“Has Lady Dorothea mentioned in the last day or so that my size is one of her greatest disappointments? If not, she is lapsing in her maternal duties.” At Sarah’s aghast expression, Rose grinned and waved away the concern of her maid—and friend. “It is a refrain I’ve heard since my first courses put in their untimely appearance. I’m quite used to it.”Most of the time.
Sarah merely nodded, her teeth worrying her lower lip, which she did often when she was puzzling out the solution to a problem. She pointed to a trunk near one of the dormer windows. “I think that one holds your gowns from three seasons ago.”
“Well, I have experienced worse humiliation than wearing a gown twice.” Rose picked her way through the piles of gowns that had built up around her feet and wandered over. Faint light from the street outside streamed in through the window, and Rose glanced out, growing still when she realized she was looking at the roof of Newbury Hall, the elegant residence that had once housed the Ashton family, before the old duke, Solomon had passed away. The then-Marquess of Newbury, Philip—Solomon’s eldest son—had resided there with his wife Emalyn and their three sons—Thomas, Robert, and Michael.
Rose had been friends with all three, coming in between Thomas and Robert in age. They had raced across the green expanses of Hyde Park, governesses in tow, Rose’s trying her best to keep Rose in line through scolding and etiquette lessons, many of which would not solidify in Rose’s mind and behavior for years to come. Rose could also see their roof from the window of her bedchamber, and she could not count the number of times she had spotted Thomas—all gangly limbs and unruly dark curls—clambering out onto the roof. It appeared to be his place of respite, even as a young boy. He would be out there with a book or sketchpad, or just staring out over the city, lost in thought. Sometimes his diminutive mother would climb out there with him, and Rose envied the tender relationship that they clearly had.
Cecily had once described the Timmons children’s relationship with Dorothea as “starched,” which summed it up neatly.
Rose put her hand on the window, watching as the glass fogged around the warmth of her hand. “Thomas,” she whispered, a lingering memory coming to clarity in her mind. Thomas, who could not have been more than ten, obviously sobbing as if his heart were broken. His mother, sitting in the window, dressed in all black, gesturing to him from the attic window. He had gone to her reluctantly, and they had slipped back inside.All black.It had to have been the day the old duke died.
It had been the last time Rose had seen Thomas on the roof. Not long after, the Ashton brothers had moved with their parents to Ashton House on Berkeley Square, where their sister Elizabeth—now a friend of Cecily’s—had been born. Philip became duke, Thomas the marquess, and she’d seldom seen him since—bare glimpses when he was home from school, at Society events before he had withdrawn.
Withdrawn to become the scoundrel he now was. That they all had become. Gamblers and rogues with a string of mistresses and broken hearts in their wake. Even worse, according to rumor, although Rose had not been able to verify stories of ruined ladies and more than one servant. The Ashton brothers had eschewed Society for years, preferring London’s underworld of thieves and whores. Now there was a new rumor about them—that they might be coming back, a dim tale that had leaked from the servants at Ashton House. Rose did not quite believe it, but something was definitely in the wind where the Ashton brothers were concerned. According to her sources, a command appearance for all three had been issued by the duke and duchess, a directive not to be ignored.
“Do not make me bring you down, Thomas,” she whispered, letting her hand drop from the window. “Please.”
“My lady?”
Rose turned to see Sarah near a newly opened trunk closer to the center of the attic, holding up a frock with a bodice and pleated chiffon overskirt in emerald green. White taffeta peeked from underneath the green through a split down the front that was edged with embroidered rosebuds in a delicate pink. Matching pink bows dotted the puff sleeves and circled the hem. She tilted her head, trying to examine it in the dim light.
Sarah bounced it a bit in her arms. “It’s from two seasons ago, but might work. I can remove the bows, add a few beads and pearls to the bodice. There might be time to add a white gauze overlay of the skirt or a white sash to lower the waist.”
Rose nodded. “Don’t trouble yourself with the gauze. We have plenty to do before the ball. But I think it’ll work. And it will not outshine Cecily, which is the main thing.” Rose took a deep breath. “That’s settled. Let’s get this packed up—”
“Pardon me, my lady, but I’ll take care of this.”
“Sarah—”
“You’ll be needed in the kitchens.”
Rose peered at her maid. “Sarah?”
The younger woman rolled up the green gown and set it aside. “I got word just before we came up here that there was a messenger expected for you around nine.”
Her curiosity piqued, she stepped over a mound of fabric. “A messenger from whom?”
Sarah gave her a sly smile. “Robbie Green. From Mr. Campion’s... establishment.”
“Excellent. I’ll wager it’s about the Higginbotham ball. He’ll have heard all the best gossip.” Rose headed for the doorway, saying a quick prayer under her breath. “Please... do not let it be about Thomas Ashton. Please.”
Chapter Two
With only onestop to allow Michael to cast up his accounts into the street, the ducal carriage deposited the three brothers at Ashton House—the family home since their grandmother had retreated to the dower house on the family estate west of London—just as the family was being seated for the evening meal in the family dining room.
The table was set for the six of them, with his parents on either end, Thomas and Elizabeth on one side, and Robert and Michael on the other. Golden light flooded the room from candelabras on the table and sideboard. Even the chandelier overhead bloomed with light, a rarity when only the family dined. The formality of his parents’ clothes and the setting on the table indicated this was to be more than the informal family meal his mother had implied in her notes. Something was definitely afoot, so, as a footman began to serve the first wine, Thomas ordered that none be served to Michael.
Michael glared at his brother. “You cannot give that order.”
“But I can,” Philip said, his fingers drumming on the table. He nodded at the footman holding the wine carafe. “Have them send up coffee for the youngest Mr. Ashton.”
“Prig,” Michael muttered under his breath.
Thomas raised an eyebrow, unsure if that had been aimed at him or their father. Probably both.
Beth gasped, and their mother reached over and grabbed Michael’s hand. From the sudden jerk of his head, Emalyn’s nails had apparently found purchase in his brother’s palm. “You will not,” she said, her voice low and determined, “curse at this table. It has never been allowed, and you will not start now, just because you are intoxicated. You may no longer respect your father and me, but you will not show it here.”
Michael’s expression turned stricken. “But I haven’t—”
