when I rescued Miss Friendly, I was almost ashamed of myself for having chosen one easily grateful genteel lady who will not cause me any trouble when there are others, hundreds and thousands, even more deserving.”
“I felt the same way when I rescued Phil. Did I tell you about Phil?”
Rose listened while he described his visit to Bermondsey. Then she said, “When I reach my majority I will have my own money. I wish to set up a charity.”
“Let me know,” said Harry, “and I will contribute.”
They walked back to join Becket and Daisy. Becket was making tea. Rose showed Daisy her ring and Daisy glanced at Becket, who sent her a covert wink.
They were all happy and at ease with each other when they finally drove back to London.
But then, just as they were travelling along the Great West Road, Harry asked, “How do you find my Aunt Phyllis?”
“She has very taking ways. Most of our servants are still at the town house and yet she moved in a staff of her own. She orders things like gowns and books and charges them to my parents’ account.”
“You must be mistaken,” said Harry. “You are talking about my mother’s sister. She was so eager to be of help.”
“Of course she was,” said Rose. “I am sure she would eagerly go anywhere for free lodging.”
“Take that back!”
“No!”
In the back, Becket and Daisy exchanged alarmed glances. “I have always found her charming and amiable,” said Harry.
“Indeed?” Rose’s voice dripped sarcasm. “And when did you last see her?”
“Not for some years.”
“So there you are! You do not know her at all.”
“I do not believe you.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Just misinformed.”
By the time they drove up to the town house, Rose and Harry were not on speaking terms. Rose wanted to give Harry back his ring but did not wish to make a scene on the street.
“I would invite you in,” she said coldly, “but I am sure you are anxious to get to your own home. Come, Daisy.”
Daisy threw an anguished glance over her shoulder at Becket and trailed inside after Rose.
Mrs. Holt, the housekeeper, was waiting for them. Aunt Phyllis had brought her own housekeeper, but Mrs. Holt had told the intruder not to interfere at all in the running of the house.
“May I have a word with you, my lady?”
“By all means.” Rose unpinned her hat. “What is the matter?”
Mrs. Holt lowered her voice. “It’s Lady Phyllis. My lady has given Miss Friendly so many gowns and hats to alter that I swear poor Miss Friendly has been working all night.”
“I’ll see to it.” Rose marched all the way up to the sewing-room.
Miss Friendly was bent over the sewing-machine. She stopped when she saw Rose, got to her feet and stumbled, holding on to the table for support. There were purple shadows under her eyes.
“Stop everything,” commanded Rose. “You are not to do any work for Lady Phyllis.” She rang the bell and when a footman answered it, she told him to fetch Lady Phyllis’s lady’s maid. When the maid arrived, Rose told her to take away all Lady Phyllis’s hats and garments and then said, “Lady Phyllis will be leaving immediately. Miss Friendly, you are not to do any more work for the next two days. Go to your room and relax, or go out for a walk.”
Rose marched back downstairs and into the study, where Matthew Jarvis was working.
“Ah, Lady Rose,” he said, “I have just received a wire. My lord and lady will be returning at the end of the week. They wish you to go to Stacey Court as soon as possible.”
“Very well,” said Rose. Let rotten Harry Cathcart do the investigation himself. “Mr. Jarvis, I should be grateful if you would inform Lady Phyllis’s butler that she and her staff are leaving as soon as possible. By as soon as possible, I mean tomorrow morning at the latest.”
The outraged Lady Phyllis shouted and protested when she received the news, but all she got was a blistering lecture from Rose on her abuse of the household and its staff.
Lady Phyllis telephoned Harry, who replied that he could not contradict Lady Rose’s decision as it was her home. But he was furious with Rose and thought her action was that of petty spite.
By the end of the week, Becket could not bear it any longer. “You know, sir, that you paid me to find out gossip from the Running Footman?”
“Yes, Becket, and did you find out anything relating to the murders?”
“No, sir, it’s just that I could not help overhearing your argument with Lady Rose over Lady Phyllis.”
Harry’s face hardened. “And what has that to do with anything?”
“It’s just that some of your aunt’s staff also drink in the Running Footman.”
“I repeat: What has that to do with anything?”
“Lady Phyllis’s nickname is Lady Sponge.”
“What!”
“It seems that Lady Phyllis likes to be invited into other people’s homes and once there, she costs them a lot of money. Furthermore, she usually takes with her as many servants as she can so that she is spared the expense of feeding them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Some other servants joined our gossip. They, too, remember visits from Lady Phyllis. One said she had only been invited for tea and yet she turned up with all her baggage and servants and claimed that she had been invited to stay. It took a couple of months to get rid of her.”
Harry ran a hand through his thick hair. “Oh dear. I had better visit Lady Rose.”
But when they arrived at the town house, it was to find only a caretaker and his wife in residence. Harry was told that the whole family was now at Stacey Court. He telephoned the earl, confidently expecting to be invited down, but it was Matthew who answered his call and told him that Lady Rose had given instructions that Captain Harry Cathcart was to be told she was “not at home.”
“Not at home” was society’s snub. It was a way of saying, “I don’t want to see you.”
He sat down and wrote a heartfelt apology to Rose. Her father read it and decided not to show it to his daughter. Sir Peter Petrey was due back from Scotland soon. If only Rose would break off her engagement to this eccentric captain, Sir Peter would be so eligible and Rose seemed to like him. The earl threw Harry’s letter on the fire and decided to invite Peter to come on a visit.
Harry, on receiving no reply from Rose, thought she was childish and ungracious. It never dawned on him that such an independent spirit as Rose Summer would have her mail read by her father.
As the weeks passed and there were no new leads on the murder of Dolly Tremaine, Harry, still smarting over what he saw as Rose’s rejection of him, began to take on new cases and immersed himself in his work.
As autumn crept over the English countryside and the smoky bonfire air hung over the bare frosty fields, the earl and countess began to make preparations to remove to London for the Little Season.
Only Daisy felt as if she had been condemned to years and years of Sundays where nothing ever happened. Sir Peter had come on an extended visit and Rose seemed to enjoy his light-hearted company very much.
It was a damp drizzly day when the cavalcade of carriages and fourgons arrived at the town house. The sight of the earl and his family and servants moving from the country to the town was like watching the procession of some minor foreign royalty.
Smoke swirled down from chimney-cowls and the buildings were black with soot. As they arrived, the lamplighter with his long brass pole was making his journey around the square like some magician, raising his pole and sending another golden globe of light out into the dusk, leaving behind him as he passed from lamp-post to lamp-post, a warm constellation of minor planets.
Rose felt heavy of heart as she stepped down from the carriage. London, again. London, where the infuriating Harry Cathcart had no doubt forgotten about her.
The only thing to raise her spirits was the thought that at balls and parties she would no doubt see the
