Page 58 of Rose and the Rogue
Carlos stormed into the room, disturbing Adrian’s quiet reading.
“What the hell?” Adrian asked crossly.
Carlos handed him a newspaper, pointing to a particular column. Adrian took it gingerly, disliking the feel of the grimy ink on his fingers. Then he saw that the article in question was a poem, by Anonymous, titled “The Rose Deflowered.”
Sweet Rose stripped of beauty, petals plucked one by one,
Shame on all! Will we not see what the rogue has done?
Denuding English gardens, a thief in the night,
With only ruined blossoms left in dawn’s pale light…
He stopped reading, his heart going cold. He’d been so careful! There was no way anyone would have seen Rose and him together that night.
“This is clearly about Rosalind Blake,” Carlos said. “And you’re the rogue.”
“It’s rubbish. No one was ever convicted by poetry.”
“This isn’t a court of law, Adrian! This is London society, and a few hints are all that’s needed to condemn a person.”
“Has anyone said her name? Or mine?”
“Not that I know of…at least, not openly. Just some heavy hints that you’re involved somehow, mostly because everyone knows you’ve befriended the family. But there are rumors flying that Miss Blake is, ah, open for business.”
Adrian stood up. “I better have heard that wrong.”
“I’m not saying it, you idiot. Other people are. It’s just a low rumble now, in the clubs and the various hells. It has not yet, to my knowledge, passed to the women’s gossip circles, probably because there’s no proof to bolster it. But any scrap of evidence, not matter how flimsy, could make the rumors stick. And if the ladies of London decide that the rumor has teeth, your friend is done for in any social circle of note. And you know, there’s the…past bet.” Carlos added that last part softly, as if that would make it less real.
“God damn it, I’m never going to escape my youth, am I? Then I’ve got to make sure no one fans the flames.”
“Are you really the best person to do this?” Carlos asked. “I mean, you’re hardly known as a guardian of ladies’ virtue.”
“It was the ladies who made that choice, not me,” Adrian said. “After my mistake, I’ve never ruined virgins.”
“Until you met Rosalind.” Carlos paused, looking askance. “Did you ruin her?”
“In what sense?” he hedged. After all, a woman was only ruined if people knew about it.
“Oh, Christ.” Carlos closed his eyes and walked toward the window, away from Adrian. “All right, this is messy.”
“It’s not your mess,” Adrian replied, rather bitterly. “You can jaunt off to start another revolution, if you like. After all, it’s been what, six months since the last time you attempted to bring down a government?”
“That last time was barely a revolution,” Carlos said, momentarily distracted. “More of a demonstration of force. We got the attention of the powers that be. And this conversation is not about that, Adrian! It’s about your little English rose.”
Just then a footman entered and held a tray out to Carlos. “Came this afternoon, sir,” he explained.
Carlos accepted the letter, and opened it quickly. “It’s from Poppy,” he said, scanning it intently. “Oh, no. They’ve heard. A friend learned of it and told both Rosalind and Poppy. Damn it. It would have been better if they didn’t know.”
“I’ll go there immediately,” Adrian said, standing. “I need to see Rose and explain things. She’ll be upset.”
“No, wait. Let me read.” Carlos looked up. “Poppy wants to speak to me, to get an explanation. She says that Rose is devastated, and refuses to see anyone at all, including you. No one will be admitted to call upon either girl.”
“Then how will you meet Miss St. George?”
“Her stepfather’s warehouse,” Carlos said, glancing at the clock. “I’m to be there at six. That doesn’t leave much time.”
He left as quickly as he arrived, and Adrian sat alone, glaring into the low flames of the fireplace.
