Scandalising the Ton
Scandalising the Ton
Diane Gaston
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesWho is the father of her child? Lady Wexin, once the Ton’s foremost beauty, has been abandoned by her family and friends, and creditors hound her. Her husband’s scandalous death has left her impoverished, and the gossip-mongering press is whipped into a frenzy of speculation when it becomes clear the widow is with child.Who is the father? Only one man knows: Adrian Pomroy, Viscount Cavanley. He has cultivated the reputation of a rake, but in truth yearns for something useful to do. Delicate beauty Lydia Wexin could pose an intriguing – and stimulating – challenge…
‘Do you need money?’
His hand swept the room. ‘You light fi res only for show. You have no flowers. And there is the matter of your servants…’
Would he tell the creditors and reporters? If word of her true situation escaped, all of England would know the shocking state of her fi nances.
‘I don’t need money.’ Lydia felt her cheeks heat. ‘Would that not mean I was in your keeping? Do not mistresses accept money from their…patrons?’
‘I offer it without obligation.’
Adrian said this so sincerely she almost believed him. It made no sense that a near stranger, a known rake, would offer her money without expecting something in return.
For a moment he looked as if he would cross the room to her, but instead he turned and walked to the door. She twisted away, not wishing to watch him disappear out of her life.
His voice came from behind her. ‘I am your friend, Lydia. Remember that.’
She spun back around, but he had gone.
Praise for Diane GastonA TWELFTH NIGHT TALE
‘…pure pleasure…’
—Romantic TimesBOOKreviews
INNOCENCE AND IMPROPRIETY
‘Diane Gaston’s unconventional male and female heroes
give INNOCENCE AND IMPROPRIETY,
her latest elegantly written Regency historical,
a refreshingly different twist.’
—Chicago Tribune
‘If you are weary of aristocratic heroes and heroines
in Regency historical romances, then Diane Gaston’s
INNOCENCE AND IMPROPRIETY is just the book
for you. Well-written and entertaining…
provocative…highly recommended!’
—Romance Readers Connection
A REPUTABLE RAKE
‘…a delightful and thought-provoking look into
a side of London we don’t usually get to see.’
—Romance Junkies
THE WAGERING WIDOW
‘The protagonists are so deeply sculpted into
living-breathing individuals that the reader will immediately
be feeling their emotional turmoil…the entire tone of the
book is steeped in sensuality…reading of the highest order!’
—Historical Romance Writer
THE MYSTERIOUS MISS M
‘Wow… it’s a real emotional roller-coaster ride…
you simply cannot put [it] down—
absolutely mesmerising! …an unusual gritty
Regency packing such an emotional punch.’
—Historical Romance Writer
‘This is a Regency with the gutsiness of a Dickens novel.
It’s not always pretty, but it’s real and passionate. Gaston’s
strong, memorable debut provides new insights into the era
and characters that touch your heart and
draw you emotionally into her powerful story.’
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
As a psychiatric social worker, Diane Gaston spent years helping others create real-life happy endings. Now Diane crafts fictional ones, writing the kind of historical romance she’s always loved to read. The youngest of three daughters of a US Army Colonel, Diane moved frequently during her childhood, even living for a year in Japan. It continues to amaze her that her own son and daughter grew up in one house in Northern Virginia. Diane still lives in that house, with her husband and three very ordinary housecats. SCANDALISING THE TON features characters you will have met in THE VANISHING VISCOUNTESS.
Visit Diane’s website at http://dianegaston.com
Previous novels by the same author:
THE MYSTERIOUS MISS M
THE WAGERING WIDOW A REPUTABLE RAKE
INNOCENCE AND
IMPROPRIETY
A TWELFTH NIGHT TALE
(in A Regency Christmas anthology) THE VANISHING VISCOUNTESS
SCANDALISING THE TON
Diane Gaston
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my sister Judy, my first and forever friend
Chapter One
Once the finest ornament of the beau monde, a beauty so astounding and sublime a man would kill to possess her hand in marriage, the notorious Lady W— mourns her murderous husband in secret. How much knowledge did she possess of her husband’s villainous acts?—The New Observer, November 12, 1818
“Leave me this instant!”
A woman’s voice.
Adrian Pomroy, the new Viscount Cavanley, barely heard her as he rounded the corner into John Street. Not even halfway down the road he saw the woman stride away from a man. The man hurried after her. They were mere silhouettes in the waning light of this November evening and they took no heed of him.
Adrian paused to make sense of this little drama. It was most likely a lovers’ quarrel, and, if so, he’d backtrack to avoid landing in the middle of it.
“One moment.” The man kept his voice down, as if fearing to be overheard. “Please!” He seized her arm.
“Release me!” The woman struggled frantically to pull away.
Lovers’ quarrel or not, Adrian could not allow a woman to be treated so roughly. He sprinted forwards. “Unhand her! What is this?”
The man released the woman so quickly she tripped on her long hooded cloak. Adrian clasped her arm before she fell, holding her until she regained her balance. From the mews nearby a horse whinnied, but otherwise it was quiet.
The man backed away. “This is not as it appears, sir. I intend no harm to the lady.” He raised his hands as if to prove his words.
The lady? Adrian assumed he’d rescued some maid from a stableman’s unwanted advances, but the woman’s cloak was made of fine cloth, and the man was dressed more like a tradesman than a stableman.
Adrian turned to the lady. “Did he harm you, ma’am?”
“No.” The hood of her cloak shrouded her face. “But I do not wish to speak to him.”
The man stepped forwards again. “I merely asked the lady a few questions—”
“I will not answer them,” she cried from beneath her hood.
Adrian had the advantage of size on the man. He straightened his spine to make certain the man knew it. “If the lady does not wish to speak to you, that is the end of it.”
“Let me explain, sir.” The man stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a card. He handed it to Adrian. “I am Samuel Reed from The New Observer.”
Adrian glanced at the card. “You are a newspaper reporter?” He had read the new London paper, quite recently, in fact.
The man nodded. “All England wishes to know Lady Wexin’s reaction to the events surrounding her villainous husband. I am merely requesting the information from her.”
“Lady Wexin?”
Adrian regarded the cloaked figure with new interest. Adrian had just called upon his friend, the Marquess of Tannerton. Tanner had shoved The New Observer article about Lady Wexin under Adrian’s nose not more than half an hour ago.
His friend, Tanner, had recently returned from Scotland with a new wife and news about Lord Wexin that had consumed the newspapers ever since. Truth to tell, Tanner’s marriage had shocked Adrian more than the tale of murder, betrayal and death that involved the Earl of Wexin.
Lady Wexin interrupted Adrian’s thoughts. “Do I take it by your silence that you agree with this man, sir?” She stood with one hand braced against a garden wall. “Do perfect strangers have a right to know my private matters?”
Adrian still could not see her face, but he recalled the ton beauty very well. What gentleman would not? Adrian had never been formally presented to Lady Wexin, but they had occasionally attended the same society gatherings. Years ago Tanner andAdrian had briefly included Wexin among their set, but that had been before Wexin’s marriage.
“You owe this man nothing, my lady.” Adrian gave her a reassuring smile. “He will trouble you no further.”
According to Tanner, Lady Wexin was an innocent party in the perfidy that had so titillated the gossip-lovers. The newspapers had indulged the public’s seemingly insatiable appetite for the scandal by speculating about Lady Wexin’s part in it. Wexin might be dead, but his wife was not.
Lady Wexin let go of the garden wall. “I shall be on my way, then.” She turned, her cloak swirling around her. She took one step, paused, then resumed walking.
Adrian frowned. She was limping.
Mr Reed’s gaze followed her as well. He appeared to be considering whether to pursue her with more questions.
Adrian clapped him on the shoulder. “Best you leave, Mr Reed.”
Mr Reed’s eyes flashed. “This is a public street, sir.”
Adrian smiled, but without friendliness. “Nonetheless, you do not wish to be in my bad graces.” He glanced at Lady Wexin, now fumbling with a key in the lock of a garden gate. “The lady looks as if she’s had enough to deal with today. Leave, sir.”
Reed hesitated, but eventually his gaze slid back to Adrian.
“Leave, Mr Reed.” Adrian repeated, quietly but firmly.
Reed bowed his head and nodded. He cast another look at Lady Wexin before strolling to the corner and disappearing from sight.
Adrian walked quickly over to where Lady Wexin still worked the lock. “Let me assist you.”
She waved him away. “I can manage.”
He gestured to her legs. “You are standing on one foot.”
She averted her face. “My—my ankle pains me a little. I believe I twisted it, but I assure you I can manage.” The lock turned and she opened the gate. When she stepped into the garden she nearly toppled to the ground.
Adrian hurried through the gate and wrapped an arm around her. “You cannot walk.”
The hood of her cloak fell away, fully revealing her face, only inches from his own.
Her skin was as smooth and flawless as the Roman sculpture of Clytie that had once captivated him in the British Museum. Unlike cold white stone, however, Lady Wexin’s cheeks were warm with colour. Her lips, shaped like a perfect bow, were as pink as a dew-kissed rose. Adrian had often appreciated her beauty from across a ballroom, or from a box away at Covent Garden, but, this close, she robbed him of breath.
“Is this your house?” he finally managed.
She edged out of his embrace, but continued to clutch his arm. “Of course it is.”
He smiled. “Forgive me. Yes, it must be.”
She looked over her shoulder. “I must close the gate. Before they see.”
“Before they see?” He followed her glance.
“More newspaper people. They loiter around the house, looking for me.”
Ah, now it made sense why the lady entered her house through the garden gate. It did not explain why she had been out alone. Ladies did not venture out unless accompanied by a companion or a servant.
Adrian closed the gate with his free hand.
“I need to lock it.” She let go of him and tried to step away, again nearly falling.
Adrian reached for her again and helped her to the gate. “I’ll walk you to your door as well.”
“I am so sorry to trouble you.” She turned the key and left it in the lock.
Adrian kept his arm around her as they started for the house. When she put the slightest weight on her ankle, he felt her tense with pain.
“This will not do.” Adrian scooped her up into his arms.
“No, put me down,” she begged. “You must not carry me.”
“Nonsense. Of course I must.” Her face was even closer now and her scent, like spring lilacs, filled his nostrils. She draped her arms around his neck, and he inhaled deeply.
“See? I am too heavy,” she protested.
Too heavy? She felt as if she belonged in his arms.
He smiled at her. “Do not insult my strength, Lady Wexin. You will wound my male vanity.” He made the mistake of staring into her deep blue eyes, now glittering with unspent tears, and his heart wrenched for her. “You must be in great pain,” he murmured.
She held his gaze. “It hurts not at all now.”
He could not look away.
Somewhere on the street a door slammed and Lady Wexin blinked.
Adrian regained his senses and carried her the short distance to the rear door of the townhouse. Voices sounded nearby, riding on the evening breeze.
“The door will be unlocked,” she murmured, her hair brushing his cheek.
He opened the door and brought her inside. To the left he glimpsed the kitchen, though there were no sounds of a cook at work there. He carried her down the passageway and brought her above stairs to the main hall of the house.
It was elegantly appointed with a gilded hall table upon which sat a pair of Chinese vases, devoid of flowers. Matching gilded chairs were upholstered in bright turquoise. The floor was a chequerboard of black-and-white marble, but no footman stood in attendance. In fact, the house was very quiet and a bit chilly.
“Shall I summon one of your servants?” he asked.
“They—they are all out at the moment, but you may put me down. I shall manage from here.”
He looked at her in surprise. “All out?” It was odd for a house to be completely empty of servants.
She averted her gaze. “They have the day off.” She squirmed in his arms. “You may put me down.”
He shook his head. “Your ankle needs tending.” He started up the marble staircase, smiling at her again to ease her discomfort. “By the way, I ought to present myself. I am—”
She interrupted him. “I know who you are.”
Adrian’s smile deepened, flattered that she’d noticed him.
He reached the second floor where he guessed the bedchambers would be. “Direct me to your room.”
“The second door,” she replied. “But, really, you mustn’t—”
It was his turn to interrupt. “Someone must.”
Her bedchamber was adorned with hand-painted wallpaper, bright exotic birds frolicking amidst colourful flowers. A dressing table with a large mirror held sparkling glass bottles, porcelain pots and a brush and comb with polished silver handles. Her bed was neatly made, its white coverlet gleaming and its many pillows plumped with what he guessed was the finest down. The room was chilly, though, as if someone had allowed the fire in the fireplace to go out.
He set her down on the bed, very aware of her hands slipping away from his neck. “I’ll tend the fire.”
“Really, sir. You need not trouble yourself.” Her voice reached a high, nervous pitch.
“It is no trouble.”
He removed his hat, gloves and topcoat and crossed the room to the small fireplace, its mantel of carved marble holding another empty vase. To his surprise, the fire had not died out at all. It was all set to be lit. He found the tinderbox and soon had a flame licking across the lumps of coal.
He returned to her. She had removed her cloak and clutched it in front of her. Adrian took it from her hands and draped it over a nearby chair. It contained something in its pocket. Adrian felt a purse, heavy with coin.
He turned back to her and their eyes met, hers still shimmering with tears.
He touched her arm. “Are you certain you are not in pain? You look near to weeping.”
She averted her gaze. “I’m not in pain.”
He knelt in front of her. “Then let me have a look at that ankle. If it is broken, we will need to summon a surgeon.”
She drew up her leg. “A surgeon!”
“A surgeon would merely set the bone,” he said, puzzled at her alarm.
Her hand fluttered. “I was thinking of the cost.”
“The cost?” Concern over the cost was even more puzzling. Adrian gave her a reassuring smile. “Let us not fret over what is not yet a problem. Let me examine it first.”
She extended her leg again and Adrian untied her half-boot. He slipped off the shoe, made of buttery soft white kid, and held her foot in his hand, enjoying too much its graceful shape.
She flinched.
He glanced up at her. “Am I hurting you?”
“No,” she rasped. “Not hurting.”
He grinned. “Tickling, then. I’ll be more careful.” He forced himself to his task, feeling her ankle, now swollen. His hand slipped up to her calf, but he quickly moved it down to her ankle again, gently moving her foot in all directions.
She gasped.
“Does that hurt?” he asked her.
“A little,” she whispered. “I—I should not be allowing you to do this.”
Indeed. He was enjoying it far too much, and desiring far more.
He cleared his throat. “I believe your ankle is sprained, not broken. I predict you will do nicely in a day or two.” He did not release it. “I should wrap it, though, to give you some support. Do you have bandages, or a strip of cloth?”
Her eyes were half-closed. She blinked and pointed to a chest of drawers. “Look in the bottom drawer.”
Adrian reluctantly let go of her leg and walked over to the chest. The bottom drawer contained neatly folded underclothing made of soft muslin and satiny silk as soft and smooth as her skin.
His thoughts, as if having a will of their own, turned carnal, and he imagined crossing the room and taking her in his arms, tasting her lips, peeling off her clothing, sliding his hands over her skin.
He gave himself an inwards shake. He would not take advantage of this lady. Her peace was disturbed by reporters hounding her for a story, and her whole world had been turned head over ears with news of her husband’s crimes. And his death.
He frowned as he groped through her underclothing, finally coming up with a long thin piece of muslin.
He returned to her and knelt again. “I must remove your stocking.”
She extended her leg.
He slipped his hands up her calf, past her knee, until he found the top of her stocking and the ribbon that held it in place. He untied the ribbon and rolled the stocking down and off her foot. Her skin was smooth and warm and pliant beneath his fingers.
Adrian quickly took the strip of cloth and began to wind it around her ankle.
“Did you study surgery?” she asked, her voice cracking.
He looked up and grinned at her. “I fear it is horses I know, not surgery.”
She laughed, and the sound, like the joyful tinkling of a pianoforte, echoed in his mind.
He tried to force his attention back to the bandage, but she leaned forwards and gave him a good glimpse of her décolletage. “Are you so gentle with horses?”
He glanced back to the bandage and continued wrapping, smoothing the fabric with his other hand.
“What is your name?” Her tone turned low and soft.
He glanced up. “I thought you said you knew me.”
“I do not know your given name,” she said.
“Adrian.” He tied off her bandage and reluctantly released her.
“Adrian.” She extended her hand. “I am Lydia.”
He grasped her hand. “Lydia.”
Lydia’s heart raced at the feel of his large masculine hand enveloping hers. His grip was strong, the sort of grip that assured he was a man who could handle any trial. She now knew better than to make judgements based on such trivialities as a touch, but she could not deny he had been gentle with her. And kind.
It seemed so long since she’d felt kindness from anyone but her servants.
And even longer since she’d felt a man’s touch, since her husband left for Scotland, in fact. It shocked her how affected she was by Adrian Pomroy’s hand on hers. He warmed her all over, making her body pine for what only should exist between a husband and wife.
She took a breath. She’d always loved that part of marriage, the physical part, the part that was supposed to lead to babies…but she could not think of that. It was too painful.
It was almost easier to think of her husband. The Earl of Wexin.
The newspapers wrote that her husband had killed Lord Corland so that Wexin could marry her. Lord Corland’s death had been her fault.
She gripped Adrian’s hand even more tightly, sick that Wexin’s hands had ever touched her, hands that had cut a man’s throat.
She thought she’d loved Wexin. She’d trusted him with everything—the finances, the decisions, everything. But she had not known him at all. He’d betrayed her and left her with nothing but shame and guilt.
Her happiness had been an illusion, something that could not last, like the baby that had been growing inside her the day Wexin left.
The cramping had started the very next day after he’d gone, more than a month ago now, and she’d lost that baby like the two others before.
She swallowed a sob. Now she had nothing.
“Lydia?”
She glanced up into Adrian’s eyes, warm amber, perpetually mirthful, as if his life had been nothing but one long lark.
He smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You are squeezing my hand.”
She released him. “I am sorry.”
He stood and took her hand in his again. “It was not a complaint. You look troubled.” He lifted her hand to his lips, warm soft lips. “You have been through a great deal, I suspect. I will act as your friend, if you will allow me.”
Her senses flared again and her breathing accelerated. “If you knew how I need a friend.”
He smelled wonderful. Like a man. And she felt his strength in his hands, in his steady gaze. She took a deep breath and reached up to touch his hair, thick and brown with a wayward cowlick at the crown that gave him a boyish appeal.
His eyes darkened and the grin disappeared, though his lips formed a natural smile even at rest.
This man pleased women, it was said. He was a rake whose name was always attached to some actress or opera dancer or widow. Well, she was a widow now and her whole body yearned to be touched, to be pleased, to be loved.
She spoke, but it was as if her voice belonged to someone else. “You can do something for me, Adrian. As a friend.”
He smiled again. “You have but to ask.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, and with her heart thundering inside her chest, she brought her lips near to his oh-so-tempting ones. “Make love to me.”
She felt his intake of air and watched his lips move. “Are you certain you want that?” he whispered.
“Very certain,” that voice that only sounded like hers said. Before she could think, she closed the distance between them, tasting his lips gently at first, then more boldly.
He tasted lovely, but this kiss was not enough, not nearly enough. She opened her mouth and allowed his tongue to enter, delicious and decadent. She slid as close to the edge of the bed as she could, as close to him. She pressed herself against him, loving the feel of his firm chest against her softer one.
While his tongue played with hers, she worked the buttons of his coat and waistcoat. He parted from her long enough to shrug out of them. She pulled his shirt over his head and ran her hands over his muscular chest. She’d not known a man’s muscles could really be as sculpted as the statues of antiquity, nor as broad. No wonder women wanted to be his lover.
“Turn around,” he murmured.
She twisted around so he could reach the hooks at the back of her dress. He made short work of them.
She pulled her dress over her head, and he untied the laces of her corset with the practised ease of a lady’s maid. Lydia felt a frisson of excitement at the prospect of coupling with a skilled lover. She had never even kissed a man besides her husband.
Her corset joined the growing pile of clothing on the floor, and Lydia made quick work of removing her shift. She wanted—needed—to feel her skin against his, but he held her at arm’s length and caressed her with his gaze.
Her breathing accelerated. She reached for the buttons of his trousers.
He smiled and his hand rose to stroke her cheek. “I was merely savouring you for a moment.”
He stepped back and pulled off his boots and trousers. Lydia removed her remaining shoe and stocking, taking in his naked body through half-closed eyelids.
He was indeed a magnificent man.
And an aroused one. Her eyes widened. Here must be another reason he pleased women so well.
Lydia extended her hand to him and pulled him towards her, making room for him on her bed, pulling the blankets away as she did so. He joined her and covered her with his body, warming her—she had not realised she’d been so very cold. His hands stroked her with exquisite gentleness, relaxing her in places she’d not known she’d been tense. She stretched, arching her back like a cat. He closed his palms over her breasts and need consumed her.
She grasped his neck and pulled him down to her lips again, wanting him to breathe his strength into her. She longed for him to join himself to her. She longed not to feel so alone. So betrayed. So abandoned.
He broke the kiss and, as if reading her mind, took charge, moving his lips down her neck, tasting her nipples. Then he slid his hand to her feminine place and slipped his fingers inside her.
She had never experienced such a thing. Wexin had never done anything like this with his fingers. The intensity of the pleasure stunned her. Adrian seemed to know precisely where to touch, how to touch, until she was writhing beneath him, moaning in a voice that sounded more primal than her own.
Her climax burst forth inside her, so intense she cried out and clung to him as the waves of pleasure washed over her, and washed over her again.
When it ebbed, confusion came in its wake.
“But what of you, Adrian?”
Her husband always saw to his own pleasure first. She did not know her pleasure could come in such a different way.
He held her face in his hands. “We are not finished, Lydia.”
She took in a ragged breath.
He lay beside her, his head resting on one hand, the fingers of the other hand barely touching her skin, but stroking slowly and gently until she forgot her confusion and became boneless and as pliant as putty. To her surprise, her desire grew again, but less urgent than before.
His lips traced where his hands had been, his tongue sending shafts of need wherever he tasted her. He touched her feminine place again, with such gentleness she thought she might weep out of sheer bliss. It still seemed it was her pleasure, not his, that guided his hand. He made her feel cherished, revered.
“Adrian,” she murmured, awash in this new sensation.
Slowly, very slowly, her desire escalated, until again she writhed with need.
“Now, Lydia,” he whispered into her ear.
He climbed atop her again and stared into her eyes as he slowly slipped his entire length into her, each second driving her mad with wanting. Lydia gasped as he began to move, still slow and rhythmic, like the intricate moves of a dance. She moved with him, but the pace he set kept the ultimate pleasure just out of her reach. He moved with such confidence, she gave herself over to him, trusting he would bring her to where she so very much wanted to go.
His pace quickened and her need grew even greater. The sound of their breathing filled the room, melding together like voices singing a duet.
Her release burst forth and she saw stars brighter than at Brighton. She thrilled when his seed spilled into her. They pressed against each other, moaning with a pleasure that burned away her desolation.
Gradually the pleasure waned, but left in its wake a delicious feeling of satiation.
He slid off of her and lay next to her, breathing hard. “Lydia,” he whispered.
“Mmm,” she murmured, snuggling against him.
She must have fallen asleep, but the knocker sounding on the townhouse door woke her with a start. She heard voices outside.
The newspaper people. Would they never stop hounding her? She sat up, covering herself with the bed linens and realising what she had just done.
She’d begged the dashing Adrian Pomroy, who conquered women more easily than Napoleon had conquered countries, to make love to her. And he had obliged.
“There is no one here to answer your door,” he said.
She groped around for her shift. “I do not want my door answered.” Covering her mouth with her hand, she squeezed her eyes shut. “They must not see you here.” Finally her fingers flexed around the muslin of her shift. She pulled it on over her head and climbed off the bed. “You must get dressed.” Hopping on one foot, she tried to gather his clothes. “Leave here by the rear door.” She twisted his shirt in her hands. “The gate. You cannot lock the gate.” She shook her head and reached for his waistcoat. “Never mind the gate. The servants will be here soon and they will lock it behind them.”
He seized her arm. “Lydia, calm yourself. They will not see me.”
It was not only the reporters or creditors fuelling her alarm. Her own wanton behaviour had shocked her much, much more.
She shoved the shirt and waistcoat into his hands.
He dressed as quickly and efficiently as he had undressed. Buttoning his waistcoat, he said, “I will call upon you tomorrow.”
“No!” she cried. She forced herself to sound rational. “You cannot come here again, Adrian. If you are seen here, there will be more scandal.” She hopped over to the chest of drawers and pulled out a robe of Chinese silk. She wrapped the robe around her. “Please, just go.”
He strode over and enfolded her in his arms, pressing her ear against his beating heart. “Be calm,” he murmured. “Your troubles will vanish soon.”
She wanted to laugh hysterically. Once she had believed that troubles were what other people experienced, but she knew differently now. Now it seemed trouble would follow her to the end of her days.
“I’ll lock your gate and throw the key back into the garden.” He released her, but placed one light kiss on her forehead. “And I will return.”
“You must not return,” she pleaded.
He flashed a smile before walking out of the bedchamber.
She hobbled to a room at the back and peered into the garden, telling herself she just wanted to be certain he left by the rear of the house. She could never allow him to call upon her, but she could gain one last glimpse.
He, no more than a shadow now, appeared in the garden and crossed to the back gate with a long-legged stride. When he reached it he turned back towards the house and lifted his face to the upper windows. With a gasp, Lydia jumped back, although she doubted he could have seen her. Slowly he turned back to the gate, opened it a crack, and peeked out before walking through, out of her sight.
Out of her life.
Chapter Two
What magic allure does the Lady possess, to turn a man to such desperate acts? Who will her next victim be, this Siren, this daughter of Achelous, who sings men to their deaths?—The New Observer, November 12, 1818
Adrian entered White’s gentlemen’s club, his senses still humming, the lovemaking with Lydia still vibrating through him so powerfully he wondered if others could sense it.
He felt strong and masculine and completely devoid of the amorphous discontent with which he’d been lately plagued. It had vanished when he had walked into Lady Wexin’s life. Adrian fought the impulse to turn around and retrace his steps to John Street, to scale the walls of her garden if necessary, to enter her house, and repeat the lovemaking that had stirred his senses to such heights.
The footman stationed at the door of White’s greeted Adrian with undisputed normality, chatting about the weather while assisting Adrian out of his coat. Adrian glanced over to the bow window, but no one sat there. He made his way through the club to the coffee room.
Several men nodded a greeting, and Adrian had to suppress a smile. They had no idea that he’d just left the bed of one of London’s most beautiful, and now most notorious, women. And they would never know of it.
A voice called from across the room, “Cavanley! Over here. Join us.”
Adrian glanced around, expecting to see someone summoning his father, but it was his father who was waving to him from a table in the corner of the room. Adrian rubbed his face in dismay. He, not his father, was Cavanley now.
Since Adrian’s father had inherited the title Earl of Varcourt from a distant and elderly cousin who had very recently passed away, Adrian now had the use, by courtesy, of his father’s lesser title of Viscount Cavanley. Inheriting his father’s titles with all their rights, responsibility, and property would only occur upon his father’s death. At present, he merely gained the privilege of being called Viscount Cavanley. Adjusting to the new appellation was more difficult than he’d anticipated.
The new Earl of Varcourt waved with more vigour, signalling Adrian to join him. His father sat with the Marquess of Heronvale and Heronvale’s brother-in-law, Lord Levenhorne.
Adrian crossed the room and greeted them. “Good evening to you.” He bowed to each in turn. “Lord Heronvale. Lord Levenhorne. Father.”
His father gestured for him to sit. “What are you drinking, son?”
“Port will do,” Adrian responded.
His father clicked his fingers to a nearby footman. “Port for Lord Cavanley,” he cried in a loud voice.
At least his father had no difficulty using his son’s new title.
The new Lord Varcourt turned back to Adrian. “Are you bound for the card room?”
Adrian’s father relished his son’s success at cards, boasting that Adrian’s winnings would eclipse the family fortune one of these days. An exaggeration, of course, although Adrian did often win.
“Not today,” he replied.
His father beamed and turned to Heronvale and Levenhorne. “It is said my son won a bundle off Sedford the other night.”
Adrian drummed his fingers against the white linen tablecloth. “The cards were good to me.”
The loss must have hurt Sedford, Adrian thought with some guilt, but he guessed Sedford would be in the card room again tonight, drinking just as heavily, losing just as swiftly. Sedford would be better off if he spent more time at his wife’s musicales, even if they were deadly affairs.
“They say Sedford played foolishly.” Levenhorne drained his glass and signalled the footman for another drink. “I’m sick to death of reckless card players and the problems they cause others.”
“I’d heard the man enjoyed cards a great deal more than his skill at them ought to have permitted,” Heronvale said.
Adrian glanced from one to the other. “You have lost me. Do you speak of Sedford?”
“Of Wexin,” his father explained. “We were speaking of Wexin before you arrived. Levenhorne stands to inherit his title, you know.”
Levenhorne rolled his eyes. “Of course, I must wait the blasted ten months to see if Wexin’s widow produces an heir. Ten months during which I could be solving problems that are likely to be mine and will only become worse for the wait.”
Adrian straightened in his chair.
The law gave a peer’s widow ten months to give birth to an heir. As next in line to inherit, Levenhorne had no choice but to wait.
Levenhorne gave a dry laugh. “It is fortunate Wexin died, is it not? Things would be in even more of a mess if he’d been hanged for treason.”
Seizure of the title, forfeiture of the property—all would have been possible had Wexin been convicted and hanged. It was complicated, indeed, but Levenhorne could not know how truly complicated. Tanner had confided to Adrian that Wexin shot himself, but Tanner had convinced the Scottish officials to declare Wexin’s death accidental. “To minimise the scandal and ease Lady Wexin’s suffering,” Tanner had explained. It also vastly simplified the settling of Wexin’s estate.
“Ah, the drinks have arrived.” Levenhorne looked towards the footman who approached the table carrying a tray. He grabbed his glass, shaking his head. “Wexin’s debts are staggering. The man owes money all over town.” He took a fortifying drink. “Or I should say, owed money. He was damned reckless in his spending. Or perhaps it was Lady Wexin who spent like an empress. The trustee has clamped down on her, I tell you.”
“Indeed?” Adrian’s interest increased.
Levenhorne shrugged. “Her father will pay her debts, I suspect, although he will be none too pleased when he discovers the townhouse he purchased as a wedding gift is now mortgaged to the hilt.”
Adrian’s father spoke up. “I heard Strathfield was on a tour. His son as well. Headed to Egypt and India.”
Strathfield was Lydia’s father and as wealthy as any man could wish.
“True.” Levenhorne waved a dismissive hand. “Let her depend on her sister, then.” Lydia’s sister had married quite well. “I’ll be damned if I’ll use my own funds.”
Adrian frowned.
Heronvale broke in. “Her sister’s husband has refused any contact, my wife tells me.” He sipped his drink. “In my opinion Lady Wexin deserves our pity, not our castigation. The newspapers are brutal to her.”
Adrian’s father grinned. “Did you see the caricature in the window at Ackermann’s? It shows her and Wexin standing with a clergyman while Wexin hides a long, bloody knife. One had to laugh at it.”
Adrian failed to see the humour. He tapped on his glass. “Tanner told me Lady Wexin knew nothing about Wexin killing Corland. In fact, Tanner told me that Wexin’s motive was to have been kept confidential.”
Tanner had been on the run with the woman fugitive whom Wexin had framed for Viscount Corland’s murder. The newspapers called her the Vanishing Viscountess and, at the time, her name filled the papers like Lydia’s did now. Tanner had married her in Scotland, and she and Tanner were the ones who had exposed Wexin.
“Who divulged that he’d killed Corland before the man could ruin his chance to marry her, I wonder?” Heronvale frowned. “Someone present at the inquest, I suppose.”
Adrian’s father laughed. “Come now. Who could resist? Tanner is a fool to think such delicious gossip can be silenced.”
Heronvale looked at Adrian. “Tanner is certain of her innocence?”
Adrian bristled at the question. “He assures me she had nothing to do with her husband’s crimes.”
Levenhorne lifted his glass to his lips. “I am not so certain. The papers speculate she knew what Wexin was about.”
Adrian gripped the edge of the table, angry at this man’s insistence on believing the worst of Lydia. Had he not heard Adrian say that Tanner had proclaimed her innocence? Did they believe a newspaper over a marquess?
Another worry nagged at him, one that explained the unlit fire and the absence of servants, if not the purse full of coin.
“How severe was Wexin’s debt?” Adrian asked Levenhorne.
Levenhorne leaned back in his chair. “He was in dun territory, both feet in the River Tick. The whole matter of his estate is a shambles. The executor is Lady Wexin’s brother, who is on that bloody tour of Egypt or wherever.” He shook his head in disgust. “Mr Coutts, the banker, you know, is the trustee. He had the audacity to ask me for funds, which I refused, I tell you.”
Adrian glanced away. Poor Lydia! Adrian could not simply walk away from her difficulties without assisting her, could he?
Lydia sat up in the bed where only two hours before she’d made love with a man she barely knew, one of London’s most profligate rakes. She wrapped her arms around herself, remembering the passion of his lovemaking, the delightful pleasures he had given her. His reputation as a lover was deserved, well deserved.
She blushed. Her life was a shambles, a mockery, a laughing stock. She was a widow who could not grieve, a lady who could not pay her debts, a daughter who could not run to her parents. Only God knew where her parents or brother might be. Greece. Egypt. India. She’d written to all the places on their itinerary. Her sister, merely a few streets away, had been forbidden to help her. Forbidden to see her. And what was Lydia doing? Tumbling into bed with the handsome Adrian Pomroy.
Her maid knocked and entered the room, carrying a tray. “Cook said tomorrow we will have soup, but tonight there is but cheese and bread. I’ve brought you wine. We seem to have a lot of wine.”
Her husband had a great fondness for purchasing the very best wine. Perhaps she could sell it. How would one go about selling one’s wine? She must discuss the idea with her butler.
She smiled at her maid. “It is good of you to bring my meal above stairs, Mary.”
When the other servants had left, Mary, one of the housemaids, had begged to stay and act as Lydia’s lady’s maid. The girl took her new duties very seriously.
Mary set the tray upon its legs so that it formed a bed table across Lydia’s lap. “I ought to have been with you, my lady.” The girl frowned. “I told you not to go to the shops alone.”
But Lydia needed to go to the shops. Had she not, they would have had no money at all. She’d taken several pieces of her jewellery to Mr Gray on Sackville Street and he had given her a fair price.
“Do not fret, Mary,” Lydia responded. “I would have twisted my ankle had you been there or not.” That odious newspaperman would not have allowed a mere maid to deter his pursuit, but events would have transpired very differently if Mary had been there when Adrian had come to the rescue.
She must not think of him.
“You deserved a visit to your mother.” Lydia’s voice came out louder than she intended. “Is she well?”
“Indeed, very well, my lady, thank you for asking.” The girl curtsied. “My brothers and sisters are growing so big. Mum expects them to go into service soon. She is making inquiries.”
“I wish I could help them.” Once Lydia might have given Mary’s siblings a recommendation, but now a connection to the scandalous Lady Wexin was best hidden.
“They’ll find work, never you fear,” said Mary, plumping the pillows.
Would Mary be able to smell Adrian upon the linens? Lydia could. She felt her cheeks burn again and turned her face away, pretending to adjust the coverlet.
“Lord knows how you got yourself home and up the stairs,” Mary went on. She peered in the direction of Lydia’s foot, even though it was under the covers. “You even wrapped your ankle.” She looked pensive. “And managed to undress yourself.”
“I wanted to get in bed.” Lydia’s cheeks flamed. How true those words were!
She glanced quickly at Mary, but the girl did not seem to notice any change in her complexion. Lydia would be mortified if even her loyal Mary discovered her great moral lapse.
Mary straightened the bedcovers again and stepped back. “Is there anything else I can do for you, my lady?”
Dixon, her butler, and Cook would be waiting for Mary below stairs where they would share their meal in the kitchen, the other warm room in the house. “You took the purse to Dixon, did you not? Was there enough to pay the household accounts?”
“I gave him the purse, my lady, but I do not know about the household accounts. Shall I ask Mr Dixon to come up to speak to you?”
Lydia shook her head. “I would not trouble him now. Tomorrow will do.” Let her servants enjoy an evening of idleness. Goodness knows the three of them had toiled hard to keep the house in order and to take care of her, doing the work of eight. Lydia missed the footmen, housemaids and kitchen maid she’d had to dismiss. The house was so quiet without them.
Mary curtsied again. “I’ll come back for the tray and to ready you for bed.”
Lydia gazed at the girl, so young and pretty and eager to please. Mary would be valued in any household, yet she’d chosen to remain with Lydia. Tears filled her eyes. She did not know if she could ever pay her, let alone repay her. “Thank you, Mary.”
Mary curtsied again and left the room.
Adrian’s father lingered after Heronvale and Levenhorne took their leave, both hurrying home to dinner with their wives. “What diversion awaits you this evening, son?”
Adrian tilted his chin. “None, unless I accepted an invitation I no longer recall.”
His father looked at him queryingly. “No visits to a gaming hell? Or, better yet, no lusty opera dancer awaiting you after her performance? A young buck like you must have something exciting planned.”
Adrian finished his second glass of port. “Not a thing.”
“You are welcome to dinner, then. Your mother and I dine alone this evening. I am certain she would be pleased to see you.” His father stood. “Come.”
Why not? thought Adrian. A glance around the room revealed no better company with whom to pass the time, and he had a particular dislike of being alone this night.
As they strolled through the streets of Mayfair where all the fashionable people lived, Adrian was mindful that he’d walked nearly this same route before. The Varcourt house, part of his father’s new inheritance, was on Berkeley Square, only a few roads away from Lydia’s townhouse on Hill Street.
And the garden gate he’d carried her through on John Street.
“You are quiet today,” his father remarked.
Adrian glanced over at him, realising he had not uttered a word since they’d left White’s. “Forgive me, Father. I suppose I was woolgathering.”
His father’s brow wrinkled. “It is not like you at all. Are you ill? Or have you got yourself in some scrape or another?”
“Neither.” Adrian smiled. “Not likely I’d tell you if I were in a scrape, though.”
His father laughed. “You have the right of it. Never knew you not to get yourself out of whatever bumble-broth you’d landed in.”
It was perhaps more accurate to say Tanner always managed the disentanglement, but Adrian’s father probably knew that very well.
“What is it, then, my son?” his father persisted.
Adrian certainly did not intend to tell his father about his encounter with Lady Wexin. Likely his father would see it as a conquest about which he could brag to his friends. Adrian was not in the habit of worrying over the secrecy of his affairs, but Lady Wexin’s name had been bandied about so unfairly, he had no wish to add to the gossip about her.
Adrian did wish he could explain to his father the discontent he’d been feeling lately. His father would in all likelihood pooh-pooh it as nonsense, however.
His father seemed to believe there could be no better life than the one Adrian led, spending his days and nights gambling, womanising and sporting. Adrian had lately wished for more than horse races or card games or opera dancers, however. He was tired of having no occupation, no purpose, of feeling it would take his father’s death to bring some utility to his existence.
Adrian’s discontent had begun about a year ago when he’d accompanied Tanner on a tour of his friend’s estates. He’d marvelled at Tanner’s knowledge of his properties and the people who saw to the running of them. Adrian had learned a great deal about farming, raising livestock, and managing a country estate during that trip, more than his father had ever taught him. Adrian’s restlessness had increased recently after learning of Tanner’s sudden marriage. He did not begrudge his friend’s newfound domestic happiness; surprisingly enough, he envied it.
His father came to an abrupt halt. “Good God, this is not about some woman, is it? Do not tell me. I’ll wager it is Lady Denson. The word is she is quite enamoured of you, as well any woman would be.”
An image of Lydia flew into Adrian’s mind, not Viola Denson, who had indeed engaged in a flirtation with Adrian, but one in which he could not sustain an interest.
“Not Lady Denson,” he replied. “Nor any woman, if you must know.”
And it seemed his father always wanted to know about Adrian’s romantic conquests. He told his father as little as possible about them.
If his father were paying attention to more than Adrian’s love life and gambling wins, he’d recall that his son had asked to take over some of the family’s lesser holdings. He’d thought it proper to ease his father’s new burdens of all the Varcourt properties, but the new Earl of Varcourt would have none of it. “Plenty of time for all that,” his father had said. “Enjoy yourself while you can.”
Adrian glanced at his father, a faithful husband, excellent manager, dutiful member of the House of Lords. His father might glorify the delights of his son’s bachelorhood, but, even without those delights in his own life, his father was a contented man.
Unlike Adrian.
Adrian attempted to explain. “I am bored—”
His father laughed. “Bored? A young buck like you? Why, you can do anything you wish. Enjoy life.”
He could do anything, perhaps, but nothing of value, Adrian thought. “The enjoyment is lacking at the moment.”
“Lacking? Impossible.” His father clapped him on the shoulder. “You sound like a man in need of a new mistress.”
Again Adrian thought of Lydia.
“Find yourself a new woman,” his father advised. “That’s the ticket. That Denson woman, if she wants it.”
Typical of his father to think in that manner. His father had inherited young, married young and lived a life of exemplary conduct, but that did not stop him from enjoying the exploits of his son.
“Do not forget,” his father went on, “your friend Tanner’s marriage has deprived you of some companionship, but you’ll soon accustom yourself to going about without him.” His father laughed. “Imagine Tanner in a Scottish marriage. With the Vanishing Viscountess, no less. Just like him to enter into some ramshackle liaison and wind up smelling of roses.”
Indeed. Under the most unlikely of circumstances Tanner had met the perfect woman for him. Why, his wife was even a baroness in her own right, a very proper wife for a marquess.
Adrian’s father launched into a repeat of the whole story of Tanner’s meeting the Vanishing Viscountess, of aiding her flight and of them both thwarting Wexin. Adrian only half-listened.
Adrian glanced at his father. The man was as tall, straight-backed and clear-eyed as he’d been all Adrian’s life. Even his blond hair was only lately fading to white. He did not need Adrian’s help managing the properties or anything else.
Adrian was nearly seven and thirty years. How long would it be before he had any responsibility at all?
“Did you know Wexin’s townhouse is on Hill Street?” he suddenly heard his father say.
“Mmm,” Adrian managed. Of course he knew.
“Strathfield purchased it as a wedding gift. Nice property. There’s been a pack of newspaper folks hanging around the door for days now. I agree with Levenhorne. Those newspaper fellows know a thing or two about Lady Wexin that we do not.”
Adrian bristled. “Tanner says—”
His father scoffed. “Yes. Yes. Tanner says she is innocent, but when you have lived as long as I have, son, you learn that where one sees smoke, there is usually fire.”
There was certainly a fire within Lady Wexin, but not the sort to which his father referred.
They reached Berkeley Square. His father stopped him before the door of the Varcourt house. “When your mother gives the word, you must give up your rooms and take over the old townhouse. She is still dithering about what furniture to move, I believe, so I do not know how long it will take.”
Splendid. Adrian had wanted an estate to manage. He would wind up with a house instead.
* * *
Samuel Reed stood among three other reporters near the entrance of Lady Wexin’s townhouse. His feet pained him, he was hungry, chilled to the bone and tired of this useless vigil. The lady was not going to emerge.
“I say we take turns,” one of the men was saying. “We agree to share any information about who enters the house or where she goes if she ventures out.”
“You talk a good game,” another responded. “But how do we know you would keep your word? You’d be the last fellow to tell what you know.”
The man was wrong. Reed would be the last fellow to tell what he knew. He was determined that The New Observer, the newspaper he and his brother Phillip owned, would have exclusive information about Lady Wexin. He’d not said a word to the others that he’d caught the lady out and about. She’d been walking from the direction of the shops. Why had she gone off alone?
He glanced at the house, but there was nothing to see. Curtains covered the windows. “I’m done for today,” he told the others.
“Don’t expect us to tell you if something happens,” one called to him.
Reed walked down John Street, slowing his pace as he passed the garden entrance. He peered through a crack between the planks of the wooden gate.
To his surprise, the rear door opened, though it was not Lady Wexin who emerged but her maid, shaking out table linen.
Reed’s stomach growled. It appeared that Lady Wexin had enjoyed a dinner. He certainly had not. He watched the maid, a very pretty little thing with dark auburn hair peeking out from beneath her cap. Reed had seen the young woman before, had even followed her the previous day when she’d gone to the market. For the last several days, Reed had seen only this maid and the butler entering and leaving the house. He’d surmised that Lady Wexin had dismissed most of the servants.
He’d been able to locate one of Lady Wexin’s former footmen, but the man refused to confirm whether or not other servants had left her employment. The man had refused to say anything newsworthy about Lady Wexin, but perhaps a maid might have knowledge a footman would not.
He watched her fold the cloth and re-enter the house. A carriage sounded at the end of the street, and he quickly darted into the shadows until the carriage continued past him.
He glanced at the moonlit sky. Time to walk back to the newspaper offices, get some dinner and write his story for the next edition, such as it was.
If only he could identify the gentleman who had come to Lady Wexin’s aid. He could make something of that information. The man was familiar, but he did not know all the gentlemen of the ton by sight. He’d keep his eyes open, though, and hope to discover the man’s identity soon enough.
Chapter Three
The scandalous Lady W— walks about Mayfair without a companion…or was it her intention to rendezvous with a certain gentleman? Beware, fine sir. Recall to what ends a man may be driven when Beauty is the prize…—The New Observer, November 14, 1818
Sheets of relentless rain kept indoors all but the unfortunate few whose livelihood forced them outside. Adrian was not in this category, but he willingly chose to venture forth with the rain dripping from the brim of his hat, the damp soaking its way through his topcoat and water seeping into his boots.
He turned into Hill Street, watchful for the reporters who’d lounged around Lady Wexin’s door the previous day when he’d made it a point to stroll by. As he suspected and dared hope, no one was in sight.
To be certain, he continued past the house to the end of the street and then back again. Not another living creature was about.
Apparently there were some things a newspaper reporter would not do in pursuit of a story, like standing in the pouring rain in near freezing temperatures. Adrian was not so faint of heart. What was a little water dripping from the brim of his hat, soaking his collar and causing his neck to chafe? A mere annoyance when he might see Lydia again.
Still, he wished he might have brought his umbrella.
Adrian strode up to the green door of the Wexin townhouse and sounded the brass lion’s-head knocker.
No one answered.
He sounded the knocker again and pressed his ear against the wooden door. He heard heels click on the hall’s marble floor.
“Open,” he called through the door. “It is Pomroy. Calling upon Lady Wexin.”
“Who?” a man’s muffled voice asked.
“Pomroy,” Adrian responded. He paused. He’d forgotten again. “Lord Cavanley,” he said louder.
He heard the footsteps receding, but pounded with the knocker again, huddling in the narrow doorcase so that only his back suffered the soaking rain. He planned to knock until he gained entry.
Finally, the footsteps returned and the door was opened a crack, a man’s eye visible in it.
“I am Lord Cavanley, calling upon Lady Wexin.” Adrian spoke through the crack.
The eye stared.
“On a matter of business.” Adrian reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly damp card. He handed it through the narrow opening. “Have pity, man. Do you think I wish to stand out in the rain?”
The eye disappeared and, after a moment, the crack widened to reveal Lady Wexin’s butler. The man was of some indeterminate age, anywhere from thirty to fifty. He did not wear livery and possessed the right mix of hauteur and servitude that befitted a butler. Adrian liked the protective look in the man’s eye.
“Be so good as to wait here a moment, m’lord.” The butler bowed and walked away, his heels clicking on each step as he ascended the marble stairs.
Adrian remembered carrying Lydia up those flights of stairs.
His gaze followed the butler, puzzled as to why the man had not taken his coat and hat, but left him standing in the hall like a visiting merchant.
Adrian removed his hat and gloves as puddles formed at his feet on the marble floor. The gilded table still held its vases, and the vases were still empty of flowers.
Finally the butler’s footsteps sounded again as he descended and made his unhurried way back to Adrian. “I will take you to Lady Wexin.”
Adrian handed him his hat and gloves and removed his soaked topcoat carefully so as to lessen both the size of the puddles and the amount of rainwater pouring down the back of his neck. He waited again while the butler disappeared with the sodden items, daring to hope the man might lay them out in front of some fire to dry a bit.
When the butler returned, he led Adrian up the stairs to a first-floor drawing room. Even standing in the doorway, Adrian could feel the room’s chill. There was a fire in the fireplace, but Adrian guessed it must have just been lit.
Lydia’s back was to him. She stood with arms crossed in front of her, facing the window that looked out at the rain.
“Lord Cavanley,” the butler announced.
She turned, and her beautiful sapphire eyes widened. “You!”
The butler stepped between her and Adrian.
She waved a dismissive hand. “It is all right, Dixon. I will see this gentleman.”
Frowning, the butler bowed, tossing Adrian a suspicious glance as he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Adrian was taken aback. “I announced myself to your man.”
She shook her head. “But you are Mr Pomroy.”
He realised the mistake. “Forgive me.” He smiled at her. “You must not know me as Cavanley.”
“I certainly do not!” She stepped forwards and gripped the back of a red velvet chair. Her forehead suddenly furrowed. “Did…did your father pass away? I confess, I did not know—”
He held up his hand. “Nothing like that.” He caught himself staring at her and gave himself a mental shake. “Well, a cousin of his passed away, but he was quite elderly and had been ill for many years. My father inherited the title, Earl of Varcourt, so his lesser title passed to me.” Good God. He was babbling. He took a breath. “How is your ankle?”
Stepping around the chair, she stared at him as if he had just sprouted horns. “It troubles me little.”
“I am glad of it,” he said. His voice sounded stiff.
She walked closer to him and his breath was again stolen by her beauty. Her golden hair sparkled from the fire in the hearth and lamps that he suspected had also been hastily lit. While the rest of the room faded into greyness, like the rainy day, she appeared bathed in a warm glow, as if all the light in the room was as drawn to her as he was. She wore a dress of rich blue, elegantly cut. Its sole adornment was a thick velvet ribbon tied in a bow beneath her breasts. A paisley shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, the blue in its woven print complementing her dress and her eyes.
She cast her gaze down. “Why do you call upon me, sir, when I asked that you not do so?” Her voice was steady, but no louder than a whisper.
Once Adrian might have cheekily proclaimed that he could not resist calling upon her, that her beauty beckoned him, that the memory of their lovemaking could never be erased. Once he would have presented reasons why their affair ought to continue, needed to continue, and that he was there because he could not stay away.
Those sentiments were true, but his decision to call upon her involved another matter. Still, it stung that she looked so wounded and angry. “Did you think it was my father who called upon you?”
“I did,” she admitted.
He stiffened. “You would have allowed my father entry, but not me?”
“I would.”
He shook his head, puzzled. “But why?”
She glanced away. “I thought perhaps your father was on an errand for Lord Levenhorne. He and Levenhorne are friends.” She glanced back at him. “They are friends, are they not?”
“Indeed.” All the ton knew they were friends.
She went on. “Levenhorne is my husband’s heir, and I thought perhaps it truly was a matter of business, as you told Dixon it was.”
Adrian did not miss her accusing tone. He had told the butler that one lie. Although, in a way, it was business.
He took a breath, releasing it slowly before speaking, “I did not mean to deceive you, Lydia. I merely wished to see you.”
Her eyes flashed. “I cannot believe you thought I would welcome this visit.” She snatched a newspaper from a table. “Did you not read this? That reporter connects us.”
He had indeed read The New Observer and every other newspaper that mentioned the notorious Lady W. “The reporter did not name me. I fully comprehend that you do not wish any contact between us to be known. I would not have come but for the rain. I knew the weather would drive the reporters away from your doorstep.”
She gave a mirthless laugh. “Do you think it matters to me that the man did not name you? It is my name that suffers! I am linked to a gentleman. There will be no end to what will be written about me now.” She threw the paper back on the table.
“I merely responded to your need,” he retorted. “I refuse to apologise for it.”
“My need?” Her voice rose.
“Yes,” Adrian shot back. “That man was attacking you. I could not walk by and do nothing.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped. “That need. My need for rescue, you meant.”
He realised that she’d thought he meant the other needs they’d indulged that day.
Their gazes connected and it seemed as if those needs flared between them again, like the hiss of red coals about to burst into flame. He wanted to cross the room, to touch her and re-ignite the passion that was burning inside him, as real as the thumping of his heart, the deep drawing of his breath, the pulsing of blood through his veins.
However, his purpose in calling upon her had not been to indulge in that pleasure again, to enjoy each other as they had done before, although Adrian could see no harm in it. Society rarely censured a widow for such conduct as long as she acted discreetly, and he could be very discreet.
Of course, she was not just any widow. She was society’s latest scandal.
“Lydia.” The sound of her name on his tongue felt as soft and smooth as her ivory skin. “I have no wish to see you harmed in any way. I will keep our association secret.”
She laughed. “Do you think I believe in secrets, Adrian?” She stepped closer. “I have been hurt by secrets. Those kept and those divulged.”
She was so close Adrian’s nostrils scented lilacs. Her eyes, however, were filled with pain and accusation.
He wanted to assure her he was a good sort of man, with a good proposition for her if she would only listen to him.
“My husband kept secrets from me,” she went on, lifting her gaze to his. “What makes you think I can trust anything you say?”
He had no answer.
He forced himself to look directly into her lovely face. “Please know, dear lady, that I speak truly when I say I have no wish to hurt you, no wish to ever hurt you.” He gave her a wan smile. “I told you before that I would act as your friend. I came here as such.”
“A friend.” Her gaze softened.
She stepped forwards and touched his arm. Even through his layers of clothing, the contact seared him with need, a need he knew he must deny. When he looked in her eyes, though, he saw a yearning to match his own.
“Lydia,” he whispered.
Lydia thought she must have gone completely mad. She gazed into his eyes and was content to be caught there, like a leaf caught in a whirlpool that pulled it into its depths.
She ought to send him away now. She ought to forget what she’d done two days before, wantonly bedding him, a man well known for his conquests of women.
He had acted nothing like she’d supposed a rake would act. He had never pushed himself on her, never spoke words of seduction. She had pushed herself on him, in fact. She had been the one who’d spoken words of seduction. And she felt herself about to do so again.
Her hand on his arm trembled against the fabric of his coat, damp from where the rain had soaked through. She had only to move her hand away and let him go.
Instead, she raised her hand to his face and lightly grazed his cheek.
God help her, she was weak. And wanton.
From the moment of seeing him framed in the doorway, her body had craved the return of his touch, the passion of his lovemaking.
She traced her finger from his temple to the perpetually upturned corner of his mouth. He remained still, giving her the power to choose if she wanted more or not. She almost wished he would seize her now, take her by force. Even though his eyes darkened and his breathing accelerated, he still waited for her to choose.
What harm would it do? she thought. What harm to have his arms around her again, to have his practised touch drive away the worries that seemed to double and triple with each passing day? She was lonely. What harm to pass time with him? He knew the same people, attended the same entertainments. She missed being a part of it all more than she would have guessed.
But what she missed most was what a man could give her, what Adrian had given her. If the newspapers only knew what a wanton woman she’d turned out to be, a woman who bedded a man merely because he’d been kind. She shuddered to think what would be written of her if they knew.
She let her hand fall away.
Adrian’s gaze turned puzzled. He did not say a word. He did not move. He would leave if she told him to, she knew.
Or he would stay.
Her choice.
She stepped closer to him, her aching ankle reminding her how he had so gently tended it. What had come after his gentle care now consumed her. His kiss. What his touch had aroused in her.
What harm to feel that delight one more time? What harm?
Lydia slid her hands up his chest until her arms encircled his neck. The hair at the nape tickled her fingers and his collar felt cool and damp. She rose on tiptoe and tilted her face to him, letting him know she’d made her choice.
He groaned with a man’s need and bent forwards, placing his lips on hers, tentatively, as if he still would permit her to change her mind.
She did not want to change her mind. She wanted her body to sing with the pleasure he could create. She wanted to be joined to him, like one. She wanted to not be so terribly alone.
He drew away slightly, then crushed his lips against hers with a man’s command. The effect was exhilarating.
His kiss, familiar but new, deepened. Her lips parted and their tongues touched, the sensation intimate and delighting.
He pressed her to him, and she could feel the evidence of his arousal beneath his clothing. That womanly part of her ached with desire to feel his length inside her again. She wanted him to sweep her away, to make her forget everything but him.
Her heart pounded wildly.
She’d once forgotten everything but Wexin. Wexin’s kisses—chaste compared to Adrian’s—had once made her feel secure in a future of happiness, but Wexin, while kissing her, had the stain of blood on his hands, the murder of a friend.
Lydia pushed hard against Adrian’s chest and backed away. The look he gave her was wild, heated, aroused and confused.
She put a hand to her forehead. “Forgive me.” She dared to glance into his eyes. “Forgive me. I cannot do this. I must not.”
He breathed heavily, and it seemed to her he was fighting to keep calm.
“Lydia.” His voice was so low she seemed to feel it more than hear it. “Why deny this passion between us?”
She stared at him. How could she explain that she could never again allow a man to have that sort of power over her?
“I must deny it.” Her voice sounded mournful and weak. She must never again be weak. She lifted her chin. “Please leave, Adrian. Do not return.” She walked behind the chair again and clutched its back.
“Lydia.” His eyes pleaded.
She held up a hand. “Do not press me, Adrian.” She took a deep breath. “I have enough worries.”
He turned and started to walk away. Lydia did not know which feeling was the greater: relief at his departure, or sorrow.
Before he reached the door, he stopped and turned back. “Before I walk out, tell me something, Lydia.”
She waited.
He looked directly into her eyes. “Do you need money?”
She inhaled sharply. “What makes you think I need money?”
His hand swept the room. “You light fires only for show. You have no flowers. And there is the matter of your servants—”
“I have servants,” she retorted. Well, three servants, but he need not know the number was so small.
Would he tell the creditors and reporters? If word of her true situation escaped, all of England would know the shocking state of her finances. Even Levenhorne and the men at the bank did not know how bad it was, how close they’d come to having nothing to eat.
“I came here to offer you help,” he said. “How much money do you need?”
“I don’t need money.” She felt her cheeks heat. “But if I did, I would not take yours.”
His brows rose. “Why?”
“Why?” She gave a nervous laugh. “Would that not mean I was in your keeping? Do not mistresses accept money from their…patrons?”
His eyes creased at the corners. “I make the offer as a friend, nothing more.”
She glanced away. Truth was, she still needed money for the most pressing debts. It would buy her time until her parents returned and her father could help her. At present, her only hope was that her sister could find a way to help her, to get money to her without her husband’s knowledge. Lydia had sent Mary to pass on a letter through her sister’s maid.
“I do not need your money, Adrian,” she whispered.
“I offer it without obligation.”
He said this so sincerely, she almost believed him, but she’d believed Wexin, a murderer who professed to love her, who bought her trinkets, while spending every penny of her dowry. It made no sense that a near-stranger, a known rake, would offer her money without expecting something in return.
“It is not your place to help me,” she told Adrian. She blinked. “If I needed help, that is.” She squared her shoulders and forced herself to look directly into his eyes. “Please leave now, Adrian.”
For a moment he looked as if he would cross the room to her, but instead, he turned and walked to the door. She twisted away, not wishing to watch him disappear out of her life.
His voice came from behind her. “I am your friend, Lydia. Remember that.”
She spun back around, but he had gone.
Chapter Four
All eyes are on Kew Palace this day where the Queen remains gravely ill, her physicians declaring the state of her health to be one of “great and imminent danger”…—The New Observer, November 15, 1818
Samuel Reed lounged in the wooden chair while his brother, Phillip, the manager and editor of The New Observer, sat behind the desk, his face blocked by the newspaper he held in front of him.
“We must find something more interesting than the Queen’s illness for tomorrow’s paper, else we’ll be reduced to printing handbills and leaflets like Father.”
Their father had been a printer with no ambition, except to see how much gin he could consume every night. It was not until the man died of a drunken fall from the second-storey window of a Cheapside brothel that Samuel and Phillip could realise their much loftier ambitions: to publish a newspaper.
They were determined to make The New Observer the most popular newspaper in London, and Samuel’s stories about Lady Wexin had definitely set it on its way. Each London newspaper had its speciality, and the Reed brothers had deliberately carved out their own unique niche. Not for them political commentary or a commitment to social change. The Reed brothers specialised in society gossip and stories of murder and mayhem, the more outrageous the better.
“Anything interesting in the out-of-town papers?” Samuel asked.
“Not much…” Phillip’s voice trailed off.
Like all the newspapers, they freely stole from others, often passing the stories off as their own. Every day Phillip perused the out-of-town papers looking for the sort of sensational and unusual stories that fitted their requirements.
The New Observer had other reporters besides Samuel to provide shocking or remarkable items from all around London, including the seediest neighbourhoods. Fascination with the most lofty and with the lowest, that was what the Reed brothers banked upon.
Samuel rose and sauntered towards the window. At least the rain had passed. The previous day had been nothing but rain, and, therefore, precious little news.
“Here’s something.” Phillip leaned forwards. “Fellow in Mile End set a spring gun to shoot at intruders. Except his own feet tripped the wire and he shot himself. Died from it.”
“That’s reasonably interesting.”
“Not to the fellow who died.” His brother laughed.
Phillip picked up another paper and read. “The spinners are still rioting in Manchester.” He rolled up the paper and tapped it on the desk. “What news of Lady Wexin?”
Lady Wexin guaranteed profit.
“Nothing from yesterday because of the rain.” Samuel examined the grey sky. “If you send someone else to watch her house today, I will set about discovering the identity of the gentleman who came to her aid.”
Phillip grinned. “The gentleman who rescued her from you, do you mean?”
Samuel returned the smile. “I mean precisely that.”
Samuel had a plan to scour St James’s Street where White’s and Brooks’s were located. Whether this fellow be Tory or Whig, he’d walk down St James’s Street to reach his club.
Phillip crossed his arms over his chest. “Her Majesty the Queen is doing poorly. We need some detail about her illness that the other papers do not know.”
Another priority of the paper was royal news, and the Reed brothers would not make the same mistake as Leigh and John Hunt, who went to prison for printing a mild criticism of the Prince Regent in the Examiner. The New Observer lavished praise on the royals.
“Do not send me to Kew Palace, I beg you.” Samuel was eager to pursue what he considered his story. Lady Wexin.
“I would not dream of it.” His brother waved his hand. “Hurry out there and find your gentleman.”
Samuel soon found himself strolling back and forth on St James’s Street, trying to look as if he had business there. He’d been strolling in the vicinity for at least an hour and was prepared to do so all day long, if necessary, until he laid eyes upon the gentleman who had come to Lady Wexin’s assistance.
Samuel had done a great deal of thinking about why the lady would have ventured out alone that day. When he had first spied her, she’d been walking from the direction of the shops, but it was quite unlikely that a lady would visit the shops in the afternoon. That was the time young bucks lounged on street corners to watch gentlemen with their less-than-ladylike companions saunter by.
It was more likely Lady Wexin had been calling upon someone, but who? Samuel had not known her to make social calls since her husband’s story became known.
Samuel’s scanty exclusive—knowledge that she’d been out and about alone and knowledge that a fine-looking gentleman had come to her aid—still gave him an edge over the other reporters who wasted their time watching her front door. All he needed was the tiniest piece of new information. Samuel was skilled at taking the tiniest bits of scandal and inflating them larger than any hot-air balloon.
Samuel reached the corner of St James’s and Piccadilly, sweeping Piccadilly Street with his gaze.
Carriages and riders crowded the thoroughfare, and the pavement abounded with men in tall beaver hats and caped topcoats. Curses to that Beau Brummell. Gentlemen dressed too much the same these days because of him. Samuel searched for a man taller than average, one who carried himself like a Corinthian.
Such a man appeared in the distance. Samuel shaded his eyes with his hand and watched him for several seconds. He decided to come closer. Samuel crossed Piccadilly and walked towards him, holding on to the brim of his hat so the man would not see his face.
Within a foot of the man, Samuel’s excitement grew. This was the one! His instincts never failed.
Samuel walked past the gentleman and doubled back as soon as he could, quickening his step. If he could follow close behind, perhaps he would hear someone greet the man by name.
To Samuel’s surprise, the gentleman turned into New Bond Street. Samuel almost lost him when several nattily attired young fellows, laughing and shoving each other, blocked his way. His view cleared in time to see the man enter the jewellers Stedman & Vardon.
Jewellers?
Already Samuel had begun spinning stories of why the gentleman should enter a jewellery shop, all of them involving Lady Wexin. He preferred learning the real story. True stories had a way of being more fantastic than anything he could conjure up.
Samuel wandered to the doorway of the shop and peeked in. The gentleman spoke to the shop assistant and suddenly turned around to head back out the door. Samuel ducked aside as the man brushed past him.
Samuel ran inside the shop. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Who was that gentleman?”
The shop assistant looked up. “The gentleman who was just here?”
“Yes. Yes.” Samuel glanced towards the door. He did not want to lose track of the man.
“Lord Cavanley, do you mean?”
“Cavanley!” Samuel’s voice was jubilant. “Thank you, sir.” He rushed out of the shop in time to catch a disappearing glimpse of the gentleman.
Lord Cavanley. Samuel did not know of a Lord Cavanley, but it should be an easy matter to learn about him.
Samuel hurried to catch up. He followed Cavanley to Sackville Street where he entered another jewellery shop. Puzzling. Perhaps Cavanley was searching for the perfect jewel. He did not, however, even glance at the sparkling gems displayed on black velvet beneath glass cases. He merely conversed with the older man with balding pate and spectacles. The jeweller, perhaps? In any event, the man seemed somewhat reluctant to speak to this lord.
Finally the jeweller nodded in seeming resignation and said something that apparently satisfied Cavanley. The men shook hands, the jeweller bowed, and Lord Cavanley strode out the door. Samuel turned quickly and pretended to examine something in the shop window next door.
After Cavanley passed by him, Samuel entered the shop. He smiled at the jeweller. “Good day to you, sir. I saw you with Lord Cavanley a moment ago. Did he make a purchase?”
The jeweller’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
Samuel dug into his pocket and pulled out his card. “I am a reporter for The New Observer. I am certain my readers would relish knowing what lovely object Lord Cavanley purchased.”
The man frowned and the wrinkles in his face deepened. “His lordship purchased nothing, so you may go on your way.”
“He purchased nothing?” Samuel, of course, had already surmised this. “Then what was his purpose here, I wonder?”
The jeweller peered at Samuel from over his spectacles. “Wonder all you wish. I am not about to tell you the business of a patron, am I now?”
Samuel gave the man his most congenial look. “I assure you, kind sir, our readers would relish knowing where a man with such exquisite taste in jewellery would shop. I dare say one mention of your establishment in our newspaper will bring you more customers than you can imagine.”
“Hmph.” The jeweller crossed his arms over his chest. “I am more interested in keeping the customers I have, thank you very much. Telling the world what they buy from me will not win me their loyalty.”
“Sir—”
The man held up a hand. “No. No more talking.” Another customer, more finely dressed than Samuel, entered the shop. “I must attend to this gentleman. Good day now. Run along.”
Dismissed like an errant schoolboy.
Samuel bit down on a scathing retort. He might have need of this jeweller at a later time and he’d best not antagonise him. Back out on the pavement, he scanned the street for Lord Cavanley, but too much time had passed and the man was gone.
Samuel pushed his hat more firmly upon his head and turned in the direction of The New Observer offices. He planned to learn all he could about this Lord Cavanley. He’d start with old issues of their rival newspapers saved for just such a purpose.
Adrian dashed to a line of hackney coaches. “Thomas Coutts and Company on the Strand, if you please.” He climbed in and leaned back against the leather seat.
At that last shop Mr Gray had confirmed what Adrian had suspected. Lydia had sold her jewels.
A lady did not resort to selling her jewels unless she was in desperate need of money. No matter her protestations to him, she was skimping on coal and candles, he was certain of it.
It rankled Adrian that Levenhorne and Wexin’s trustee, a banker of considerable wealth, would allow an earl’s wife to exist in such poverty. If her parents and brother were abroad and her sister forbidden to assist her, to whom could the lady turn for help?
Adrian had no connection to her, nor any obligation. It would certainly be commented upon if he stepped forwards to assist her, but assist her he would. In secret.
He smiled as the hackney coach swayed and bounced over the cobbled streets. At least he’d found something of interest to occupy his time. Solving the puzzle that was Lydia and easing her troubles seemed a better purpose than seating himself at a card table, checking out good horseflesh or, God forbid, entangling himself with Viola Denson. It mattered not one whit to Adrian that no one would know of it, least of all Lydia.
Although a part of him would not mind having Lydia look upon him with sapphire eyes filled with gratitude.
He shook that thought away. The coach passed Charing Cross as it turned into the Strand, and Adrian had a whiff of the Thames. He mulled over his plan until the hack stopped in front of Thomas Coutts and Company, a bank favoured by aristocrats and royalty. Adrian climbed down from the hack and paid its jarvey. He entered the bank.
In the marbled and pillared hall Adrian approached an attendant and identified himself. “I wish to speak with Mr Coutts. He is expecting me, I believe.”
Earlier that morning Adrian had sent a message to Mr Coutts, telling of his intention to call.
The attendant escorted him to a chair and returned shortly to lead him to Mr Coutts’s office.
As Adrian entered the room, the old gentleman rose from his seat behind a polished mahogany desk. “Ah, Lord Cavanley.”
Adrian extended his hand. “Mr Coutts, it is a pleasure. Thank you for seeing me.”
Coutts gestured for Adrian to sit. “Your note indicated that you wished to discuss Lord Wexin’s estate?” The man looked wary.
Adrian smiled. “On behalf of a friend.”
Mr Coutts nodded. “It is a trying affair, but I suspect there is little I might do for you. Allow me to direct you to Wexin’s solicitor, who is tending to the entire matter.”
“I would be grateful.”
“Delighted,” said Mr Coutts. “And how is your father? And the Marquess of Tannerton?”
Adrian responded, accustomed to people asking him about Tanner. In fact, in this situation, he’d counted upon it. Mr Coutts scribbled the direction of Wexin’s solicitor on a sheet of paper and handed it to Adrian.
The solicitor’s office was close by and Adrian quickly found the building and entered. A moment later he had been admitted to the man’s office.
The solicitor was a younger man, near Adrian’s age, but obviously trusted with a great deal more responsibility. His desk was littered with papers that he hurriedly stacked into neat piles at Adrian’s entrance.
“I am Mr Newton, my lord,” he said.
Adrian shook his hand and explained his purpose, stressing it was at the behest of a friend that he inquired about Lady Wexin’s financial affairs.
Adrian’s intention was to imply to Mr Newton that Lydia’s benefactor was Tanner, not Adrian. It was widely known that Tanner was a generous man, the sort of man who would assist Wexin’s widow. No one would suspect the frivolous Adrian Pomroy of such a thing.
“I am certain you understand that my friend—” Adrian emphasised the word friend “—does not wish his name to be known. He fears the lady would refuse his assistance. My friend would say, however, that it is the right thing for him to do for her.”
Because Tanner had been instrumental in exposing Wexin as a murderer, it was not too much of a leap of the imagination to think that Tanner might feel an obligation to assist Wexin’s innocent widow. In fact, Tanner would be very willing to assist Lydia, if he knew she needed help. He was that kind of man.
Mr Newton blinked rapidly. “Of course, sir.”
Adrian nodded. “The mar—my friend, I mean—” he smiled “—sent me in his stead. He is anxious to discover if Lady Wexin has any financial difficulty and, if so, charges me to see it remedied.”
“I do understand.” Newton gestured to a chair and waited for Adrian to sit. “Would you care for tea?”
“No, thank you.” Adrian lowered himself into the chair. “Tell me about Wexin’s finances.”
Newton rubbed his face. “Wexin’s debts, you mean.” He peered atAdrian. “We speak in complete confidence, I presume.”
“Indeed,” Adrian agreed.
“Because even Lord Levenhorne does not know how bad it is.” Newton leaned over the desk. “There is nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Worse than nothing. The townhouse is mortgaged to the hilt. There is only the entailed property, but even that is mortgaged, and it provides nothing to Lady Wexin. There is no money for Lady Wexin’s widow’s portion. I do not know how she is getting on. I have been unable to give her any funds at all.” His hand fluttered. “She assures me she is able to manage, but I do not see how.”
Adrian’s chest constricted. “It is as I—we—feared.” He straightened in his chair. “Tell us what needs to be done.”
Newton pulled out a wooden box, opened the lid, and lifted out a handful of small pieces of paper, letting them flow through his fingers like water. “Gentlemen have sent their vowels.” He picked up a stack of papers. “Shopkeepers have delivered their bills—”
Adrian had no interest in Wexin’s debts. His purpose here was solely for Lydia. “What was the marriage settlement supposed to provide Lady Wexin?”
Newton closed the lid of the box. “In the event of Wexin’s death, she was to receive the amount of her dower and the Mayfair townhouse.”
Adrian could guess the value of the townhouse. “And the value of the dowry?”
“Nine thousand pounds.”
Adrian leaned back and drummed his fingers on the mahogany arms of the chair. He calculated the sums in his head and leaned forwards again. “This is what I will do…” Adrian glanced up at Newton. “On my friend’s behalf, I will assume the mortgage of the townhouse.” Levenhorne said the house had been a gift from Lydia’s father. Adrian would give it back to her. “And I will restore the dowry, but only under the stipulation that creditors are not to seek redress from Lady Wexin. Any debt must be attached to what was Wexin’s.”
Newton’s jaw dropped. “Your friend would pay so much?”
“He can afford the sum.” Adrian smiled inwardly.
It was a staggering amount, but one Adrian was well able to afford. For years he had kept his gambling winnings, and the investments made from them, separate from his quarterly portion. It had been a game he played with himself to see how much he could win and also how much he could afford to lose. His quarterly portion from his father was more than adequate for his other needs.
He’d done quite well at the game, quite well indeed, so well that he could restore Lydia’s widow’s portion, keep her in her London house and still have plenty of gambling money left over.
“My friend wishes the lady to have fifty pounds immediately and to have the townhouse in her name.”
Newton nodded, his eyes still wide with disbelief.
Adrian pointed to the wooden box. “How many unpaid bills pertain to the lady’s belongings or to the contents of the house?”
Newton riffled through the papers again. “I would have to do a careful calculation, but it is not as bad a debt as some of the others. Perhaps as much as two hundred pounds?”
“Those will be paid as well. I want—and my friend wants, as well—that Wexin’s debts do not cause her any more suffering.”
“I understand completely, sir.” Newton’s mouth widened into a smile.
Adrian returned the expression. “Need I add that no hint, no speculation as to the identity of her benefactor must ever be divulged to her? Or my small part in this?”
Newton gave him a level gaze. “It will be kept in complete confidence. I have been successful in keeping the extent of Wexin’s debts from becoming public knowledge, and I certainly can keep Lady Wexin’s affairs private.”
Affairs.
The word sparked the memory of Adrian’s very brief affair with Lydia, an affair she was loath to continue.
He supposed he was mad for bestowing a small fortune on a woman who wanted nothing to do with him. It was not like him to invest time or money in a lady who had no regard for him, but what would happen to Lydia if he did not assist her? He was investing in her happiness, a divergence from indulging in his own.
What’s more, it was his money to do with as he wished. And he wished to do good with it, to feel a scant bit useful in this world. Besides, it gave him a new game to play, to see how long it would take to recoup the amount of money he had invested in Lydia. How many card games and horse races and other wagering would he have to engage in before he earned back the total amount? It was a game.
Nothing more.
Adrian and Newton completed all the arrangements and shook hands. When Adrian walked back to the Strand, the sun was peeking through the clouds. He headed in the direction of waiting hackney coaches, feeling both exhilarated and deflated.
The next morning from the drawing-room window, Lydia watched Mr Newton leave her townhouse. As soon as he stepped onto the pavement, he was accosted by a throng of newspaper men. Mr Newton pushed his way through them, waving a hand and shaking his head.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Mr Newton had not stopped to talk to the newspaper men. She ought to have known. Mr Newton had not breathed a word of how distressed Wexin’s finances had been, and still were. It appeared Mr Newton would also not discuss this reversal of her misfortune, this restoring of her finances.
It was too remarkable to be true. Her widow’s portion was restored and the house was securely hers. She had income and a place to live.
Lydia hugged herself and twirled around for joy. The news was too good to keep to herself a moment longer. She dashed out of the room and hurried down the stairs.
“Dixon!” she cried. “Mary! Oh, get Cook! I have something to tell you!”
Mary leaned over the second-floor banister above her. “What is it? What has happened?”
Lydia called up to her. “Come! I will tell you all.” She flew down the stairs to the hall.
Dixon appeared from the back staircase, trailed by Cook wiping her hands on her apron and looking frightened.
Lydia ran up to the woman and gave her a squeeze. “Do not worry. It is good news.”
“Good news from Mr Newton, my lady?” Dixon looked sceptical. There had, after all, been so much bad news from him.
Lydia clasped her hands together. “Oh, it is so unbelievable. It must have been my sister—”
Who else but her sister? Lydia had no indication that her letters had reached her parents. No one else knew of her distressed finances. No one but—
Adrian.
It was unthinkable that he would pay such sums. Ridiculous, even. Her sister’s husband was extremely wealthy. Her sister must have convinced him to do this in secret.
“Tell us, m’lady,” Mary cried.
Lydia took a breath. “Mr Newton informed me that someone—it must have been my sister—has restored my widow’s portion and has signed the house and its contents over to me! Mr Newton assures me the interest on the six-percents will give us income enough!”
“Oh, my lady!” Mary exclaimed.
“May God be praised.” Cook fell to her knees. “We can buy food!”
Lydia grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Food and coal and whatever we need!” She turned to the butler. “Will you find our servants, Dixon? Hire those who wish to return and pay the others what we owe them?”
Dixon beamed. “It will be my pleasure.”
Still holding Cook’s hands, Lydia swung her around in a circle. “Everything shall be as it was!”
Not precisely as it was, but so much better than she thought her future ever could be when she’d risen from her bed that morning.
Lydia gave Cook another hug. “We must celebrate today! I even have money to spend! Fifty pounds! We must fill the larder and celebrate!”
“I shall make a dinner fit for King George!” Cook cried.
Lydia swept her arm to include all of them. “We must eat together, though. I insist upon it. Just this once.”
“May I suggest, my lady, that I bring up a bottle of champagne from the cellar?” Dixon asked.
“That would be splendid!” Lydia clapped her hands. “Champagne for dinner.”
Dixon lifted a finger. “I meant immediately, my lady.”
“Yes,” cried Lydia. “Mary, find four glasses, and all join me in the morning room.”
Lydia walked into the morning room, the small parlour off the hall, a room where callers were often asked to wait until they could be announced.
A sound sent her spinning towards the windows.
Outside the reporters, all abuzz, were all facing the house, craning their necks over the railings to try to see into the room.
With a cry, Lydia drew the curtains.
Her celebration did not include them.
Chapter Five
The certain gentleman, whom we have now identified as Lord C—, and with whom Lady W— was so recently linked, has lately visited several jewellery shops. Will the notorious beauty soon receive some adornment for her widow’s attire?—The New Observer, November 17, 1818
“Oh!” Lydia threw down the paper and pounded her fist on the table. She picked up the paper again and reread the lines.
Lord C, The New Observer said, Lord C, with whom Lady W was so recently linked…
Lord Cavanley. The reporter had discovered it had been Cavanley who had rescued her.
“Ohhhhh.” She squeezed her fist tighter. What else had the man discovered?
She read the account again. No hint of Lord Cavanley calling upon her in the rain and definitely no hint of the earlier time she’d spent with him. Adrian would not have betrayed her. Or so she hoped.
She looked through the other papers that Dixon had pur chased for her earlier that morning. There was no news of her in either The Morning Post or The Morning Chronicle, only the silly mention of Lord C entering jewellery shops. Likely he was shopping for one of the other women with whom his name was for ever linked.
At least the newspapers said nothing of Mr Newton’s visit.
“What is it, m’lady?” Mary bustled into the bedchamber, carrying one of Lydia’s day dresses. “I heard you cry out. Is it your ankle?”
“No, not my ankle.” Lydia spread her fingers and forced her voice to sound calm.
Mary had brought the newspapers and breakfast to Lydia in her bedchamber. In front of her on the small table were a plate of toast, a cooked egg and a pot of chocolate, the most sumptuous breakfast she’d had in weeks.
Lydia picked up a piece of toast. “I am mentioned in the newspaper again.”
“About the money coming to you?” Mary’s eyes grew wide.
“No, thank goodness.” She bit into her toast.
Mary clucked her tongue. “Mr Dixon told you the doors and the walls were too thick. Those newspaper men could not hear us cheering, I am certain of it, m’lady.”
Lydia swallowed. “So far, it appears you are right.”
Mary pursed her lips. “What did they write about you?”
Lydia cast her eyes down. “My name is linked to a man, who will buy me jewels.”
“They said such things?” Mary cried.
“One paper, that is all.”
The maid’s brows knitted. “But how can they make up such a story? It isn’t right, m’lady.”
Lydia gave her a wan smile. “I agree.” She sighed. “I sometimes think they will never leave me alone.”
Mary’s expression turned sympathetic. She lifted the dress. “I brought the pink.”
Lydia nodded. “That will do very nicely.”
Any dress would do, because Lydia did not intend to go out, nor to have callers. She could wear anything at all, anything but black. Lydia refused to wear black. She refused to mourn for Wexin, refused to even think his given name. He’d been a stranger, really, and one did not formally mourn strangers.
She took another bite of her toast. The jubilation of the previous day was dampened by reading her name in the paper once more.
And the connection to Adrian.
Lydia straightened her spine and took a fortifying sip of chocolate. She would forget all about that episode with Adrian. Soon the newspapers would find someone else with whom to attach her name.
She planned to spend the day perusing the household accounts. Now that she was in control of her money, she intended to spend wisely and never have to worry over money again. First she must learn the cost of ordinary things, such as lamp oil and beeswax and the food for their table. She must learn how to make a budget that included the servants’ salaries, taxes on her menservants and the house, and whatever amounts she would be expected to pay throughout a year. It would be like assembling a puzzle, and she enjoyed assembling puzzles.
“My lady?” Mary laid the dress on the bed. “I thought I would go to the shops this morning to purchase the items you requested.”
Lydia had asked for pins and also silk thread. She planned to embroider new seat covers for the dining-room chairs. She needed something to keep her fingers busy and to fill her time. To keep her from becoming lonely.
Mary turned to her. “Won’t you come? You’ve not been out in ever so long.”
Only a scant few days ago, Lydia thought, but Mary knew that outing had not been for pleasure.
Although Lydia had gained pleasure from it. She glanced at her bed and thought of Adrian.
Lord C in The New Observer.
“Not today, Mary.” She shook her head, more to remove his image than to refuse Mary’s invitation. “I fear I would be followed by the newspaper men.”
Mary walked over to the window and peeked through a gap in the curtains. “They are still out there.”
Lydia had already seen them loitering near her door.
“I suppose you cannot come with me, then,” Mary said.
Lydia smiled at her. “You must purchase something for yourself when you are out. A length of fabric for a new dress, perhaps. Or a pretty hat. I will give you some extra coins.”
Mary curtsied. “Thank you, my lady, but I could not—”
“I insist.” Lydia stood. “Would you help me dress?”
Samuel stood shivering on the corner of the street where he had a clear view of Lady Wexin’s side gate. He had already seen the butler hurry out. Samuel almost followed him, but made a snap decision to remain where he was. He really hoped the maid might come out next.
All the reporters knew that something had made the household jubilant two days previously, but none of them had dis covered what it was. It had been noted that Mr Newton, Wexin’s solicitor, had called and shortly after whoops of joy were heard. Perhaps the widow had come into more money, but coming into money when one was wealthy was not too interesting.
He needed something more.
The hinges of the gate squeaked, and, as Samuel had hoped, the trim figure of the maid appeared.
In Samuel’s experience, maids knew everything that went on in a household and they could often be encouraged to talk about what they knew.
The maid headed towards Berkeley Square. If Samuel hurried, he could catch up with her, but he needed to detour so that neither she nor the other reporters saw him.
He walked to Charles Street and practically ran to Berkeley Square where he caught sight of her just as he’d hoped to do. Keeping a good distance between them, he followed her as she walked to the shops.
It was almost peaceful following her on her errands. Samuel watched her select threads and pins and pieces of lace. She did not hurry at her tasks, but instead examined all the wares at a leisurely pace, as if this excursion was merely for her own pleasure.
Instead of making him impatient, it seemed a treat to watch her. She had a trim little figure, a graceful way of walking, and a sweet way of smiling at the assistants in the shops. Her heart-shaped face was as pale as the finest lady’s, fringed by auburn curls that escaped from her bonnet. Her lips were so pink they might have been tinted, but what intrigued him the most were her huge blue eyes.
She filled a large basket with her purchases, adding bouquets of flowers from the flower vendors until she looked more like a girl who had come from a stroll in a lush garden than a servant about her errands.
When she headed back towards Berkeley Square, Samuel realised he’d not found an opportunity to speak to her, although it somehow had not seemed like time wasted.
When she entered Gunter’s Tea Shop, a confectionary in Berkeley Square, he saw his chance. Samuel hurried into the shop behind her.
“A lemon ice, please,” she said to the shop assistant. “And six of those.” She pointed to marzipan displayed under glass, perfect miniature pears and peaches and apples, confections made from almonds, sugar and egg whites.
He stood behind her, his heart beating a little faster. He could easily see over her head. She was no taller than the level of his chin. She turned and gave him the briefest glance with those big blue eyes. He nodded to her, and she turned away again.
The shop assistant produced the lemon ice and packed the marzipan into a box, tying it with string. The maid handed the shop assistant her coins. When she walked past Samuel he had a whiff of lemon from the lemon ice, but also a hint of lavender.
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Diane Gaston
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesWho is the father of her child? Lady Wexin, once the Ton’s foremost beauty, has been abandoned by her family and friends, and creditors hound her. Her husband’s scandalous death has left her impoverished, and the gossip-mongering press is whipped into a frenzy of speculation when it becomes clear the widow is with child.Who is the father? Only one man knows: Adrian Pomroy, Viscount Cavanley. He has cultivated the reputation of a rake, but in truth yearns for something useful to do. Delicate beauty Lydia Wexin could pose an intriguing – and stimulating – challenge…
‘Do you need money?’
His hand swept the room. ‘You light fi res only for show. You have no flowers. And there is the matter of your servants…’
Would he tell the creditors and reporters? If word of her true situation escaped, all of England would know the shocking state of her fi nances.
‘I don’t need money.’ Lydia felt her cheeks heat. ‘Would that not mean I was in your keeping? Do not mistresses accept money from their…patrons?’
‘I offer it without obligation.’
Adrian said this so sincerely she almost believed him. It made no sense that a near stranger, a known rake, would offer her money without expecting something in return.
For a moment he looked as if he would cross the room to her, but instead he turned and walked to the door. She twisted away, not wishing to watch him disappear out of her life.
His voice came from behind her. ‘I am your friend, Lydia. Remember that.’
She spun back around, but he had gone.
Praise for Diane GastonA TWELFTH NIGHT TALE
‘…pure pleasure…’
—Romantic TimesBOOKreviews
INNOCENCE AND IMPROPRIETY
‘Diane Gaston’s unconventional male and female heroes
give INNOCENCE AND IMPROPRIETY,
her latest elegantly written Regency historical,
a refreshingly different twist.’
—Chicago Tribune
‘If you are weary of aristocratic heroes and heroines
in Regency historical romances, then Diane Gaston’s
INNOCENCE AND IMPROPRIETY is just the book
for you. Well-written and entertaining…
provocative…highly recommended!’
—Romance Readers Connection
A REPUTABLE RAKE
‘…a delightful and thought-provoking look into
a side of London we don’t usually get to see.’
—Romance Junkies
THE WAGERING WIDOW
‘The protagonists are so deeply sculpted into
living-breathing individuals that the reader will immediately
be feeling their emotional turmoil…the entire tone of the
book is steeped in sensuality…reading of the highest order!’
—Historical Romance Writer
THE MYSTERIOUS MISS M
‘Wow… it’s a real emotional roller-coaster ride…
you simply cannot put [it] down—
absolutely mesmerising! …an unusual gritty
Regency packing such an emotional punch.’
—Historical Romance Writer
‘This is a Regency with the gutsiness of a Dickens novel.
It’s not always pretty, but it’s real and passionate. Gaston’s
strong, memorable debut provides new insights into the era
and characters that touch your heart and
draw you emotionally into her powerful story.’
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
As a psychiatric social worker, Diane Gaston spent years helping others create real-life happy endings. Now Diane crafts fictional ones, writing the kind of historical romance she’s always loved to read. The youngest of three daughters of a US Army Colonel, Diane moved frequently during her childhood, even living for a year in Japan. It continues to amaze her that her own son and daughter grew up in one house in Northern Virginia. Diane still lives in that house, with her husband and three very ordinary housecats. SCANDALISING THE TON features characters you will have met in THE VANISHING VISCOUNTESS.
Visit Diane’s website at http://dianegaston.com
Previous novels by the same author:
THE MYSTERIOUS MISS M
THE WAGERING WIDOW A REPUTABLE RAKE
INNOCENCE AND
IMPROPRIETY
A TWELFTH NIGHT TALE
(in A Regency Christmas anthology) THE VANISHING VISCOUNTESS
SCANDALISING THE TON
Diane Gaston
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my sister Judy, my first and forever friend
Chapter One
Once the finest ornament of the beau monde, a beauty so astounding and sublime a man would kill to possess her hand in marriage, the notorious Lady W— mourns her murderous husband in secret. How much knowledge did she possess of her husband’s villainous acts?—The New Observer, November 12, 1818
“Leave me this instant!”
A woman’s voice.
Adrian Pomroy, the new Viscount Cavanley, barely heard her as he rounded the corner into John Street. Not even halfway down the road he saw the woman stride away from a man. The man hurried after her. They were mere silhouettes in the waning light of this November evening and they took no heed of him.
Adrian paused to make sense of this little drama. It was most likely a lovers’ quarrel, and, if so, he’d backtrack to avoid landing in the middle of it.
“One moment.” The man kept his voice down, as if fearing to be overheard. “Please!” He seized her arm.
“Release me!” The woman struggled frantically to pull away.
Lovers’ quarrel or not, Adrian could not allow a woman to be treated so roughly. He sprinted forwards. “Unhand her! What is this?”
The man released the woman so quickly she tripped on her long hooded cloak. Adrian clasped her arm before she fell, holding her until she regained her balance. From the mews nearby a horse whinnied, but otherwise it was quiet.
The man backed away. “This is not as it appears, sir. I intend no harm to the lady.” He raised his hands as if to prove his words.
The lady? Adrian assumed he’d rescued some maid from a stableman’s unwanted advances, but the woman’s cloak was made of fine cloth, and the man was dressed more like a tradesman than a stableman.
Adrian turned to the lady. “Did he harm you, ma’am?”
“No.” The hood of her cloak shrouded her face. “But I do not wish to speak to him.”
The man stepped forwards again. “I merely asked the lady a few questions—”
“I will not answer them,” she cried from beneath her hood.
Adrian had the advantage of size on the man. He straightened his spine to make certain the man knew it. “If the lady does not wish to speak to you, that is the end of it.”
“Let me explain, sir.” The man stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a card. He handed it to Adrian. “I am Samuel Reed from The New Observer.”
Adrian glanced at the card. “You are a newspaper reporter?” He had read the new London paper, quite recently, in fact.
The man nodded. “All England wishes to know Lady Wexin’s reaction to the events surrounding her villainous husband. I am merely requesting the information from her.”
“Lady Wexin?”
Adrian regarded the cloaked figure with new interest. Adrian had just called upon his friend, the Marquess of Tannerton. Tanner had shoved The New Observer article about Lady Wexin under Adrian’s nose not more than half an hour ago.
His friend, Tanner, had recently returned from Scotland with a new wife and news about Lord Wexin that had consumed the newspapers ever since. Truth to tell, Tanner’s marriage had shocked Adrian more than the tale of murder, betrayal and death that involved the Earl of Wexin.
Lady Wexin interrupted Adrian’s thoughts. “Do I take it by your silence that you agree with this man, sir?” She stood with one hand braced against a garden wall. “Do perfect strangers have a right to know my private matters?”
Adrian still could not see her face, but he recalled the ton beauty very well. What gentleman would not? Adrian had never been formally presented to Lady Wexin, but they had occasionally attended the same society gatherings. Years ago Tanner andAdrian had briefly included Wexin among their set, but that had been before Wexin’s marriage.
“You owe this man nothing, my lady.” Adrian gave her a reassuring smile. “He will trouble you no further.”
According to Tanner, Lady Wexin was an innocent party in the perfidy that had so titillated the gossip-lovers. The newspapers had indulged the public’s seemingly insatiable appetite for the scandal by speculating about Lady Wexin’s part in it. Wexin might be dead, but his wife was not.
Lady Wexin let go of the garden wall. “I shall be on my way, then.” She turned, her cloak swirling around her. She took one step, paused, then resumed walking.
Adrian frowned. She was limping.
Mr Reed’s gaze followed her as well. He appeared to be considering whether to pursue her with more questions.
Adrian clapped him on the shoulder. “Best you leave, Mr Reed.”
Mr Reed’s eyes flashed. “This is a public street, sir.”
Adrian smiled, but without friendliness. “Nonetheless, you do not wish to be in my bad graces.” He glanced at Lady Wexin, now fumbling with a key in the lock of a garden gate. “The lady looks as if she’s had enough to deal with today. Leave, sir.”
Reed hesitated, but eventually his gaze slid back to Adrian.
“Leave, Mr Reed.” Adrian repeated, quietly but firmly.
Reed bowed his head and nodded. He cast another look at Lady Wexin before strolling to the corner and disappearing from sight.
Adrian walked quickly over to where Lady Wexin still worked the lock. “Let me assist you.”
She waved him away. “I can manage.”
He gestured to her legs. “You are standing on one foot.”
She averted her face. “My—my ankle pains me a little. I believe I twisted it, but I assure you I can manage.” The lock turned and she opened the gate. When she stepped into the garden she nearly toppled to the ground.
Adrian hurried through the gate and wrapped an arm around her. “You cannot walk.”
The hood of her cloak fell away, fully revealing her face, only inches from his own.
Her skin was as smooth and flawless as the Roman sculpture of Clytie that had once captivated him in the British Museum. Unlike cold white stone, however, Lady Wexin’s cheeks were warm with colour. Her lips, shaped like a perfect bow, were as pink as a dew-kissed rose. Adrian had often appreciated her beauty from across a ballroom, or from a box away at Covent Garden, but, this close, she robbed him of breath.
“Is this your house?” he finally managed.
She edged out of his embrace, but continued to clutch his arm. “Of course it is.”
He smiled. “Forgive me. Yes, it must be.”
She looked over her shoulder. “I must close the gate. Before they see.”
“Before they see?” He followed her glance.
“More newspaper people. They loiter around the house, looking for me.”
Ah, now it made sense why the lady entered her house through the garden gate. It did not explain why she had been out alone. Ladies did not venture out unless accompanied by a companion or a servant.
Adrian closed the gate with his free hand.
“I need to lock it.” She let go of him and tried to step away, again nearly falling.
Adrian reached for her again and helped her to the gate. “I’ll walk you to your door as well.”
“I am so sorry to trouble you.” She turned the key and left it in the lock.
Adrian kept his arm around her as they started for the house. When she put the slightest weight on her ankle, he felt her tense with pain.
“This will not do.” Adrian scooped her up into his arms.
“No, put me down,” she begged. “You must not carry me.”
“Nonsense. Of course I must.” Her face was even closer now and her scent, like spring lilacs, filled his nostrils. She draped her arms around his neck, and he inhaled deeply.
“See? I am too heavy,” she protested.
Too heavy? She felt as if she belonged in his arms.
He smiled at her. “Do not insult my strength, Lady Wexin. You will wound my male vanity.” He made the mistake of staring into her deep blue eyes, now glittering with unspent tears, and his heart wrenched for her. “You must be in great pain,” he murmured.
She held his gaze. “It hurts not at all now.”
He could not look away.
Somewhere on the street a door slammed and Lady Wexin blinked.
Adrian regained his senses and carried her the short distance to the rear door of the townhouse. Voices sounded nearby, riding on the evening breeze.
“The door will be unlocked,” she murmured, her hair brushing his cheek.
He opened the door and brought her inside. To the left he glimpsed the kitchen, though there were no sounds of a cook at work there. He carried her down the passageway and brought her above stairs to the main hall of the house.
It was elegantly appointed with a gilded hall table upon which sat a pair of Chinese vases, devoid of flowers. Matching gilded chairs were upholstered in bright turquoise. The floor was a chequerboard of black-and-white marble, but no footman stood in attendance. In fact, the house was very quiet and a bit chilly.
“Shall I summon one of your servants?” he asked.
“They—they are all out at the moment, but you may put me down. I shall manage from here.”
He looked at her in surprise. “All out?” It was odd for a house to be completely empty of servants.
She averted her gaze. “They have the day off.” She squirmed in his arms. “You may put me down.”
He shook his head. “Your ankle needs tending.” He started up the marble staircase, smiling at her again to ease her discomfort. “By the way, I ought to present myself. I am—”
She interrupted him. “I know who you are.”
Adrian’s smile deepened, flattered that she’d noticed him.
He reached the second floor where he guessed the bedchambers would be. “Direct me to your room.”
“The second door,” she replied. “But, really, you mustn’t—”
It was his turn to interrupt. “Someone must.”
Her bedchamber was adorned with hand-painted wallpaper, bright exotic birds frolicking amidst colourful flowers. A dressing table with a large mirror held sparkling glass bottles, porcelain pots and a brush and comb with polished silver handles. Her bed was neatly made, its white coverlet gleaming and its many pillows plumped with what he guessed was the finest down. The room was chilly, though, as if someone had allowed the fire in the fireplace to go out.
He set her down on the bed, very aware of her hands slipping away from his neck. “I’ll tend the fire.”
“Really, sir. You need not trouble yourself.” Her voice reached a high, nervous pitch.
“It is no trouble.”
He removed his hat, gloves and topcoat and crossed the room to the small fireplace, its mantel of carved marble holding another empty vase. To his surprise, the fire had not died out at all. It was all set to be lit. He found the tinderbox and soon had a flame licking across the lumps of coal.
He returned to her. She had removed her cloak and clutched it in front of her. Adrian took it from her hands and draped it over a nearby chair. It contained something in its pocket. Adrian felt a purse, heavy with coin.
He turned back to her and their eyes met, hers still shimmering with tears.
He touched her arm. “Are you certain you are not in pain? You look near to weeping.”
She averted her gaze. “I’m not in pain.”
He knelt in front of her. “Then let me have a look at that ankle. If it is broken, we will need to summon a surgeon.”
She drew up her leg. “A surgeon!”
“A surgeon would merely set the bone,” he said, puzzled at her alarm.
Her hand fluttered. “I was thinking of the cost.”
“The cost?” Concern over the cost was even more puzzling. Adrian gave her a reassuring smile. “Let us not fret over what is not yet a problem. Let me examine it first.”
She extended her leg again and Adrian untied her half-boot. He slipped off the shoe, made of buttery soft white kid, and held her foot in his hand, enjoying too much its graceful shape.
She flinched.
He glanced up at her. “Am I hurting you?”
“No,” she rasped. “Not hurting.”
He grinned. “Tickling, then. I’ll be more careful.” He forced himself to his task, feeling her ankle, now swollen. His hand slipped up to her calf, but he quickly moved it down to her ankle again, gently moving her foot in all directions.
She gasped.
“Does that hurt?” he asked her.
“A little,” she whispered. “I—I should not be allowing you to do this.”
Indeed. He was enjoying it far too much, and desiring far more.
He cleared his throat. “I believe your ankle is sprained, not broken. I predict you will do nicely in a day or two.” He did not release it. “I should wrap it, though, to give you some support. Do you have bandages, or a strip of cloth?”
Her eyes were half-closed. She blinked and pointed to a chest of drawers. “Look in the bottom drawer.”
Adrian reluctantly let go of her leg and walked over to the chest. The bottom drawer contained neatly folded underclothing made of soft muslin and satiny silk as soft and smooth as her skin.
His thoughts, as if having a will of their own, turned carnal, and he imagined crossing the room and taking her in his arms, tasting her lips, peeling off her clothing, sliding his hands over her skin.
He gave himself an inwards shake. He would not take advantage of this lady. Her peace was disturbed by reporters hounding her for a story, and her whole world had been turned head over ears with news of her husband’s crimes. And his death.
He frowned as he groped through her underclothing, finally coming up with a long thin piece of muslin.
He returned to her and knelt again. “I must remove your stocking.”
She extended her leg.
He slipped his hands up her calf, past her knee, until he found the top of her stocking and the ribbon that held it in place. He untied the ribbon and rolled the stocking down and off her foot. Her skin was smooth and warm and pliant beneath his fingers.
Adrian quickly took the strip of cloth and began to wind it around her ankle.
“Did you study surgery?” she asked, her voice cracking.
He looked up and grinned at her. “I fear it is horses I know, not surgery.”
She laughed, and the sound, like the joyful tinkling of a pianoforte, echoed in his mind.
He tried to force his attention back to the bandage, but she leaned forwards and gave him a good glimpse of her décolletage. “Are you so gentle with horses?”
He glanced back to the bandage and continued wrapping, smoothing the fabric with his other hand.
“What is your name?” Her tone turned low and soft.
He glanced up. “I thought you said you knew me.”
“I do not know your given name,” she said.
“Adrian.” He tied off her bandage and reluctantly released her.
“Adrian.” She extended her hand. “I am Lydia.”
He grasped her hand. “Lydia.”
Lydia’s heart raced at the feel of his large masculine hand enveloping hers. His grip was strong, the sort of grip that assured he was a man who could handle any trial. She now knew better than to make judgements based on such trivialities as a touch, but she could not deny he had been gentle with her. And kind.
It seemed so long since she’d felt kindness from anyone but her servants.
And even longer since she’d felt a man’s touch, since her husband left for Scotland, in fact. It shocked her how affected she was by Adrian Pomroy’s hand on hers. He warmed her all over, making her body pine for what only should exist between a husband and wife.
She took a breath. She’d always loved that part of marriage, the physical part, the part that was supposed to lead to babies…but she could not think of that. It was too painful.
It was almost easier to think of her husband. The Earl of Wexin.
The newspapers wrote that her husband had killed Lord Corland so that Wexin could marry her. Lord Corland’s death had been her fault.
She gripped Adrian’s hand even more tightly, sick that Wexin’s hands had ever touched her, hands that had cut a man’s throat.
She thought she’d loved Wexin. She’d trusted him with everything—the finances, the decisions, everything. But she had not known him at all. He’d betrayed her and left her with nothing but shame and guilt.
Her happiness had been an illusion, something that could not last, like the baby that had been growing inside her the day Wexin left.
The cramping had started the very next day after he’d gone, more than a month ago now, and she’d lost that baby like the two others before.
She swallowed a sob. Now she had nothing.
“Lydia?”
She glanced up into Adrian’s eyes, warm amber, perpetually mirthful, as if his life had been nothing but one long lark.
He smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You are squeezing my hand.”
She released him. “I am sorry.”
He stood and took her hand in his again. “It was not a complaint. You look troubled.” He lifted her hand to his lips, warm soft lips. “You have been through a great deal, I suspect. I will act as your friend, if you will allow me.”
Her senses flared again and her breathing accelerated. “If you knew how I need a friend.”
He smelled wonderful. Like a man. And she felt his strength in his hands, in his steady gaze. She took a deep breath and reached up to touch his hair, thick and brown with a wayward cowlick at the crown that gave him a boyish appeal.
His eyes darkened and the grin disappeared, though his lips formed a natural smile even at rest.
This man pleased women, it was said. He was a rake whose name was always attached to some actress or opera dancer or widow. Well, she was a widow now and her whole body yearned to be touched, to be pleased, to be loved.
She spoke, but it was as if her voice belonged to someone else. “You can do something for me, Adrian. As a friend.”
He smiled again. “You have but to ask.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, and with her heart thundering inside her chest, she brought her lips near to his oh-so-tempting ones. “Make love to me.”
She felt his intake of air and watched his lips move. “Are you certain you want that?” he whispered.
“Very certain,” that voice that only sounded like hers said. Before she could think, she closed the distance between them, tasting his lips gently at first, then more boldly.
He tasted lovely, but this kiss was not enough, not nearly enough. She opened her mouth and allowed his tongue to enter, delicious and decadent. She slid as close to the edge of the bed as she could, as close to him. She pressed herself against him, loving the feel of his firm chest against her softer one.
While his tongue played with hers, she worked the buttons of his coat and waistcoat. He parted from her long enough to shrug out of them. She pulled his shirt over his head and ran her hands over his muscular chest. She’d not known a man’s muscles could really be as sculpted as the statues of antiquity, nor as broad. No wonder women wanted to be his lover.
“Turn around,” he murmured.
She twisted around so he could reach the hooks at the back of her dress. He made short work of them.
She pulled her dress over her head, and he untied the laces of her corset with the practised ease of a lady’s maid. Lydia felt a frisson of excitement at the prospect of coupling with a skilled lover. She had never even kissed a man besides her husband.
Her corset joined the growing pile of clothing on the floor, and Lydia made quick work of removing her shift. She wanted—needed—to feel her skin against his, but he held her at arm’s length and caressed her with his gaze.
Her breathing accelerated. She reached for the buttons of his trousers.
He smiled and his hand rose to stroke her cheek. “I was merely savouring you for a moment.”
He stepped back and pulled off his boots and trousers. Lydia removed her remaining shoe and stocking, taking in his naked body through half-closed eyelids.
He was indeed a magnificent man.
And an aroused one. Her eyes widened. Here must be another reason he pleased women so well.
Lydia extended her hand to him and pulled him towards her, making room for him on her bed, pulling the blankets away as she did so. He joined her and covered her with his body, warming her—she had not realised she’d been so very cold. His hands stroked her with exquisite gentleness, relaxing her in places she’d not known she’d been tense. She stretched, arching her back like a cat. He closed his palms over her breasts and need consumed her.
She grasped his neck and pulled him down to her lips again, wanting him to breathe his strength into her. She longed for him to join himself to her. She longed not to feel so alone. So betrayed. So abandoned.
He broke the kiss and, as if reading her mind, took charge, moving his lips down her neck, tasting her nipples. Then he slid his hand to her feminine place and slipped his fingers inside her.
She had never experienced such a thing. Wexin had never done anything like this with his fingers. The intensity of the pleasure stunned her. Adrian seemed to know precisely where to touch, how to touch, until she was writhing beneath him, moaning in a voice that sounded more primal than her own.
Her climax burst forth inside her, so intense she cried out and clung to him as the waves of pleasure washed over her, and washed over her again.
When it ebbed, confusion came in its wake.
“But what of you, Adrian?”
Her husband always saw to his own pleasure first. She did not know her pleasure could come in such a different way.
He held her face in his hands. “We are not finished, Lydia.”
She took in a ragged breath.
He lay beside her, his head resting on one hand, the fingers of the other hand barely touching her skin, but stroking slowly and gently until she forgot her confusion and became boneless and as pliant as putty. To her surprise, her desire grew again, but less urgent than before.
His lips traced where his hands had been, his tongue sending shafts of need wherever he tasted her. He touched her feminine place again, with such gentleness she thought she might weep out of sheer bliss. It still seemed it was her pleasure, not his, that guided his hand. He made her feel cherished, revered.
“Adrian,” she murmured, awash in this new sensation.
Slowly, very slowly, her desire escalated, until again she writhed with need.
“Now, Lydia,” he whispered into her ear.
He climbed atop her again and stared into her eyes as he slowly slipped his entire length into her, each second driving her mad with wanting. Lydia gasped as he began to move, still slow and rhythmic, like the intricate moves of a dance. She moved with him, but the pace he set kept the ultimate pleasure just out of her reach. He moved with such confidence, she gave herself over to him, trusting he would bring her to where she so very much wanted to go.
His pace quickened and her need grew even greater. The sound of their breathing filled the room, melding together like voices singing a duet.
Her release burst forth and she saw stars brighter than at Brighton. She thrilled when his seed spilled into her. They pressed against each other, moaning with a pleasure that burned away her desolation.
Gradually the pleasure waned, but left in its wake a delicious feeling of satiation.
He slid off of her and lay next to her, breathing hard. “Lydia,” he whispered.
“Mmm,” she murmured, snuggling against him.
She must have fallen asleep, but the knocker sounding on the townhouse door woke her with a start. She heard voices outside.
The newspaper people. Would they never stop hounding her? She sat up, covering herself with the bed linens and realising what she had just done.
She’d begged the dashing Adrian Pomroy, who conquered women more easily than Napoleon had conquered countries, to make love to her. And he had obliged.
“There is no one here to answer your door,” he said.
She groped around for her shift. “I do not want my door answered.” Covering her mouth with her hand, she squeezed her eyes shut. “They must not see you here.” Finally her fingers flexed around the muslin of her shift. She pulled it on over her head and climbed off the bed. “You must get dressed.” Hopping on one foot, she tried to gather his clothes. “Leave here by the rear door.” She twisted his shirt in her hands. “The gate. You cannot lock the gate.” She shook her head and reached for his waistcoat. “Never mind the gate. The servants will be here soon and they will lock it behind them.”
He seized her arm. “Lydia, calm yourself. They will not see me.”
It was not only the reporters or creditors fuelling her alarm. Her own wanton behaviour had shocked her much, much more.
She shoved the shirt and waistcoat into his hands.
He dressed as quickly and efficiently as he had undressed. Buttoning his waistcoat, he said, “I will call upon you tomorrow.”
“No!” she cried. She forced herself to sound rational. “You cannot come here again, Adrian. If you are seen here, there will be more scandal.” She hopped over to the chest of drawers and pulled out a robe of Chinese silk. She wrapped the robe around her. “Please, just go.”
He strode over and enfolded her in his arms, pressing her ear against his beating heart. “Be calm,” he murmured. “Your troubles will vanish soon.”
She wanted to laugh hysterically. Once she had believed that troubles were what other people experienced, but she knew differently now. Now it seemed trouble would follow her to the end of her days.
“I’ll lock your gate and throw the key back into the garden.” He released her, but placed one light kiss on her forehead. “And I will return.”
“You must not return,” she pleaded.
He flashed a smile before walking out of the bedchamber.
She hobbled to a room at the back and peered into the garden, telling herself she just wanted to be certain he left by the rear of the house. She could never allow him to call upon her, but she could gain one last glimpse.
He, no more than a shadow now, appeared in the garden and crossed to the back gate with a long-legged stride. When he reached it he turned back towards the house and lifted his face to the upper windows. With a gasp, Lydia jumped back, although she doubted he could have seen her. Slowly he turned back to the gate, opened it a crack, and peeked out before walking through, out of her sight.
Out of her life.
Chapter Two
What magic allure does the Lady possess, to turn a man to such desperate acts? Who will her next victim be, this Siren, this daughter of Achelous, who sings men to their deaths?—The New Observer, November 12, 1818
Adrian entered White’s gentlemen’s club, his senses still humming, the lovemaking with Lydia still vibrating through him so powerfully he wondered if others could sense it.
He felt strong and masculine and completely devoid of the amorphous discontent with which he’d been lately plagued. It had vanished when he had walked into Lady Wexin’s life. Adrian fought the impulse to turn around and retrace his steps to John Street, to scale the walls of her garden if necessary, to enter her house, and repeat the lovemaking that had stirred his senses to such heights.
The footman stationed at the door of White’s greeted Adrian with undisputed normality, chatting about the weather while assisting Adrian out of his coat. Adrian glanced over to the bow window, but no one sat there. He made his way through the club to the coffee room.
Several men nodded a greeting, and Adrian had to suppress a smile. They had no idea that he’d just left the bed of one of London’s most beautiful, and now most notorious, women. And they would never know of it.
A voice called from across the room, “Cavanley! Over here. Join us.”
Adrian glanced around, expecting to see someone summoning his father, but it was his father who was waving to him from a table in the corner of the room. Adrian rubbed his face in dismay. He, not his father, was Cavanley now.
Since Adrian’s father had inherited the title Earl of Varcourt from a distant and elderly cousin who had very recently passed away, Adrian now had the use, by courtesy, of his father’s lesser title of Viscount Cavanley. Inheriting his father’s titles with all their rights, responsibility, and property would only occur upon his father’s death. At present, he merely gained the privilege of being called Viscount Cavanley. Adjusting to the new appellation was more difficult than he’d anticipated.
The new Earl of Varcourt waved with more vigour, signalling Adrian to join him. His father sat with the Marquess of Heronvale and Heronvale’s brother-in-law, Lord Levenhorne.
Adrian crossed the room and greeted them. “Good evening to you.” He bowed to each in turn. “Lord Heronvale. Lord Levenhorne. Father.”
His father gestured for him to sit. “What are you drinking, son?”
“Port will do,” Adrian responded.
His father clicked his fingers to a nearby footman. “Port for Lord Cavanley,” he cried in a loud voice.
At least his father had no difficulty using his son’s new title.
The new Lord Varcourt turned back to Adrian. “Are you bound for the card room?”
Adrian’s father relished his son’s success at cards, boasting that Adrian’s winnings would eclipse the family fortune one of these days. An exaggeration, of course, although Adrian did often win.
“Not today,” he replied.
His father beamed and turned to Heronvale and Levenhorne. “It is said my son won a bundle off Sedford the other night.”
Adrian drummed his fingers against the white linen tablecloth. “The cards were good to me.”
The loss must have hurt Sedford, Adrian thought with some guilt, but he guessed Sedford would be in the card room again tonight, drinking just as heavily, losing just as swiftly. Sedford would be better off if he spent more time at his wife’s musicales, even if they were deadly affairs.
“They say Sedford played foolishly.” Levenhorne drained his glass and signalled the footman for another drink. “I’m sick to death of reckless card players and the problems they cause others.”
“I’d heard the man enjoyed cards a great deal more than his skill at them ought to have permitted,” Heronvale said.
Adrian glanced from one to the other. “You have lost me. Do you speak of Sedford?”
“Of Wexin,” his father explained. “We were speaking of Wexin before you arrived. Levenhorne stands to inherit his title, you know.”
Levenhorne rolled his eyes. “Of course, I must wait the blasted ten months to see if Wexin’s widow produces an heir. Ten months during which I could be solving problems that are likely to be mine and will only become worse for the wait.”
Adrian straightened in his chair.
The law gave a peer’s widow ten months to give birth to an heir. As next in line to inherit, Levenhorne had no choice but to wait.
Levenhorne gave a dry laugh. “It is fortunate Wexin died, is it not? Things would be in even more of a mess if he’d been hanged for treason.”
Seizure of the title, forfeiture of the property—all would have been possible had Wexin been convicted and hanged. It was complicated, indeed, but Levenhorne could not know how truly complicated. Tanner had confided to Adrian that Wexin shot himself, but Tanner had convinced the Scottish officials to declare Wexin’s death accidental. “To minimise the scandal and ease Lady Wexin’s suffering,” Tanner had explained. It also vastly simplified the settling of Wexin’s estate.
“Ah, the drinks have arrived.” Levenhorne looked towards the footman who approached the table carrying a tray. He grabbed his glass, shaking his head. “Wexin’s debts are staggering. The man owes money all over town.” He took a fortifying drink. “Or I should say, owed money. He was damned reckless in his spending. Or perhaps it was Lady Wexin who spent like an empress. The trustee has clamped down on her, I tell you.”
“Indeed?” Adrian’s interest increased.
Levenhorne shrugged. “Her father will pay her debts, I suspect, although he will be none too pleased when he discovers the townhouse he purchased as a wedding gift is now mortgaged to the hilt.”
Adrian’s father spoke up. “I heard Strathfield was on a tour. His son as well. Headed to Egypt and India.”
Strathfield was Lydia’s father and as wealthy as any man could wish.
“True.” Levenhorne waved a dismissive hand. “Let her depend on her sister, then.” Lydia’s sister had married quite well. “I’ll be damned if I’ll use my own funds.”
Adrian frowned.
Heronvale broke in. “Her sister’s husband has refused any contact, my wife tells me.” He sipped his drink. “In my opinion Lady Wexin deserves our pity, not our castigation. The newspapers are brutal to her.”
Adrian’s father grinned. “Did you see the caricature in the window at Ackermann’s? It shows her and Wexin standing with a clergyman while Wexin hides a long, bloody knife. One had to laugh at it.”
Adrian failed to see the humour. He tapped on his glass. “Tanner told me Lady Wexin knew nothing about Wexin killing Corland. In fact, Tanner told me that Wexin’s motive was to have been kept confidential.”
Tanner had been on the run with the woman fugitive whom Wexin had framed for Viscount Corland’s murder. The newspapers called her the Vanishing Viscountess and, at the time, her name filled the papers like Lydia’s did now. Tanner had married her in Scotland, and she and Tanner were the ones who had exposed Wexin.
“Who divulged that he’d killed Corland before the man could ruin his chance to marry her, I wonder?” Heronvale frowned. “Someone present at the inquest, I suppose.”
Adrian’s father laughed. “Come now. Who could resist? Tanner is a fool to think such delicious gossip can be silenced.”
Heronvale looked at Adrian. “Tanner is certain of her innocence?”
Adrian bristled at the question. “He assures me she had nothing to do with her husband’s crimes.”
Levenhorne lifted his glass to his lips. “I am not so certain. The papers speculate she knew what Wexin was about.”
Adrian gripped the edge of the table, angry at this man’s insistence on believing the worst of Lydia. Had he not heard Adrian say that Tanner had proclaimed her innocence? Did they believe a newspaper over a marquess?
Another worry nagged at him, one that explained the unlit fire and the absence of servants, if not the purse full of coin.
“How severe was Wexin’s debt?” Adrian asked Levenhorne.
Levenhorne leaned back in his chair. “He was in dun territory, both feet in the River Tick. The whole matter of his estate is a shambles. The executor is Lady Wexin’s brother, who is on that bloody tour of Egypt or wherever.” He shook his head in disgust. “Mr Coutts, the banker, you know, is the trustee. He had the audacity to ask me for funds, which I refused, I tell you.”
Adrian glanced away. Poor Lydia! Adrian could not simply walk away from her difficulties without assisting her, could he?
Lydia sat up in the bed where only two hours before she’d made love with a man she barely knew, one of London’s most profligate rakes. She wrapped her arms around herself, remembering the passion of his lovemaking, the delightful pleasures he had given her. His reputation as a lover was deserved, well deserved.
She blushed. Her life was a shambles, a mockery, a laughing stock. She was a widow who could not grieve, a lady who could not pay her debts, a daughter who could not run to her parents. Only God knew where her parents or brother might be. Greece. Egypt. India. She’d written to all the places on their itinerary. Her sister, merely a few streets away, had been forbidden to help her. Forbidden to see her. And what was Lydia doing? Tumbling into bed with the handsome Adrian Pomroy.
Her maid knocked and entered the room, carrying a tray. “Cook said tomorrow we will have soup, but tonight there is but cheese and bread. I’ve brought you wine. We seem to have a lot of wine.”
Her husband had a great fondness for purchasing the very best wine. Perhaps she could sell it. How would one go about selling one’s wine? She must discuss the idea with her butler.
She smiled at her maid. “It is good of you to bring my meal above stairs, Mary.”
When the other servants had left, Mary, one of the housemaids, had begged to stay and act as Lydia’s lady’s maid. The girl took her new duties very seriously.
Mary set the tray upon its legs so that it formed a bed table across Lydia’s lap. “I ought to have been with you, my lady.” The girl frowned. “I told you not to go to the shops alone.”
But Lydia needed to go to the shops. Had she not, they would have had no money at all. She’d taken several pieces of her jewellery to Mr Gray on Sackville Street and he had given her a fair price.
“Do not fret, Mary,” Lydia responded. “I would have twisted my ankle had you been there or not.” That odious newspaperman would not have allowed a mere maid to deter his pursuit, but events would have transpired very differently if Mary had been there when Adrian had come to the rescue.
She must not think of him.
“You deserved a visit to your mother.” Lydia’s voice came out louder than she intended. “Is she well?”
“Indeed, very well, my lady, thank you for asking.” The girl curtsied. “My brothers and sisters are growing so big. Mum expects them to go into service soon. She is making inquiries.”
“I wish I could help them.” Once Lydia might have given Mary’s siblings a recommendation, but now a connection to the scandalous Lady Wexin was best hidden.
“They’ll find work, never you fear,” said Mary, plumping the pillows.
Would Mary be able to smell Adrian upon the linens? Lydia could. She felt her cheeks burn again and turned her face away, pretending to adjust the coverlet.
“Lord knows how you got yourself home and up the stairs,” Mary went on. She peered in the direction of Lydia’s foot, even though it was under the covers. “You even wrapped your ankle.” She looked pensive. “And managed to undress yourself.”
“I wanted to get in bed.” Lydia’s cheeks flamed. How true those words were!
She glanced quickly at Mary, but the girl did not seem to notice any change in her complexion. Lydia would be mortified if even her loyal Mary discovered her great moral lapse.
Mary straightened the bedcovers again and stepped back. “Is there anything else I can do for you, my lady?”
Dixon, her butler, and Cook would be waiting for Mary below stairs where they would share their meal in the kitchen, the other warm room in the house. “You took the purse to Dixon, did you not? Was there enough to pay the household accounts?”
“I gave him the purse, my lady, but I do not know about the household accounts. Shall I ask Mr Dixon to come up to speak to you?”
Lydia shook her head. “I would not trouble him now. Tomorrow will do.” Let her servants enjoy an evening of idleness. Goodness knows the three of them had toiled hard to keep the house in order and to take care of her, doing the work of eight. Lydia missed the footmen, housemaids and kitchen maid she’d had to dismiss. The house was so quiet without them.
Mary curtsied again. “I’ll come back for the tray and to ready you for bed.”
Lydia gazed at the girl, so young and pretty and eager to please. Mary would be valued in any household, yet she’d chosen to remain with Lydia. Tears filled her eyes. She did not know if she could ever pay her, let alone repay her. “Thank you, Mary.”
Mary curtsied again and left the room.
Adrian’s father lingered after Heronvale and Levenhorne took their leave, both hurrying home to dinner with their wives. “What diversion awaits you this evening, son?”
Adrian tilted his chin. “None, unless I accepted an invitation I no longer recall.”
His father looked at him queryingly. “No visits to a gaming hell? Or, better yet, no lusty opera dancer awaiting you after her performance? A young buck like you must have something exciting planned.”
Adrian finished his second glass of port. “Not a thing.”
“You are welcome to dinner, then. Your mother and I dine alone this evening. I am certain she would be pleased to see you.” His father stood. “Come.”
Why not? thought Adrian. A glance around the room revealed no better company with whom to pass the time, and he had a particular dislike of being alone this night.
As they strolled through the streets of Mayfair where all the fashionable people lived, Adrian was mindful that he’d walked nearly this same route before. The Varcourt house, part of his father’s new inheritance, was on Berkeley Square, only a few roads away from Lydia’s townhouse on Hill Street.
And the garden gate he’d carried her through on John Street.
“You are quiet today,” his father remarked.
Adrian glanced over at him, realising he had not uttered a word since they’d left White’s. “Forgive me, Father. I suppose I was woolgathering.”
His father’s brow wrinkled. “It is not like you at all. Are you ill? Or have you got yourself in some scrape or another?”
“Neither.” Adrian smiled. “Not likely I’d tell you if I were in a scrape, though.”
His father laughed. “You have the right of it. Never knew you not to get yourself out of whatever bumble-broth you’d landed in.”
It was perhaps more accurate to say Tanner always managed the disentanglement, but Adrian’s father probably knew that very well.
“What is it, then, my son?” his father persisted.
Adrian certainly did not intend to tell his father about his encounter with Lady Wexin. Likely his father would see it as a conquest about which he could brag to his friends. Adrian was not in the habit of worrying over the secrecy of his affairs, but Lady Wexin’s name had been bandied about so unfairly, he had no wish to add to the gossip about her.
Adrian did wish he could explain to his father the discontent he’d been feeling lately. His father would in all likelihood pooh-pooh it as nonsense, however.
His father seemed to believe there could be no better life than the one Adrian led, spending his days and nights gambling, womanising and sporting. Adrian had lately wished for more than horse races or card games or opera dancers, however. He was tired of having no occupation, no purpose, of feeling it would take his father’s death to bring some utility to his existence.
Adrian’s discontent had begun about a year ago when he’d accompanied Tanner on a tour of his friend’s estates. He’d marvelled at Tanner’s knowledge of his properties and the people who saw to the running of them. Adrian had learned a great deal about farming, raising livestock, and managing a country estate during that trip, more than his father had ever taught him. Adrian’s restlessness had increased recently after learning of Tanner’s sudden marriage. He did not begrudge his friend’s newfound domestic happiness; surprisingly enough, he envied it.
His father came to an abrupt halt. “Good God, this is not about some woman, is it? Do not tell me. I’ll wager it is Lady Denson. The word is she is quite enamoured of you, as well any woman would be.”
An image of Lydia flew into Adrian’s mind, not Viola Denson, who had indeed engaged in a flirtation with Adrian, but one in which he could not sustain an interest.
“Not Lady Denson,” he replied. “Nor any woman, if you must know.”
And it seemed his father always wanted to know about Adrian’s romantic conquests. He told his father as little as possible about them.
If his father were paying attention to more than Adrian’s love life and gambling wins, he’d recall that his son had asked to take over some of the family’s lesser holdings. He’d thought it proper to ease his father’s new burdens of all the Varcourt properties, but the new Earl of Varcourt would have none of it. “Plenty of time for all that,” his father had said. “Enjoy yourself while you can.”
Adrian glanced at his father, a faithful husband, excellent manager, dutiful member of the House of Lords. His father might glorify the delights of his son’s bachelorhood, but, even without those delights in his own life, his father was a contented man.
Unlike Adrian.
Adrian attempted to explain. “I am bored—”
His father laughed. “Bored? A young buck like you? Why, you can do anything you wish. Enjoy life.”
He could do anything, perhaps, but nothing of value, Adrian thought. “The enjoyment is lacking at the moment.”
“Lacking? Impossible.” His father clapped him on the shoulder. “You sound like a man in need of a new mistress.”
Again Adrian thought of Lydia.
“Find yourself a new woman,” his father advised. “That’s the ticket. That Denson woman, if she wants it.”
Typical of his father to think in that manner. His father had inherited young, married young and lived a life of exemplary conduct, but that did not stop him from enjoying the exploits of his son.
“Do not forget,” his father went on, “your friend Tanner’s marriage has deprived you of some companionship, but you’ll soon accustom yourself to going about without him.” His father laughed. “Imagine Tanner in a Scottish marriage. With the Vanishing Viscountess, no less. Just like him to enter into some ramshackle liaison and wind up smelling of roses.”
Indeed. Under the most unlikely of circumstances Tanner had met the perfect woman for him. Why, his wife was even a baroness in her own right, a very proper wife for a marquess.
Adrian’s father launched into a repeat of the whole story of Tanner’s meeting the Vanishing Viscountess, of aiding her flight and of them both thwarting Wexin. Adrian only half-listened.
Adrian glanced at his father. The man was as tall, straight-backed and clear-eyed as he’d been all Adrian’s life. Even his blond hair was only lately fading to white. He did not need Adrian’s help managing the properties or anything else.
Adrian was nearly seven and thirty years. How long would it be before he had any responsibility at all?
“Did you know Wexin’s townhouse is on Hill Street?” he suddenly heard his father say.
“Mmm,” Adrian managed. Of course he knew.
“Strathfield purchased it as a wedding gift. Nice property. There’s been a pack of newspaper folks hanging around the door for days now. I agree with Levenhorne. Those newspaper fellows know a thing or two about Lady Wexin that we do not.”
Adrian bristled. “Tanner says—”
His father scoffed. “Yes. Yes. Tanner says she is innocent, but when you have lived as long as I have, son, you learn that where one sees smoke, there is usually fire.”
There was certainly a fire within Lady Wexin, but not the sort to which his father referred.
They reached Berkeley Square. His father stopped him before the door of the Varcourt house. “When your mother gives the word, you must give up your rooms and take over the old townhouse. She is still dithering about what furniture to move, I believe, so I do not know how long it will take.”
Splendid. Adrian had wanted an estate to manage. He would wind up with a house instead.
* * *
Samuel Reed stood among three other reporters near the entrance of Lady Wexin’s townhouse. His feet pained him, he was hungry, chilled to the bone and tired of this useless vigil. The lady was not going to emerge.
“I say we take turns,” one of the men was saying. “We agree to share any information about who enters the house or where she goes if she ventures out.”
“You talk a good game,” another responded. “But how do we know you would keep your word? You’d be the last fellow to tell what you know.”
The man was wrong. Reed would be the last fellow to tell what he knew. He was determined that The New Observer, the newspaper he and his brother Phillip owned, would have exclusive information about Lady Wexin. He’d not said a word to the others that he’d caught the lady out and about. She’d been walking from the direction of the shops. Why had she gone off alone?
He glanced at the house, but there was nothing to see. Curtains covered the windows. “I’m done for today,” he told the others.
“Don’t expect us to tell you if something happens,” one called to him.
Reed walked down John Street, slowing his pace as he passed the garden entrance. He peered through a crack between the planks of the wooden gate.
To his surprise, the rear door opened, though it was not Lady Wexin who emerged but her maid, shaking out table linen.
Reed’s stomach growled. It appeared that Lady Wexin had enjoyed a dinner. He certainly had not. He watched the maid, a very pretty little thing with dark auburn hair peeking out from beneath her cap. Reed had seen the young woman before, had even followed her the previous day when she’d gone to the market. For the last several days, Reed had seen only this maid and the butler entering and leaving the house. He’d surmised that Lady Wexin had dismissed most of the servants.
He’d been able to locate one of Lady Wexin’s former footmen, but the man refused to confirm whether or not other servants had left her employment. The man had refused to say anything newsworthy about Lady Wexin, but perhaps a maid might have knowledge a footman would not.
He watched her fold the cloth and re-enter the house. A carriage sounded at the end of the street, and he quickly darted into the shadows until the carriage continued past him.
He glanced at the moonlit sky. Time to walk back to the newspaper offices, get some dinner and write his story for the next edition, such as it was.
If only he could identify the gentleman who had come to Lady Wexin’s aid. He could make something of that information. The man was familiar, but he did not know all the gentlemen of the ton by sight. He’d keep his eyes open, though, and hope to discover the man’s identity soon enough.
Chapter Three
The scandalous Lady W— walks about Mayfair without a companion…or was it her intention to rendezvous with a certain gentleman? Beware, fine sir. Recall to what ends a man may be driven when Beauty is the prize…—The New Observer, November 14, 1818
Sheets of relentless rain kept indoors all but the unfortunate few whose livelihood forced them outside. Adrian was not in this category, but he willingly chose to venture forth with the rain dripping from the brim of his hat, the damp soaking its way through his topcoat and water seeping into his boots.
He turned into Hill Street, watchful for the reporters who’d lounged around Lady Wexin’s door the previous day when he’d made it a point to stroll by. As he suspected and dared hope, no one was in sight.
To be certain, he continued past the house to the end of the street and then back again. Not another living creature was about.
Apparently there were some things a newspaper reporter would not do in pursuit of a story, like standing in the pouring rain in near freezing temperatures. Adrian was not so faint of heart. What was a little water dripping from the brim of his hat, soaking his collar and causing his neck to chafe? A mere annoyance when he might see Lydia again.
Still, he wished he might have brought his umbrella.
Adrian strode up to the green door of the Wexin townhouse and sounded the brass lion’s-head knocker.
No one answered.
He sounded the knocker again and pressed his ear against the wooden door. He heard heels click on the hall’s marble floor.
“Open,” he called through the door. “It is Pomroy. Calling upon Lady Wexin.”
“Who?” a man’s muffled voice asked.
“Pomroy,” Adrian responded. He paused. He’d forgotten again. “Lord Cavanley,” he said louder.
He heard the footsteps receding, but pounded with the knocker again, huddling in the narrow doorcase so that only his back suffered the soaking rain. He planned to knock until he gained entry.
Finally, the footsteps returned and the door was opened a crack, a man’s eye visible in it.
“I am Lord Cavanley, calling upon Lady Wexin.” Adrian spoke through the crack.
The eye stared.
“On a matter of business.” Adrian reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly damp card. He handed it through the narrow opening. “Have pity, man. Do you think I wish to stand out in the rain?”
The eye disappeared and, after a moment, the crack widened to reveal Lady Wexin’s butler. The man was of some indeterminate age, anywhere from thirty to fifty. He did not wear livery and possessed the right mix of hauteur and servitude that befitted a butler. Adrian liked the protective look in the man’s eye.
“Be so good as to wait here a moment, m’lord.” The butler bowed and walked away, his heels clicking on each step as he ascended the marble stairs.
Adrian remembered carrying Lydia up those flights of stairs.
His gaze followed the butler, puzzled as to why the man had not taken his coat and hat, but left him standing in the hall like a visiting merchant.
Adrian removed his hat and gloves as puddles formed at his feet on the marble floor. The gilded table still held its vases, and the vases were still empty of flowers.
Finally the butler’s footsteps sounded again as he descended and made his unhurried way back to Adrian. “I will take you to Lady Wexin.”
Adrian handed him his hat and gloves and removed his soaked topcoat carefully so as to lessen both the size of the puddles and the amount of rainwater pouring down the back of his neck. He waited again while the butler disappeared with the sodden items, daring to hope the man might lay them out in front of some fire to dry a bit.
When the butler returned, he led Adrian up the stairs to a first-floor drawing room. Even standing in the doorway, Adrian could feel the room’s chill. There was a fire in the fireplace, but Adrian guessed it must have just been lit.
Lydia’s back was to him. She stood with arms crossed in front of her, facing the window that looked out at the rain.
“Lord Cavanley,” the butler announced.
She turned, and her beautiful sapphire eyes widened. “You!”
The butler stepped between her and Adrian.
She waved a dismissive hand. “It is all right, Dixon. I will see this gentleman.”
Frowning, the butler bowed, tossing Adrian a suspicious glance as he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Adrian was taken aback. “I announced myself to your man.”
She shook her head. “But you are Mr Pomroy.”
He realised the mistake. “Forgive me.” He smiled at her. “You must not know me as Cavanley.”
“I certainly do not!” She stepped forwards and gripped the back of a red velvet chair. Her forehead suddenly furrowed. “Did…did your father pass away? I confess, I did not know—”
He held up his hand. “Nothing like that.” He caught himself staring at her and gave himself a mental shake. “Well, a cousin of his passed away, but he was quite elderly and had been ill for many years. My father inherited the title, Earl of Varcourt, so his lesser title passed to me.” Good God. He was babbling. He took a breath. “How is your ankle?”
Stepping around the chair, she stared at him as if he had just sprouted horns. “It troubles me little.”
“I am glad of it,” he said. His voice sounded stiff.
She walked closer to him and his breath was again stolen by her beauty. Her golden hair sparkled from the fire in the hearth and lamps that he suspected had also been hastily lit. While the rest of the room faded into greyness, like the rainy day, she appeared bathed in a warm glow, as if all the light in the room was as drawn to her as he was. She wore a dress of rich blue, elegantly cut. Its sole adornment was a thick velvet ribbon tied in a bow beneath her breasts. A paisley shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, the blue in its woven print complementing her dress and her eyes.
She cast her gaze down. “Why do you call upon me, sir, when I asked that you not do so?” Her voice was steady, but no louder than a whisper.
Once Adrian might have cheekily proclaimed that he could not resist calling upon her, that her beauty beckoned him, that the memory of their lovemaking could never be erased. Once he would have presented reasons why their affair ought to continue, needed to continue, and that he was there because he could not stay away.
Those sentiments were true, but his decision to call upon her involved another matter. Still, it stung that she looked so wounded and angry. “Did you think it was my father who called upon you?”
“I did,” she admitted.
He stiffened. “You would have allowed my father entry, but not me?”
“I would.”
He shook his head, puzzled. “But why?”
She glanced away. “I thought perhaps your father was on an errand for Lord Levenhorne. He and Levenhorne are friends.” She glanced back at him. “They are friends, are they not?”
“Indeed.” All the ton knew they were friends.
She went on. “Levenhorne is my husband’s heir, and I thought perhaps it truly was a matter of business, as you told Dixon it was.”
Adrian did not miss her accusing tone. He had told the butler that one lie. Although, in a way, it was business.
He took a breath, releasing it slowly before speaking, “I did not mean to deceive you, Lydia. I merely wished to see you.”
Her eyes flashed. “I cannot believe you thought I would welcome this visit.” She snatched a newspaper from a table. “Did you not read this? That reporter connects us.”
He had indeed read The New Observer and every other newspaper that mentioned the notorious Lady W. “The reporter did not name me. I fully comprehend that you do not wish any contact between us to be known. I would not have come but for the rain. I knew the weather would drive the reporters away from your doorstep.”
She gave a mirthless laugh. “Do you think it matters to me that the man did not name you? It is my name that suffers! I am linked to a gentleman. There will be no end to what will be written about me now.” She threw the paper back on the table.
“I merely responded to your need,” he retorted. “I refuse to apologise for it.”
“My need?” Her voice rose.
“Yes,” Adrian shot back. “That man was attacking you. I could not walk by and do nothing.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped. “That need. My need for rescue, you meant.”
He realised that she’d thought he meant the other needs they’d indulged that day.
Their gazes connected and it seemed as if those needs flared between them again, like the hiss of red coals about to burst into flame. He wanted to cross the room, to touch her and re-ignite the passion that was burning inside him, as real as the thumping of his heart, the deep drawing of his breath, the pulsing of blood through his veins.
However, his purpose in calling upon her had not been to indulge in that pleasure again, to enjoy each other as they had done before, although Adrian could see no harm in it. Society rarely censured a widow for such conduct as long as she acted discreetly, and he could be very discreet.
Of course, she was not just any widow. She was society’s latest scandal.
“Lydia.” The sound of her name on his tongue felt as soft and smooth as her ivory skin. “I have no wish to see you harmed in any way. I will keep our association secret.”
She laughed. “Do you think I believe in secrets, Adrian?” She stepped closer. “I have been hurt by secrets. Those kept and those divulged.”
She was so close Adrian’s nostrils scented lilacs. Her eyes, however, were filled with pain and accusation.
He wanted to assure her he was a good sort of man, with a good proposition for her if she would only listen to him.
“My husband kept secrets from me,” she went on, lifting her gaze to his. “What makes you think I can trust anything you say?”
He had no answer.
He forced himself to look directly into her lovely face. “Please know, dear lady, that I speak truly when I say I have no wish to hurt you, no wish to ever hurt you.” He gave her a wan smile. “I told you before that I would act as your friend. I came here as such.”
“A friend.” Her gaze softened.
She stepped forwards and touched his arm. Even through his layers of clothing, the contact seared him with need, a need he knew he must deny. When he looked in her eyes, though, he saw a yearning to match his own.
“Lydia,” he whispered.
Lydia thought she must have gone completely mad. She gazed into his eyes and was content to be caught there, like a leaf caught in a whirlpool that pulled it into its depths.
She ought to send him away now. She ought to forget what she’d done two days before, wantonly bedding him, a man well known for his conquests of women.
He had acted nothing like she’d supposed a rake would act. He had never pushed himself on her, never spoke words of seduction. She had pushed herself on him, in fact. She had been the one who’d spoken words of seduction. And she felt herself about to do so again.
Her hand on his arm trembled against the fabric of his coat, damp from where the rain had soaked through. She had only to move her hand away and let him go.
Instead, she raised her hand to his face and lightly grazed his cheek.
God help her, she was weak. And wanton.
From the moment of seeing him framed in the doorway, her body had craved the return of his touch, the passion of his lovemaking.
She traced her finger from his temple to the perpetually upturned corner of his mouth. He remained still, giving her the power to choose if she wanted more or not. She almost wished he would seize her now, take her by force. Even though his eyes darkened and his breathing accelerated, he still waited for her to choose.
What harm would it do? she thought. What harm to have his arms around her again, to have his practised touch drive away the worries that seemed to double and triple with each passing day? She was lonely. What harm to pass time with him? He knew the same people, attended the same entertainments. She missed being a part of it all more than she would have guessed.
But what she missed most was what a man could give her, what Adrian had given her. If the newspapers only knew what a wanton woman she’d turned out to be, a woman who bedded a man merely because he’d been kind. She shuddered to think what would be written of her if they knew.
She let her hand fall away.
Adrian’s gaze turned puzzled. He did not say a word. He did not move. He would leave if she told him to, she knew.
Or he would stay.
Her choice.
She stepped closer to him, her aching ankle reminding her how he had so gently tended it. What had come after his gentle care now consumed her. His kiss. What his touch had aroused in her.
What harm to feel that delight one more time? What harm?
Lydia slid her hands up his chest until her arms encircled his neck. The hair at the nape tickled her fingers and his collar felt cool and damp. She rose on tiptoe and tilted her face to him, letting him know she’d made her choice.
He groaned with a man’s need and bent forwards, placing his lips on hers, tentatively, as if he still would permit her to change her mind.
She did not want to change her mind. She wanted her body to sing with the pleasure he could create. She wanted to be joined to him, like one. She wanted to not be so terribly alone.
He drew away slightly, then crushed his lips against hers with a man’s command. The effect was exhilarating.
His kiss, familiar but new, deepened. Her lips parted and their tongues touched, the sensation intimate and delighting.
He pressed her to him, and she could feel the evidence of his arousal beneath his clothing. That womanly part of her ached with desire to feel his length inside her again. She wanted him to sweep her away, to make her forget everything but him.
Her heart pounded wildly.
She’d once forgotten everything but Wexin. Wexin’s kisses—chaste compared to Adrian’s—had once made her feel secure in a future of happiness, but Wexin, while kissing her, had the stain of blood on his hands, the murder of a friend.
Lydia pushed hard against Adrian’s chest and backed away. The look he gave her was wild, heated, aroused and confused.
She put a hand to her forehead. “Forgive me.” She dared to glance into his eyes. “Forgive me. I cannot do this. I must not.”
He breathed heavily, and it seemed to her he was fighting to keep calm.
“Lydia.” His voice was so low she seemed to feel it more than hear it. “Why deny this passion between us?”
She stared at him. How could she explain that she could never again allow a man to have that sort of power over her?
“I must deny it.” Her voice sounded mournful and weak. She must never again be weak. She lifted her chin. “Please leave, Adrian. Do not return.” She walked behind the chair again and clutched its back.
“Lydia.” His eyes pleaded.
She held up a hand. “Do not press me, Adrian.” She took a deep breath. “I have enough worries.”
He turned and started to walk away. Lydia did not know which feeling was the greater: relief at his departure, or sorrow.
Before he reached the door, he stopped and turned back. “Before I walk out, tell me something, Lydia.”
She waited.
He looked directly into her eyes. “Do you need money?”
She inhaled sharply. “What makes you think I need money?”
His hand swept the room. “You light fires only for show. You have no flowers. And there is the matter of your servants—”
“I have servants,” she retorted. Well, three servants, but he need not know the number was so small.
Would he tell the creditors and reporters? If word of her true situation escaped, all of England would know the shocking state of her finances. Even Levenhorne and the men at the bank did not know how bad it was, how close they’d come to having nothing to eat.
“I came here to offer you help,” he said. “How much money do you need?”
“I don’t need money.” She felt her cheeks heat. “But if I did, I would not take yours.”
His brows rose. “Why?”
“Why?” She gave a nervous laugh. “Would that not mean I was in your keeping? Do not mistresses accept money from their…patrons?”
His eyes creased at the corners. “I make the offer as a friend, nothing more.”
She glanced away. Truth was, she still needed money for the most pressing debts. It would buy her time until her parents returned and her father could help her. At present, her only hope was that her sister could find a way to help her, to get money to her without her husband’s knowledge. Lydia had sent Mary to pass on a letter through her sister’s maid.
“I do not need your money, Adrian,” she whispered.
“I offer it without obligation.”
He said this so sincerely, she almost believed him, but she’d believed Wexin, a murderer who professed to love her, who bought her trinkets, while spending every penny of her dowry. It made no sense that a near-stranger, a known rake, would offer her money without expecting something in return.
“It is not your place to help me,” she told Adrian. She blinked. “If I needed help, that is.” She squared her shoulders and forced herself to look directly into his eyes. “Please leave now, Adrian.”
For a moment he looked as if he would cross the room to her, but instead, he turned and walked to the door. She twisted away, not wishing to watch him disappear out of her life.
His voice came from behind her. “I am your friend, Lydia. Remember that.”
She spun back around, but he had gone.
Chapter Four
All eyes are on Kew Palace this day where the Queen remains gravely ill, her physicians declaring the state of her health to be one of “great and imminent danger”…—The New Observer, November 15, 1818
Samuel Reed lounged in the wooden chair while his brother, Phillip, the manager and editor of The New Observer, sat behind the desk, his face blocked by the newspaper he held in front of him.
“We must find something more interesting than the Queen’s illness for tomorrow’s paper, else we’ll be reduced to printing handbills and leaflets like Father.”
Their father had been a printer with no ambition, except to see how much gin he could consume every night. It was not until the man died of a drunken fall from the second-storey window of a Cheapside brothel that Samuel and Phillip could realise their much loftier ambitions: to publish a newspaper.
They were determined to make The New Observer the most popular newspaper in London, and Samuel’s stories about Lady Wexin had definitely set it on its way. Each London newspaper had its speciality, and the Reed brothers had deliberately carved out their own unique niche. Not for them political commentary or a commitment to social change. The Reed brothers specialised in society gossip and stories of murder and mayhem, the more outrageous the better.
“Anything interesting in the out-of-town papers?” Samuel asked.
“Not much…” Phillip’s voice trailed off.
Like all the newspapers, they freely stole from others, often passing the stories off as their own. Every day Phillip perused the out-of-town papers looking for the sort of sensational and unusual stories that fitted their requirements.
The New Observer had other reporters besides Samuel to provide shocking or remarkable items from all around London, including the seediest neighbourhoods. Fascination with the most lofty and with the lowest, that was what the Reed brothers banked upon.
Samuel rose and sauntered towards the window. At least the rain had passed. The previous day had been nothing but rain, and, therefore, precious little news.
“Here’s something.” Phillip leaned forwards. “Fellow in Mile End set a spring gun to shoot at intruders. Except his own feet tripped the wire and he shot himself. Died from it.”
“That’s reasonably interesting.”
“Not to the fellow who died.” His brother laughed.
Phillip picked up another paper and read. “The spinners are still rioting in Manchester.” He rolled up the paper and tapped it on the desk. “What news of Lady Wexin?”
Lady Wexin guaranteed profit.
“Nothing from yesterday because of the rain.” Samuel examined the grey sky. “If you send someone else to watch her house today, I will set about discovering the identity of the gentleman who came to her aid.”
Phillip grinned. “The gentleman who rescued her from you, do you mean?”
Samuel returned the smile. “I mean precisely that.”
Samuel had a plan to scour St James’s Street where White’s and Brooks’s were located. Whether this fellow be Tory or Whig, he’d walk down St James’s Street to reach his club.
Phillip crossed his arms over his chest. “Her Majesty the Queen is doing poorly. We need some detail about her illness that the other papers do not know.”
Another priority of the paper was royal news, and the Reed brothers would not make the same mistake as Leigh and John Hunt, who went to prison for printing a mild criticism of the Prince Regent in the Examiner. The New Observer lavished praise on the royals.
“Do not send me to Kew Palace, I beg you.” Samuel was eager to pursue what he considered his story. Lady Wexin.
“I would not dream of it.” His brother waved his hand. “Hurry out there and find your gentleman.”
Samuel soon found himself strolling back and forth on St James’s Street, trying to look as if he had business there. He’d been strolling in the vicinity for at least an hour and was prepared to do so all day long, if necessary, until he laid eyes upon the gentleman who had come to Lady Wexin’s assistance.
Samuel had done a great deal of thinking about why the lady would have ventured out alone that day. When he had first spied her, she’d been walking from the direction of the shops, but it was quite unlikely that a lady would visit the shops in the afternoon. That was the time young bucks lounged on street corners to watch gentlemen with their less-than-ladylike companions saunter by.
It was more likely Lady Wexin had been calling upon someone, but who? Samuel had not known her to make social calls since her husband’s story became known.
Samuel’s scanty exclusive—knowledge that she’d been out and about alone and knowledge that a fine-looking gentleman had come to her aid—still gave him an edge over the other reporters who wasted their time watching her front door. All he needed was the tiniest piece of new information. Samuel was skilled at taking the tiniest bits of scandal and inflating them larger than any hot-air balloon.
Samuel reached the corner of St James’s and Piccadilly, sweeping Piccadilly Street with his gaze.
Carriages and riders crowded the thoroughfare, and the pavement abounded with men in tall beaver hats and caped topcoats. Curses to that Beau Brummell. Gentlemen dressed too much the same these days because of him. Samuel searched for a man taller than average, one who carried himself like a Corinthian.
Such a man appeared in the distance. Samuel shaded his eyes with his hand and watched him for several seconds. He decided to come closer. Samuel crossed Piccadilly and walked towards him, holding on to the brim of his hat so the man would not see his face.
Within a foot of the man, Samuel’s excitement grew. This was the one! His instincts never failed.
Samuel walked past the gentleman and doubled back as soon as he could, quickening his step. If he could follow close behind, perhaps he would hear someone greet the man by name.
To Samuel’s surprise, the gentleman turned into New Bond Street. Samuel almost lost him when several nattily attired young fellows, laughing and shoving each other, blocked his way. His view cleared in time to see the man enter the jewellers Stedman & Vardon.
Jewellers?
Already Samuel had begun spinning stories of why the gentleman should enter a jewellery shop, all of them involving Lady Wexin. He preferred learning the real story. True stories had a way of being more fantastic than anything he could conjure up.
Samuel wandered to the doorway of the shop and peeked in. The gentleman spoke to the shop assistant and suddenly turned around to head back out the door. Samuel ducked aside as the man brushed past him.
Samuel ran inside the shop. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Who was that gentleman?”
The shop assistant looked up. “The gentleman who was just here?”
“Yes. Yes.” Samuel glanced towards the door. He did not want to lose track of the man.
“Lord Cavanley, do you mean?”
“Cavanley!” Samuel’s voice was jubilant. “Thank you, sir.” He rushed out of the shop in time to catch a disappearing glimpse of the gentleman.
Lord Cavanley. Samuel did not know of a Lord Cavanley, but it should be an easy matter to learn about him.
Samuel hurried to catch up. He followed Cavanley to Sackville Street where he entered another jewellery shop. Puzzling. Perhaps Cavanley was searching for the perfect jewel. He did not, however, even glance at the sparkling gems displayed on black velvet beneath glass cases. He merely conversed with the older man with balding pate and spectacles. The jeweller, perhaps? In any event, the man seemed somewhat reluctant to speak to this lord.
Finally the jeweller nodded in seeming resignation and said something that apparently satisfied Cavanley. The men shook hands, the jeweller bowed, and Lord Cavanley strode out the door. Samuel turned quickly and pretended to examine something in the shop window next door.
After Cavanley passed by him, Samuel entered the shop. He smiled at the jeweller. “Good day to you, sir. I saw you with Lord Cavanley a moment ago. Did he make a purchase?”
The jeweller’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
Samuel dug into his pocket and pulled out his card. “I am a reporter for The New Observer. I am certain my readers would relish knowing what lovely object Lord Cavanley purchased.”
The man frowned and the wrinkles in his face deepened. “His lordship purchased nothing, so you may go on your way.”
“He purchased nothing?” Samuel, of course, had already surmised this. “Then what was his purpose here, I wonder?”
The jeweller peered at Samuel from over his spectacles. “Wonder all you wish. I am not about to tell you the business of a patron, am I now?”
Samuel gave the man his most congenial look. “I assure you, kind sir, our readers would relish knowing where a man with such exquisite taste in jewellery would shop. I dare say one mention of your establishment in our newspaper will bring you more customers than you can imagine.”
“Hmph.” The jeweller crossed his arms over his chest. “I am more interested in keeping the customers I have, thank you very much. Telling the world what they buy from me will not win me their loyalty.”
“Sir—”
The man held up a hand. “No. No more talking.” Another customer, more finely dressed than Samuel, entered the shop. “I must attend to this gentleman. Good day now. Run along.”
Dismissed like an errant schoolboy.
Samuel bit down on a scathing retort. He might have need of this jeweller at a later time and he’d best not antagonise him. Back out on the pavement, he scanned the street for Lord Cavanley, but too much time had passed and the man was gone.
Samuel pushed his hat more firmly upon his head and turned in the direction of The New Observer offices. He planned to learn all he could about this Lord Cavanley. He’d start with old issues of their rival newspapers saved for just such a purpose.
Adrian dashed to a line of hackney coaches. “Thomas Coutts and Company on the Strand, if you please.” He climbed in and leaned back against the leather seat.
At that last shop Mr Gray had confirmed what Adrian had suspected. Lydia had sold her jewels.
A lady did not resort to selling her jewels unless she was in desperate need of money. No matter her protestations to him, she was skimping on coal and candles, he was certain of it.
It rankled Adrian that Levenhorne and Wexin’s trustee, a banker of considerable wealth, would allow an earl’s wife to exist in such poverty. If her parents and brother were abroad and her sister forbidden to assist her, to whom could the lady turn for help?
Adrian had no connection to her, nor any obligation. It would certainly be commented upon if he stepped forwards to assist her, but assist her he would. In secret.
He smiled as the hackney coach swayed and bounced over the cobbled streets. At least he’d found something of interest to occupy his time. Solving the puzzle that was Lydia and easing her troubles seemed a better purpose than seating himself at a card table, checking out good horseflesh or, God forbid, entangling himself with Viola Denson. It mattered not one whit to Adrian that no one would know of it, least of all Lydia.
Although a part of him would not mind having Lydia look upon him with sapphire eyes filled with gratitude.
He shook that thought away. The coach passed Charing Cross as it turned into the Strand, and Adrian had a whiff of the Thames. He mulled over his plan until the hack stopped in front of Thomas Coutts and Company, a bank favoured by aristocrats and royalty. Adrian climbed down from the hack and paid its jarvey. He entered the bank.
In the marbled and pillared hall Adrian approached an attendant and identified himself. “I wish to speak with Mr Coutts. He is expecting me, I believe.”
Earlier that morning Adrian had sent a message to Mr Coutts, telling of his intention to call.
The attendant escorted him to a chair and returned shortly to lead him to Mr Coutts’s office.
As Adrian entered the room, the old gentleman rose from his seat behind a polished mahogany desk. “Ah, Lord Cavanley.”
Adrian extended his hand. “Mr Coutts, it is a pleasure. Thank you for seeing me.”
Coutts gestured for Adrian to sit. “Your note indicated that you wished to discuss Lord Wexin’s estate?” The man looked wary.
Adrian smiled. “On behalf of a friend.”
Mr Coutts nodded. “It is a trying affair, but I suspect there is little I might do for you. Allow me to direct you to Wexin’s solicitor, who is tending to the entire matter.”
“I would be grateful.”
“Delighted,” said Mr Coutts. “And how is your father? And the Marquess of Tannerton?”
Adrian responded, accustomed to people asking him about Tanner. In fact, in this situation, he’d counted upon it. Mr Coutts scribbled the direction of Wexin’s solicitor on a sheet of paper and handed it to Adrian.
The solicitor’s office was close by and Adrian quickly found the building and entered. A moment later he had been admitted to the man’s office.
The solicitor was a younger man, near Adrian’s age, but obviously trusted with a great deal more responsibility. His desk was littered with papers that he hurriedly stacked into neat piles at Adrian’s entrance.
“I am Mr Newton, my lord,” he said.
Adrian shook his hand and explained his purpose, stressing it was at the behest of a friend that he inquired about Lady Wexin’s financial affairs.
Adrian’s intention was to imply to Mr Newton that Lydia’s benefactor was Tanner, not Adrian. It was widely known that Tanner was a generous man, the sort of man who would assist Wexin’s widow. No one would suspect the frivolous Adrian Pomroy of such a thing.
“I am certain you understand that my friend—” Adrian emphasised the word friend “—does not wish his name to be known. He fears the lady would refuse his assistance. My friend would say, however, that it is the right thing for him to do for her.”
Because Tanner had been instrumental in exposing Wexin as a murderer, it was not too much of a leap of the imagination to think that Tanner might feel an obligation to assist Wexin’s innocent widow. In fact, Tanner would be very willing to assist Lydia, if he knew she needed help. He was that kind of man.
Mr Newton blinked rapidly. “Of course, sir.”
Adrian nodded. “The mar—my friend, I mean—” he smiled “—sent me in his stead. He is anxious to discover if Lady Wexin has any financial difficulty and, if so, charges me to see it remedied.”
“I do understand.” Newton gestured to a chair and waited for Adrian to sit. “Would you care for tea?”
“No, thank you.” Adrian lowered himself into the chair. “Tell me about Wexin’s finances.”
Newton rubbed his face. “Wexin’s debts, you mean.” He peered atAdrian. “We speak in complete confidence, I presume.”
“Indeed,” Adrian agreed.
“Because even Lord Levenhorne does not know how bad it is.” Newton leaned over the desk. “There is nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Worse than nothing. The townhouse is mortgaged to the hilt. There is only the entailed property, but even that is mortgaged, and it provides nothing to Lady Wexin. There is no money for Lady Wexin’s widow’s portion. I do not know how she is getting on. I have been unable to give her any funds at all.” His hand fluttered. “She assures me she is able to manage, but I do not see how.”
Adrian’s chest constricted. “It is as I—we—feared.” He straightened in his chair. “Tell us what needs to be done.”
Newton pulled out a wooden box, opened the lid, and lifted out a handful of small pieces of paper, letting them flow through his fingers like water. “Gentlemen have sent their vowels.” He picked up a stack of papers. “Shopkeepers have delivered their bills—”
Adrian had no interest in Wexin’s debts. His purpose here was solely for Lydia. “What was the marriage settlement supposed to provide Lady Wexin?”
Newton closed the lid of the box. “In the event of Wexin’s death, she was to receive the amount of her dower and the Mayfair townhouse.”
Adrian could guess the value of the townhouse. “And the value of the dowry?”
“Nine thousand pounds.”
Adrian leaned back and drummed his fingers on the mahogany arms of the chair. He calculated the sums in his head and leaned forwards again. “This is what I will do…” Adrian glanced up at Newton. “On my friend’s behalf, I will assume the mortgage of the townhouse.” Levenhorne said the house had been a gift from Lydia’s father. Adrian would give it back to her. “And I will restore the dowry, but only under the stipulation that creditors are not to seek redress from Lady Wexin. Any debt must be attached to what was Wexin’s.”
Newton’s jaw dropped. “Your friend would pay so much?”
“He can afford the sum.” Adrian smiled inwardly.
It was a staggering amount, but one Adrian was well able to afford. For years he had kept his gambling winnings, and the investments made from them, separate from his quarterly portion. It had been a game he played with himself to see how much he could win and also how much he could afford to lose. His quarterly portion from his father was more than adequate for his other needs.
He’d done quite well at the game, quite well indeed, so well that he could restore Lydia’s widow’s portion, keep her in her London house and still have plenty of gambling money left over.
“My friend wishes the lady to have fifty pounds immediately and to have the townhouse in her name.”
Newton nodded, his eyes still wide with disbelief.
Adrian pointed to the wooden box. “How many unpaid bills pertain to the lady’s belongings or to the contents of the house?”
Newton riffled through the papers again. “I would have to do a careful calculation, but it is not as bad a debt as some of the others. Perhaps as much as two hundred pounds?”
“Those will be paid as well. I want—and my friend wants, as well—that Wexin’s debts do not cause her any more suffering.”
“I understand completely, sir.” Newton’s mouth widened into a smile.
Adrian returned the expression. “Need I add that no hint, no speculation as to the identity of her benefactor must ever be divulged to her? Or my small part in this?”
Newton gave him a level gaze. “It will be kept in complete confidence. I have been successful in keeping the extent of Wexin’s debts from becoming public knowledge, and I certainly can keep Lady Wexin’s affairs private.”
Affairs.
The word sparked the memory of Adrian’s very brief affair with Lydia, an affair she was loath to continue.
He supposed he was mad for bestowing a small fortune on a woman who wanted nothing to do with him. It was not like him to invest time or money in a lady who had no regard for him, but what would happen to Lydia if he did not assist her? He was investing in her happiness, a divergence from indulging in his own.
What’s more, it was his money to do with as he wished. And he wished to do good with it, to feel a scant bit useful in this world. Besides, it gave him a new game to play, to see how long it would take to recoup the amount of money he had invested in Lydia. How many card games and horse races and other wagering would he have to engage in before he earned back the total amount? It was a game.
Nothing more.
Adrian and Newton completed all the arrangements and shook hands. When Adrian walked back to the Strand, the sun was peeking through the clouds. He headed in the direction of waiting hackney coaches, feeling both exhilarated and deflated.
The next morning from the drawing-room window, Lydia watched Mr Newton leave her townhouse. As soon as he stepped onto the pavement, he was accosted by a throng of newspaper men. Mr Newton pushed his way through them, waving a hand and shaking his head.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Mr Newton had not stopped to talk to the newspaper men. She ought to have known. Mr Newton had not breathed a word of how distressed Wexin’s finances had been, and still were. It appeared Mr Newton would also not discuss this reversal of her misfortune, this restoring of her finances.
It was too remarkable to be true. Her widow’s portion was restored and the house was securely hers. She had income and a place to live.
Lydia hugged herself and twirled around for joy. The news was too good to keep to herself a moment longer. She dashed out of the room and hurried down the stairs.
“Dixon!” she cried. “Mary! Oh, get Cook! I have something to tell you!”
Mary leaned over the second-floor banister above her. “What is it? What has happened?”
Lydia called up to her. “Come! I will tell you all.” She flew down the stairs to the hall.
Dixon appeared from the back staircase, trailed by Cook wiping her hands on her apron and looking frightened.
Lydia ran up to the woman and gave her a squeeze. “Do not worry. It is good news.”
“Good news from Mr Newton, my lady?” Dixon looked sceptical. There had, after all, been so much bad news from him.
Lydia clasped her hands together. “Oh, it is so unbelievable. It must have been my sister—”
Who else but her sister? Lydia had no indication that her letters had reached her parents. No one else knew of her distressed finances. No one but—
Adrian.
It was unthinkable that he would pay such sums. Ridiculous, even. Her sister’s husband was extremely wealthy. Her sister must have convinced him to do this in secret.
“Tell us, m’lady,” Mary cried.
Lydia took a breath. “Mr Newton informed me that someone—it must have been my sister—has restored my widow’s portion and has signed the house and its contents over to me! Mr Newton assures me the interest on the six-percents will give us income enough!”
“Oh, my lady!” Mary exclaimed.
“May God be praised.” Cook fell to her knees. “We can buy food!”
Lydia grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Food and coal and whatever we need!” She turned to the butler. “Will you find our servants, Dixon? Hire those who wish to return and pay the others what we owe them?”
Dixon beamed. “It will be my pleasure.”
Still holding Cook’s hands, Lydia swung her around in a circle. “Everything shall be as it was!”
Not precisely as it was, but so much better than she thought her future ever could be when she’d risen from her bed that morning.
Lydia gave Cook another hug. “We must celebrate today! I even have money to spend! Fifty pounds! We must fill the larder and celebrate!”
“I shall make a dinner fit for King George!” Cook cried.
Lydia swept her arm to include all of them. “We must eat together, though. I insist upon it. Just this once.”
“May I suggest, my lady, that I bring up a bottle of champagne from the cellar?” Dixon asked.
“That would be splendid!” Lydia clapped her hands. “Champagne for dinner.”
Dixon lifted a finger. “I meant immediately, my lady.”
“Yes,” cried Lydia. “Mary, find four glasses, and all join me in the morning room.”
Lydia walked into the morning room, the small parlour off the hall, a room where callers were often asked to wait until they could be announced.
A sound sent her spinning towards the windows.
Outside the reporters, all abuzz, were all facing the house, craning their necks over the railings to try to see into the room.
With a cry, Lydia drew the curtains.
Her celebration did not include them.
Chapter Five
The certain gentleman, whom we have now identified as Lord C—, and with whom Lady W— was so recently linked, has lately visited several jewellery shops. Will the notorious beauty soon receive some adornment for her widow’s attire?—The New Observer, November 17, 1818
“Oh!” Lydia threw down the paper and pounded her fist on the table. She picked up the paper again and reread the lines.
Lord C, The New Observer said, Lord C, with whom Lady W was so recently linked…
Lord Cavanley. The reporter had discovered it had been Cavanley who had rescued her.
“Ohhhhh.” She squeezed her fist tighter. What else had the man discovered?
She read the account again. No hint of Lord Cavanley calling upon her in the rain and definitely no hint of the earlier time she’d spent with him. Adrian would not have betrayed her. Or so she hoped.
She looked through the other papers that Dixon had pur chased for her earlier that morning. There was no news of her in either The Morning Post or The Morning Chronicle, only the silly mention of Lord C entering jewellery shops. Likely he was shopping for one of the other women with whom his name was for ever linked.
At least the newspapers said nothing of Mr Newton’s visit.
“What is it, m’lady?” Mary bustled into the bedchamber, carrying one of Lydia’s day dresses. “I heard you cry out. Is it your ankle?”
“No, not my ankle.” Lydia spread her fingers and forced her voice to sound calm.
Mary had brought the newspapers and breakfast to Lydia in her bedchamber. In front of her on the small table were a plate of toast, a cooked egg and a pot of chocolate, the most sumptuous breakfast she’d had in weeks.
Lydia picked up a piece of toast. “I am mentioned in the newspaper again.”
“About the money coming to you?” Mary’s eyes grew wide.
“No, thank goodness.” She bit into her toast.
Mary clucked her tongue. “Mr Dixon told you the doors and the walls were too thick. Those newspaper men could not hear us cheering, I am certain of it, m’lady.”
Lydia swallowed. “So far, it appears you are right.”
Mary pursed her lips. “What did they write about you?”
Lydia cast her eyes down. “My name is linked to a man, who will buy me jewels.”
“They said such things?” Mary cried.
“One paper, that is all.”
The maid’s brows knitted. “But how can they make up such a story? It isn’t right, m’lady.”
Lydia gave her a wan smile. “I agree.” She sighed. “I sometimes think they will never leave me alone.”
Mary’s expression turned sympathetic. She lifted the dress. “I brought the pink.”
Lydia nodded. “That will do very nicely.”
Any dress would do, because Lydia did not intend to go out, nor to have callers. She could wear anything at all, anything but black. Lydia refused to wear black. She refused to mourn for Wexin, refused to even think his given name. He’d been a stranger, really, and one did not formally mourn strangers.
She took another bite of her toast. The jubilation of the previous day was dampened by reading her name in the paper once more.
And the connection to Adrian.
Lydia straightened her spine and took a fortifying sip of chocolate. She would forget all about that episode with Adrian. Soon the newspapers would find someone else with whom to attach her name.
She planned to spend the day perusing the household accounts. Now that she was in control of her money, she intended to spend wisely and never have to worry over money again. First she must learn the cost of ordinary things, such as lamp oil and beeswax and the food for their table. She must learn how to make a budget that included the servants’ salaries, taxes on her menservants and the house, and whatever amounts she would be expected to pay throughout a year. It would be like assembling a puzzle, and she enjoyed assembling puzzles.
“My lady?” Mary laid the dress on the bed. “I thought I would go to the shops this morning to purchase the items you requested.”
Lydia had asked for pins and also silk thread. She planned to embroider new seat covers for the dining-room chairs. She needed something to keep her fingers busy and to fill her time. To keep her from becoming lonely.
Mary turned to her. “Won’t you come? You’ve not been out in ever so long.”
Only a scant few days ago, Lydia thought, but Mary knew that outing had not been for pleasure.
Although Lydia had gained pleasure from it. She glanced at her bed and thought of Adrian.
Lord C in The New Observer.
“Not today, Mary.” She shook her head, more to remove his image than to refuse Mary’s invitation. “I fear I would be followed by the newspaper men.”
Mary walked over to the window and peeked through a gap in the curtains. “They are still out there.”
Lydia had already seen them loitering near her door.
“I suppose you cannot come with me, then,” Mary said.
Lydia smiled at her. “You must purchase something for yourself when you are out. A length of fabric for a new dress, perhaps. Or a pretty hat. I will give you some extra coins.”
Mary curtsied. “Thank you, my lady, but I could not—”
“I insist.” Lydia stood. “Would you help me dress?”
Samuel stood shivering on the corner of the street where he had a clear view of Lady Wexin’s side gate. He had already seen the butler hurry out. Samuel almost followed him, but made a snap decision to remain where he was. He really hoped the maid might come out next.
All the reporters knew that something had made the household jubilant two days previously, but none of them had dis covered what it was. It had been noted that Mr Newton, Wexin’s solicitor, had called and shortly after whoops of joy were heard. Perhaps the widow had come into more money, but coming into money when one was wealthy was not too interesting.
He needed something more.
The hinges of the gate squeaked, and, as Samuel had hoped, the trim figure of the maid appeared.
In Samuel’s experience, maids knew everything that went on in a household and they could often be encouraged to talk about what they knew.
The maid headed towards Berkeley Square. If Samuel hurried, he could catch up with her, but he needed to detour so that neither she nor the other reporters saw him.
He walked to Charles Street and practically ran to Berkeley Square where he caught sight of her just as he’d hoped to do. Keeping a good distance between them, he followed her as she walked to the shops.
It was almost peaceful following her on her errands. Samuel watched her select threads and pins and pieces of lace. She did not hurry at her tasks, but instead examined all the wares at a leisurely pace, as if this excursion was merely for her own pleasure.
Instead of making him impatient, it seemed a treat to watch her. She had a trim little figure, a graceful way of walking, and a sweet way of smiling at the assistants in the shops. Her heart-shaped face was as pale as the finest lady’s, fringed by auburn curls that escaped from her bonnet. Her lips were so pink they might have been tinted, but what intrigued him the most were her huge blue eyes.
She filled a large basket with her purchases, adding bouquets of flowers from the flower vendors until she looked more like a girl who had come from a stroll in a lush garden than a servant about her errands.
When she headed back towards Berkeley Square, Samuel realised he’d not found an opportunity to speak to her, although it somehow had not seemed like time wasted.
When she entered Gunter’s Tea Shop, a confectionary in Berkeley Square, he saw his chance. Samuel hurried into the shop behind her.
“A lemon ice, please,” she said to the shop assistant. “And six of those.” She pointed to marzipan displayed under glass, perfect miniature pears and peaches and apples, confections made from almonds, sugar and egg whites.
He stood behind her, his heart beating a little faster. He could easily see over her head. She was no taller than the level of his chin. She turned and gave him the briefest glance with those big blue eyes. He nodded to her, and she turned away again.
The shop assistant produced the lemon ice and packed the marzipan into a box, tying it with string. The maid handed the shop assistant her coins. When she walked past Samuel he had a whiff of lemon from the lemon ice, but also a hint of lavender.
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Diane Gaston
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesWho is the father of her child? Lady Wexin, once the Ton’s foremost beauty, has been abandoned by her family and friends, and creditors hound her. Her husband’s scandalous death has left her impoverished, and the gossip-mongering press is whipped into a frenzy of speculation when it becomes clear the widow is with child.Who is the father? Only one man knows: Adrian Pomroy, Viscount Cavanley. He has cultivated the reputation of a rake, but in truth yearns for something useful to do. Delicate beauty Lydia Wexin could pose an intriguing – and stimulating – challenge…