Page 35 of Rose and the Rogue
Poppy laughed. “So he is. Rakehell! But we’ll need a different name to use in polite company. Your mother would kick him out the door if she realized we called him such.”
After a few moments of intense discussion, it was decided that the cat’s formal name would be Sir Ralph, to be secretly known as Ralph the Rakehell when Rose’s mother was not in earshot.
“And yours?” Rose asked. “It’s a girl cat, correct?”
“I believe so. She’s a silvery gray, like the fog. I think I shall call her Miss Mist.”
“Oh, she already sounds adorable. I wonder if she would object to a bow around her neck.”
“Ha, I’ve got some satin ribbon remnants at the warehouse. I’ll try them out. I could sew Ralph a little cravat if you like.”
Before Rose could answer that ridiculous proposal, Alice entered and routed them out of bed with the news that a bouquet of flowers waited downstairs for Rose, and that they had a letter from their schoolfriend Miss Swift.
“Oh, we should read it before we finish the letter we’re writing to her! I wonder what Lia is up to this summer. Wouldn’t it be nice to see her while she’s still in town?”
Rose agreed, and allowed Alice to dress her in a lightweight summer gown of soft cotton. Ralph the Rakehell mewed from his spot on Rose’s pillow, and Rose said, “Oh, you must be hungry. So am I!”
“I told Cook to hold the breakfast things. Your parents got up rather late too, miss,” Alice informed them.
Ralph jumped down from the bed and joined the procession to the dining room. Miss Mist (who’d scouted ahead) was already there, lapping a saucer of cream set down next to Mr. Blake’s seat.
The arrival of two small cats in the house had brought mixed reactions. Alice declared them to be the sweetest creatures in London, while her mother hinted darkly that any damage to the draperies would result in exile for the kittens. Mr. Blake seemed to have sided with Alice, judging by the dish of cream.
“Ralph can have the rest of the cream,” Rose declared when she heard what was going on. “We don’t want him to starve.”
“Not a chance of that, the way the little beast devours things,” her mother said. And if they bring us any dead mice…” she said, trailing off. Rose did not need eyes to know that her mother was shuddering.
“You hate mice,” Rose pointed out. “You should want a creature that will keep them away from the house. Cook will like our new pets very much, I’m sure. She’s always complaining of pests in the kitchen.” Indeed, Cook fought a protracted war with the rodents of the world, deploying rat poison liberally.
Alice then entered, accompanied by the heady scent of flowers wafting through the air.
“This bouquet was sent this morning for Miss Rose,” Alice announced, placing the vase on the table with a muffled thud, suggesting a heavy burden.
“Lilies,” she said, inhaling. “How beautiful.”
Unsurprisingly, the anonymous gift became the topic of conversation. It was unavoidable, since the hothouse flowers permeated the foyer and drifted into the dining room, their scent rich and somehow suggestive. The lilies in the garden never smelled quite like this.
“More gifts,” her mother tutted. “With no note, again.”
A note should not be necessary, Rosalind thought. The flowers spoke for themselves. She smiled, inhaling again. “I like them. Alice, have them taken up to my room, please.”
“Rosalind!” her mother gasped. “You can’t have—”
“Flowers in my room?” Rosalind asked. “Will the flowers seduce me, Mother?”
“I don’t think you understand—”
“I don’t. Flowers are meant to be enjoyed. I want the lilies in my room.” Rosalind sensed her mother relenting, and reveled in this one small victory.
“I’m glad we’re going to Vauxhall this evening,” Poppy said suddenly. “It will be good to get some fresh air. Rose is looking a little pale, isn’t she, Aunt?”
“I feel fine…” Rosalind began.
“No, I think you need fresh air,” her cousin insisted.
“We will all go,” her mother said.
“Perhaps there will be fireworks,” Mr. Blake said brightly. He was a man of simple pleasures, and a fireworks display delighted him as much as winning a case.
