, the noises particularly loud given how Violet wanted all the doors open these days. The breeze, she claimed, was never quite enough for her very pregnant self.

"That must be the gentlemen," Violet declared, confirming that it was high time for Rose to leave if she did not wish to encounter the Duke of Burgess.

"I believe I must go." Rose gathered her things and stood. "I shall give Eva a kiss before I go."

"Can you not stay and converse for a bit? The men say they come to call on me but only ever talk of Parliamentary motions. It can be quite dreary."

Rose laughed gently. She pecked Violet on the cheek. "I'm sure you shall bear it all in style. But poor Eva is all dressed up by herself with two nursemaids, and it would be a pity to deny her an audience. "

"Very well."

"I shall see you tomorrow."

"Thank you."

Rose slipped out of the room just in time—and fled up the stairs.

A good half hour of playing with Eva was good for the soul. The toddling child, dressed like a queen, ruled over her domain with the elegance of her mother and the sharp wit of her father, commanding her nurses and aunt about where exactly to place each exact toy to her perfect preference. Rose chuckled at how easily she herself yielded to the child. Poor Lord and Lady Rodworth would have a handful of a daughter to chaperone one day. One could only hope the coming second child, male or female, would complement Eva's tyranny rather than challenge it.

The clock chimed a half hour later, and Rose deemed it safe to leave the house. Surely, by now, the duke and Rodworth would be at their club, and she would be excused from having to explain her family's complicated history with the Monroes by her mere absence.

It was the cowardly way, Rose knew, and rather uncharacteristic for her determined, if quiet, self. But making stray observations about other ladies had been easy only before her own feelings had been engaged. And now that they were—she could no longer trust herself to remain impartial, particularly when a woman as manipulative as the old Lady Cordelia might be involved.

"Goodbye!" Eva's farewell was loud, crisp, and a source of good cheer as Rose left the nursery in favor of a quick departure from Rodworth Place. One day, the little beauty of a terror that was Eva Anderson would rule the London ballroom, but at least her reign only touched a small domain for now.

The Rodworths' trusted butler, large and imposing, was quick to assist Rose with almost fatherly consideration as she donned her coat and bonnet. She thanked the man, her smile genuine, and slipped out the front door.

"Ah, there's my niece!" A dreadfully familiar voice immediately pierced the air the very moment Rose's feet touched the pavement of the street below. Rose froze. "I dare say she shall agree with my every word."

Rose turned slowly, dreading the sight she already expected to behold. A few steps away, right in front of the house next door, Lady Cordelia Monroe and her entire family entourage surrounded the Duke of Burgess, who seemed very much trapped in their midst. Rose ventured a look the duke's way and caught his tentative gaze above all the other women's acerbic ones.

With a sigh, Rose stepped forward to greet them, one by one.

After a good quarter of an hour of being held captive by the Monroe family, Frederick nearly rushed forward in relief at the sight of Rose Nottingham emerging from the Rodworths' front door. He was not sure why he'd missed her visits there, but he'd seen so frightfully little of her lately that he nearly wondered if she'd been intentionally avoiding him.

He did not know what exactly he'd done to offend her, but he was keen to mend whatever that offense was. Being out of favor with Rose Nottingham was decidedly not a place he wanted to be.

"Your Grace, Aunt Cordelia, Miss Monroe—how unexpected to encounter all of you." She spoke with an unusual stiffness. Frederick wanted to blurt out his concern over her uncharacteristic behavior, but he supposed the woman currently clinging to his arm as if he were her only support on a floating dock might take offense at that. And while Frederick had no keen desire to curry favor with Miss Francesca Monroe, who had proven to be nothing but cloying and disdainful over their brief week of acquaintance, he would much rather be despised by one lady at a time at most.

"Miss Nottingham," Frederick rushed to respond to his friend's greeting instead. "A pleasure to see you."

Rose hesitated more than he'd expected, allowing Lady Cordelia to interrupt instead, "I doubt it is a wise pleasure, Your Grace. Your inexperience with the London scene might not have prepared you adequately for the Season, I fear."

Frederick frowned. How the Monroe entourage had managed to corner him at every turn this past week was a mystery he did not particularly want to spend time scrutinizing, and he'd been trying to evade more than to engage them as much as he could. But the slight against his best ally was not something he particularly appreciated.

"I assure you, Lady Cordelia, that I have had help in every quarter. I am most grateful for my many friends' assistance—and for the company of dear young ladies like Miss Nottingham," he said.

"Ha!" Lady Cordelia mocked. She turned around to fix an icy glare at her niece. Frederick very nearly wanted to reprimand the old woman, for what could the kind, cheerful Rose ever have done to deserve such treatment? "You are an innocent soul, Your Grace. Do be wary of who has an eye on your fortune."

The mere suggestion that Rose, of all people, could be scheming for Frederick's fortune made him want to laugh and to vomit at the very same time. If a show of material prosperity was all he'd ever needed to impress the omniscient Rose Nottingham, then he'd pay more than the drapers' bill five times over.

"I thank you for your concern, my lady," Frederick tried to sound as polite as he could, even if he felt frustratingly trapped and rather indignant for Rose's sake. "But I am certain Miss Nottingham has no designs upon my person. "

"Then you are more of a fool than I thought you were." The bite in Lady Cordelia's tone was enough to incite a dog to a fight. She sent Frederick a warning look, her venomous tone as biting as her glare. "You are a scholar, an academic. You do not know the ways of society."

Frederick's frown deepened. He had thought those very thoughts himself before. But being talked to in such a high-handed manner was intolerable for a duke, even a reluctant one. "Lady Cordelia, I?—"

"You think my niece a gentlelady just because she is the daughter of a dead viscount, do you?" She whirled around to glare at Rose, who stood her ground with a pained, long-suffering look. "Her family is little more than a bunch of thankless, self-serving, self-righteous ingrates. Did you not hear of how her sister snagged the son of one of the wealthiest men in the country? Appeared in his room in the middle of the night—she did. I say the lot of them are little better than desperate lightskirts eager to claim?—"

"I beg you to cease insulting my sister!" Rose all but shouted in the middle of Mayfair.

Frederick watched, his heart clenching, as unshed tears glistened in Rose's eyes. The petite, pretty Miss Nottingham marched right up to her imposing aunt. A subtle tremble of her lip betrayed the extent of her contained agitation. He stepped towards her without thinking. She sent a small, quivering smile his way, bidding him to stay, before refocusing on her aggressor.

"I do not aspire to be a duchess," she said, her voice soft yet firm. "I have no intention to interfere with whatever twisted ambitions you might have for your family. But please—let us not pretend that the worst night of my sister's life was a result of anything but human machinations beyond her control."

"Do you think people will believe your words, or mine?" taunted the older woman .

"It is not their good opinion I crave—but the truth about my sister's honor."

"You pick your battles poorly, dear," hissed the older woman. "Be wary that your pride does not cost you your future."

Frederick watched the exchange with a rising agitation in his chest. He did not like the machinations of the ton , but he liked even less watching Rose being forced to confront them. She had proven his savior plenty of times. It was high time he returned the favor.

But did she even want him to?

Watching aunt and niece stare each other down, as if engaged in an invisible battle, discomfited the peacemaker in him. Watching Rose stand her ground, in particular, fanned both compassion and admiration within his heart. He did not know the full story behind the two women's apparent animosity, but he knew without a doubt, that when it came to the facts, he would always choose to believe Rose wholeheartedly. She had never led him wrong before.

When neither lady seemed inclined to back away from their confrontation, Frederick offered, "Lady Cordelia, shall I escort your family home? I believe it a stone's throw away from my house."

The unfortunate position of their houses—a detail that seemed frustrating a mere few days ago—suddenly felt marginally more helpful today. He did not particularly relish walking home with Miss Monroe clinging to his arm, but he would rather spare Rose whatever else Lady Cordelia seemed to have in mind for her.

"Very well," declared Lady Cordelia, fire in her eyes. "Come, Francesca, let us not lose time in offering the duke more worthwhile companionship."

Frederick waited until the whole party had turned the other way before twisting back towards his friend.

"I shall see you at the next ball, Miss Nottingham," he said, loudly and clearly, "perhaps you may be so kind as to save me a set? "

He felt Rose's grateful smile down to his toes. He was not cutting her but honoring her. He had to take pains to make that clear.

She curtsied prettily. "It shall be my pleasure, Your Grace."

He nodded before taking his leave, wishing the whole way home that he was escorting Rose rather than Miss Monroe.