Rumours
in the Regency Ballroom
Scandalising the Ton
Gallant Officer, Forbidden Lady

Diane Gaston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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About the Author

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

In The Regency Ballroom Collection

Scandal in the Regency Ballroom –Louise Allen April 2013

Innocent in the Regency Ballroom –Christine Merrill May 2013

Wicked in the Regency Ballroom –Margaret McPhee June 2013

Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom –Deb Marlowe July 2013

Rogue in the Regency Ballroom –Helen Dickson August 2013

Debutante in the Regency Ballroom –Anne Herries September 2013

Rumours in the Regency Ballroom –Diane Gaston October 2013

Rake in the Regency Ballroom –Bronwyn Scott November 2013

Mistress in the Regency Ballroom –Juliet Landon December 2013

Courtship in the Regency Ballroom –Annie Burrows January 2014

Scoundrel in the Regency Ballroom –Marguerite Kaye February 2014

Secrets in the Regency Ballroom –Joanna Fulford March 2014

Scandalising the Ton

Diane Gaston

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 and Adrian 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 halfboot. 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.

AsAdrian 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 at Adrian. “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 sixper-cents 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 purchased 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 diningroom 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 discovered 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.

He stepped up to the counter. “A lemon ice, as well.” He wanted to ask the shop assistant to be quick about it, but held his tongue.

The maid took her time leaving the shop, admiring the delectable fare displayed under glass on both sides of the aisle. He’d nearly had a chance to speak to her and still might if the shop assistant hurried with his lemon ice.

His quarry walked out of the door.

“Your ice, sir.” The shop assistant handed over the dish.

Samuel threw down his coin and hurried out after the maid. As he’d hoped, she was seated on a bench near a tree, her basket beside her. He sauntered over.

He nodded to her again. “I see you, like me, could not resist a lemon ice even on this chilly day.”

She glanced up, a spoonful in her hand, “That is so,” she said softly. She shivered prettily as she swallowed it.

Samuel dipped his spoon in the treat, taking a generous portion and swallowing it at once. Pain seized his entire chest.

“Oh, that hurt,” he gasped. “Did you ever do that? Swallow something cold and have it feel as if someone had punched you in the chest?”

She glanced at him, looking uncertain as to whether to speak to him. “You should take it a little at a time,” she finally said.

After dipping his spoon into the ice again, he lifted it to show her the tiny portion before letting it slide slowly down his throat. He grinned at her. “That was a great deal more pleasant.”

She glanced at him again and turned her attention back to her own lemon ice.

He took another spoonful. “I am Mr Samuel…Charles,” he said, taking the name of the street that had been his detour in following her. “I know it is forward of me to speak to you, but I am new to London. I do think it is so much nicer to share the eating of such a treat as an ice, than to eat it alone, do you not agree?”

She nodded ever so slightly and shifted in her seat, knocking the box of marzipan out of her basket.

Samuel picked it up and put it back in.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, briefly meeting his gaze.

“Will you be eating all that marzipan alone?” he asked.

She smiled. “Oh, no, sir. It is my treat for my lady and the others.”

“For your lady?”

She nodded again, but with less reserve. “I am a lady’s maid, sir.”

“Do you always bring your lady such delicacies?” He kept his tone soft and friendly. It was not difficult to do with such a sweet and pretty girl.

She smiled at him. “Oh, no, but it is my treat. We are celebrating today.”

His brows rose and his heart accelerated. “Celebrating? And what do you have to celebrate? Something wonderful?”

Her smile widened and her eyes sparkled and, for a moment, Samuel forgot everything but how charming she looked. “We are celebrating good fortune!”

“Good fortune?” By his tone he encouraged her to go on.

She merely nodded happily and scraped the last of her lemon ice from her dish. She picked up the basket and stood.

He quickly finished his own ice. “Allow me to return your dish for you.” He reached for it and his glove scraped hers.

“Thank you, sir.” Her eyes caught his again.

He continued to peer into their depths. “Would…would you like to share a lemon ice again? I could meet you right here whenever you say.”

Her expression turned serious, but she did not look away. Finally she answered him. “Saturday. Around one o’clock? I think my lady might not mind.”

His smile was genuine. “I will be delighted. It…it pleases me to have a friend with whom to share my lemon ice.”

Her lashes fluttered and her face flushed pink. Before he could say another word, she curtsied and hurried off.

Samuel watched her rush away before he returned the dishes to the tea shop. He had not wormed very much out of her, but more would come.

Saturday at one o’clock.

He was surprised at how much he looked forward to sharing another lemon ice with her.

Adrian opened his eyes to bright daylight illuminating his bedchamber. He twisted around in the bed linens to look at the clock on the mantel.

It was about to chime two o’clock.

He groaned and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His valet appeared. “Do you rise now, m’lord?”

Adrian rubbed his face, wondering how his man always seemed to know the instant he awoke. “I suppose.”

Dawn had been showing its first glimmer of light when Adrian walked home from the gambling den where he’d spent the night hours at a table of whist. His profits had not been spectacular, but, then, he had not been as keen at keeping track of cards. Too many other thoughts intruded.

Every win, every loss, was measured against the sum he had given to Lydia and, thus, he’d kept her constantly in his thoughts, distracting him, leaving him feeling unsettled.

Hammond stood next to the bed, holding his banyan so that Adrian had no choice but to stand and be assisted into the garment. He padded over to the basin, not surprised that the water in the pitcher was warm. How Hammond accomplished having warm water no matter what the hour of Adrian’s rising was another unfathomable mystery.

Adrian splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth, then sat so that Hammond could shave him. Same as he had done the day before and the day before. Boredom was a dreadful thing. What did one do when that which once relieved boredom now merely added to it? Hammond left to prepare Adrian’s breakfast while Adrian finished washing up.

He walked into his drawing room where Hammond had prepared a table for him with slices of cold ham, cheese, bread and jam. There was also a fresh pot of hot coffee and copies of the morning newspapers.

Adrian sipped his coffee while looking through the papers. He came to an article in The New Observer:

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…

Adrian sat up. Good God.

This was Reed’s newspaper. Reed had identified him.

Adrian turned hot with fury.

The damned man had probably followed him, as well.

If Adrian caught Reed following him again, there would be hell to pay and he’d see Reed paid it.

How much did the man know? Adrian perused the column again and blew out a relieved breath. Reed thought he’d been purchasing jewels.

It was nearly half past three before Adrian ventured out. For wont of any other place to go, he headed towards White’s. The air felt damp as if rain was in the offing, and other pedestrians on the street seemed to keep their heads down. To Adrian, the cold was bracing and it felt good to walk at a fast clip.

He was almost invigorated by the time he walked into White’s, but, as soon as he stepped into the coffee room, he knew something was wrong.

The room was quiet and the gentlemen present were whispering among themselves or keeping their eyes downcast. Adrian saw Tanner sitting alone at one of the tables. He crossed the room to him.

“Who the devil died?” he asked.

Tanner looked up and gave him an ironic smile. “Actually, the Queen.”

Adrian dropped into a chair. “My God. I was merely joking.”

The Queen had been ailing for some time, and news of her condition was printed often in the newspapers. She’d been convalescing at Kew Palace for some time. Even lately, she’d been reported taking the sun in the garden.

“When did you hear?” Adrian asked.

“Not more than an hour ago.” Tanner took a sip of coffee. “She died at one o’clock, it was said.”

Adrian signalled the attendant. “Tea, please.”

Tanner lifted a newspaper that had been lying on the table in front of him. “Did you see this?”

It was a copy of The New Observer.

“I read it.”

Tanner twirled his finger. “Before news of the Queen arrived, they were all speculating about who was this Lord C The New Observer writes of.”

Adrian kept his eyes steady. “The New Observer writes of a Lord C?”

Tanner tapped the paper. “It does. Lord C—, it said…Lord C—, with whom Lady W—was so recently linked.” Tanner grinned. “You don’t suppose he means Lord Cavanley, now do you?”

Adrian made himself roll his eyes. “Of course, you would think of me. Not Lord Crawford or Carlisle or Crayden.”

Tanner feigned being offended. “I would expect you would tell me before it appeared in the newspaper. I mean, we are friends and there is, of course, my recent connection to Wexin.”

This was the moment that Adrian ought to tell Tanner the whole—only he could not quite bring himself to open his mouth.

“I was about to head off to Gentleman Jack’s,” Tanner said. “Come with me.”

The moment passed. “Very well.”

A good bout of fisticuffs would not hurt.

When they were outside, Adrian asked Tanner, “I know you have been concerned about Lady Wexin. What do you think this newspaper report means?”

Tanner shook his head in dismay. “I cannot know. After our return to London, Marlena and I sent Lady Wexin a note asking if we could call upon her, but she refused.”

Adrian walked several steps in silence. Here was another moment for him to tell Tanner of his encounter with Lydia.

“How is Lady Tannerton?” he said instead. “I do hope she is well.”

Tanner smiled, but it seemed to Adrian that the smile was meant for Tanner’s wife. “She is splendid, Pom. She is splendid.” He stared off into the distance for a moment before glancing back at Adrian. “Lady Heronvale has taken her under her wing. They are making calls to other ladies today.”

“Good of Lady Heronvale.”

Tanner turned pensive. “I suppose there will be much involved with the Queen’s funeral. I wonder if Marlena will be up to all the pomp so soon.”

After what Tanner’s wife had been through already, Adrian suspected a royal funeral would seem like a simple ride through Hyde Park. “She’ll do splendidly.”

Tanner laughed. “Pom, I am so unused to this. I feel amazingly at loose ends. I have become so accustomed to being at her side.”

Adrian, at least, knew precisely how it felt to be at loose ends.

He clapped Tanner on the shoulder. “Then it is good that I am with you. Let us beat each other to a bloody pulp at Gentleman Jack’s, and we will both be certain to feel better.”

Chapter Six

The Ceremonial for the Internment of her late Most Excellent Majesty Queen Charlotte of blessed memory, will take place in the Royal Chapel of St George at Windsor, on this day, Wednesday of the second day of December, 1818.—The New Observer, December 2, 1818

Lydia stood at her window watching the carriages roll by. It looked as if the funeral procession for the Queen had begun in Mayfair, rather than Windsor. Most of the peerage, it seemed, would be in the procession for the Queen.

She felt apart from it all, separated from the life into which she had been born. It was true that wives and daughters of peers would not be greatly in attendance at the funeral, but they would have been intimately involved in conversations about its planning and would hear every detail of the ceremonial at the end of the day. She had no one with whom to converse about it.

One fine carriage after another rumbled by, the gentlemen wearing tall black beaver hats or plumed regimentals just visible through the carriage windows.

Would Adrian be among them?

Lydia groaned. She ought not to think of him, but with her empty days it seemed he came much too often into her mind. Even when she ventured to Piccadilly Street to browse in Hatchard’s or to purchase jams at Fortnum and Mason, she found herself searching for him among the passers-by.

At least now she was able to walk to the shops unmolested. The reporters had vanished from her doorway when it became known that the ailing Queen had reached the end of her suffering. Lydia could not be glad the beloved Queen had died, but she was ecstatic that the reporters’ attention had turned towards the King, the Prince Regent and the Royal Dukes and Princesses. The newspapers were filled with every step the royals took. Speculation was rampant about the Queen’s will and the fact that she had only recently composed the document. Who would she remember in her will? And who would she leave out?

The Queen had always seemed like a formidable figure to Lydia. She had shaken in terror when she’d been presented to the Queen during the Season of her come-out. Lydia imagined all sorts of mishaps, like tripping on her skirt or losing one of the huge feathers she wore in her hair. When it had been her turn to be announced to the Queen, Lydia had been convinced she would faint, but somehow she’d made her approach and performed a graceful, if overly practised, curtsy.

The Queen had actually spoken to her. “Why, you are quite a beauty,” Her Majesty had said. “Quite a beauty.”

Lydia smiled at the memory of herself, so young and giddy and full of hope. It had been a time when she’d dreamed of love and marriage and children.

It had been a long time ago.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said aloud, curtsying again, just as she’d done that day.

Lydia had dressed in black today. She’d wear black to honour the dear Queen. She turned to leave her bedchamber and to make her way to the morning room where her breakfast would be served.

When she entered the corridor, the sweet sound of Mary humming a happy tune reached her ears. Lydia smiled.

Two weeks ago Mary had met a young man who’d put stars in her eyes and a skip in her step. Mary had seen the fellow only twice, when Lydia gave her permission to spend a little time to meet him at Gunter’s, where they shared some treat together. Those two meetings had been enough to keep the girl humming through all the other days.

“You must be thinking of your young man,” Lydia said when Mary came into view.

Mary blushed. “Oh, I suppose I should not hum on such a sad day. I do beg pardon, my lady.”

“Do not be silly, Mary,” Lydia scolded. “It is perfectly acceptable for you to be happy.”

It was more than acceptable. It was the one bright spot in Lydia’s life.

Mary beamed. “Well, I am very happy and that is the truth.”

Lydia reached out and touched the girl’s hand. “And I am happy for you.”

Lydia turned to walk down the stairs. As she descended she heard Mary’s cheerful tune again and almost felt like humming herself.

But a wave of queasiness came over her, so strong she almost missed a step. She grasped the banister to keep from falling.

She’d had such a feeling before, but that had been when she—

No. It could not be. It must not be.

“I’m hungry, that’s all,” she said aloud, although the thought of food made her stomach roil again. She pressed a hand to it and walked more slowly to the morning room.

She glanced at the food set out on a little table in a spot where the sunlight shone in from the window. The fare was simple. A pot of chocolate, a cooked egg, toast and jam, but her stomach rebelled at the sight. She took deep breaths and walked over to the window to wait for the nausea to subside.

There were still plenty of coaches rumbling by to entertain her. From this window it was easier to see the crests on the sides of the carriages. She recognised some of them. They were numerous enough to form a queue on her street, all waiting for the traffic to clear at South Audley Street, she supposed.

A fine shiny black town carriage came to a stop directly in front of her house. She examined the crest, but did not know to whom it belonged. Her gaze lifted to the window of the carriage. There staring back at her was Adrian. He nodded to her, and she quickly stepped back out of sight.

“By Jove, I believe that is Lady Wexin at the window.” Adrian’s father leaned over him to see better, but Lydia had already disappeared. “Did you see her?”

“I was not looking at the windows,” Adrian lied.

He’d seen her. His stomach muscles had clenched when his eyes met hers, like some besotted whelp in his first infatuation, but she’d quickly stepped away when he acknowledged her.

The message was clear. She had no wish to see him, even by accident.

“I am certain it was she.” His father leaned over him to get another look, but Adrian could have told him she would not show herself again, not while their carriage stood in front of her house. “Cannot mistake her. She is a beauty, that one. Can see why Wexin wanted her.”

“Mmm,” responded Adrian, not wishing to encourage this turn in their conversation.

It was merely his vanity that was wounded when she did not smile at him or nod in return, nothing more. Besides, not every woman he met wanted him. Why would they? He did not want every woman he met, including Lady Denson, the widow who seemed to appear at any society affair he attended.

“Did you hear?” His father chuckled. “Bets have been placed in White’s book on the identity of this Lord C who was connected with Lady Wexin in the newspapers.”

Adrian glanced over at him in surprise. “Indeed?” He’d hoped the story would have been forgotten in the wake of the Queen’s death.

His father lifted a finger. “Odds are on Crayden, you know.”

“Crayden?” Adrian should have been glad his father had not named him, but why Crayden, who was an impoverished Irish Viscount?

His father shrugged. “Word is he was a suitor of hers before Wexin. Never married. Needs the money from her dowry and a rich father-in-law as much as Wexin did.”

It ought not to matter to Adrian, but this news depressed him, even though he knew he was the Lord C of The New Observer’s story. He also knew her financial situation was not likely to attract Crayden, if the man knew of it, that is.

Betting on her at White’s didn’t please Adrian either. He disliked this manner of attention on her. She did not deserve it. Wexin had been the villain, not Lydia.

Adrian had discovered that Lydia had hired back most of her servants. Or rather his valet had discovered it at Adrian’s request. He had no idea how his man had accomplished it, but within a day Hammond had produced the information of how many servants had been dismissed originally and how many had returned. The number was sufficient to ensure her comfort.

He leaned back against the padded upholstery, trying to feel some satisfaction in having helped her.

The coach lurched forwards, the unexpected motion causing both father and son to grip the seats.

His father frowned. “I do hope the springs in this carriage are up to a trip of this length. I do not relish being jostled about.”

This was Adrian’s first ride in the elegant carriage bearing the Earl of Varcourt’s crest. “It is a damned sight better than the last hack I rode in.”

His father huffed. “Why you ride in those things is a mystery to me. Our old coach is at your disposal any time you require it.”

“That is generous of you, sir.” Adrian’s father was always generous.

This carriage did have a tendency to sway to and fro in a manner as lulling as a ship in gentle waters. After leaving the busy streets of London, they lapsed into silence. His father dozed and Adrian lost himself in thoughts that seemed as unfocussed as his life. The day promised to be long and tedious, but it was their duty to be present at the Queen’s funeral.

“When duty calls, a gentleman must always rise to do what is required of him,” his father always said. And always added, “So enjoy life while you can, my son.”

His father would deny it, but Adrian knew he relished doing his duty in whatever form it took, and probably had enjoyed it even from his youth, when he inherited the family title. Adrian’s father was a man who could be counted upon to do what must be done, but he also tended to glorify what he’d missed, the chance to be a frivolous, pleasure-seeking youth. His father could not fathom how such trivialities could grow tiresome over time.

When they reached Kew Palace there was a jumble of carriages, cavalry and foot soldiers, royal grooms and pages. Also in attendance were the royal physicians and countless other members of the royal entourage. Somehow this multitude sorted itself into a dignified and orderly procession, moving solemnly towards Windsor and St George’s Chapel.

The procession kept its snail-like pace the whole distance, reaching Houslow Heath shortly after noon and the chapel at seven in the evening. By that time most of the London carriages had turned off, making their way back to town. It was appalling how few peers actually endured the day long enough to attend the Queen’s funeral service.

Adrian and his father endured it, as duty demanded. By the time their coach was again pointed in the direction of London, his father’s energy had flagged and his rhythmic snores joined with the sound of the horses’ hooves and the creaking of the coach’s springs.

Adrian stared at the darkness outside, alone again with his thoughts.

What was there to look forward to in the weeks ahead? Within days London would empty, the ton fleeing to country houses or the Continent, places where they might find entertainment. With the official mourning of the Queen, the London entertainments would disappear. The theatres were already dark, and no one had hosted a ball or dinner or rout since the mourning commenced.

Adrian supposed he could accept his mother’s invitation to spend Christmas at the Varcourt estate. No doubt several of his parents’ friends would be in attendance. There would be card playing at night and perhaps he could ride in the mornings. There would be plenty of land to give his horse a good run.

Tanner had invited him to Tannerton, as well, but Adrian had already begged off. He knew Tanner would prefer to be alone with his new wife.

Perhaps he should travel somewhere, somewhere like…Paris.

Yes. Paris would be a novelty. Things were a bit gayer there now than they had been right after the war, he’d heard. More money was pouring in to the city each day. There were plenty of casinos he might visit, as well as the various sites of interest in the city.

Yes, he made the decision. He would go to Paris.

Anywhere to battle this cursed ennui.

Chapter Seven

The notorious Lady W—has gone back into hiding, no longer venturing to visit the shops on Piccadilly or to take walks in Hyde Park. All of London wishes to know why. Could she perhaps be in an interesting condition?—The New Observer, April 11, 1819

Adrian sat in the dining room at the townhouse on Curzon Street. While he’d been in Paris, his father had written to him that the Pomroy house would be ready for him on his return. Adrian made arrangements for his belongings to be moved from his rooms near St James’s Square, and wrote to tell the servants at the townhouse when to expect him. He’d entered the house he’d known as a child, just the day before this one. It continued to be a curious combination of familiar and strange. Adrian had slept in the room and on the bed he’d always known as his father’s and was now seated at the head of the long dining-room table in what seemed like his father’s chair.

His family’s butler, a man hired by his father years ago, entered the room. “The newspapers, my lord.” The butler even addressed Adrian in the same tone he’d always addressed Adrian’s father.

“Thank you, Bilson.” Adrian tried at least to sound like himself. He returned his coffee cup to its saucer and took the papers in hand.

He supposed he ought to send an announcement to the papers telling of his return. In fact, Bilson could see that it was done—one of the benefits of having more servants. He had even less to do.

The New Observer happened to be the newspaper on top. Adrian rolled his eyes. Bilson could forgo the subscription to the scandal sheet that had so maligned Lydia.

Adrian took a deep breath and dug his fork into a slice of cold beef. It made no sense to think of Lydia. He’d done an excellent job of forgetting her in Paris. Several high stakes’ card games had taken his mind away.

Until he won, that is, and remembered he was replacing funds he had given to her. He had also met a few very pretty French mademoiselles, but he could not sustain an interest in them. He attributed this to his general malaise, not to comparing them to Lydia.

Adrian shook his head and skimmed The New Observer, its columns full of gruesome murders and titillating affairs.

His gaze caught on the words the notorious Lady W—. Damned paper. What were they saying of her now?

He read on.…All of London wishes to know…Could she perhaps be in an interesting condition?

Adrian sprang to his feet, toppling the mahogany chair onto the carpet. “What the deuce is this?”

Bilson stepped in. “Is anything amiss, my lord?”

Newspaper still in hand, Adrian strode towards him. “My hat and gloves, Bilson, and be quick. I’m going out.”

Bilson lost no time in retrieving the hat and gloves, and Adrian was on the street in less than a minute. He set a quick pace in the direction of Hill Street and Lydia’s house, an easy walk away.

When he reached the street he saw several men clustered around.

Newspaper reporters.

He had half a mind to send them about their business, but that would certainly not remove her name from the papers. It would merely add his. He blew out a frustrated breath. He could not call upon her while the reporters watched who was admitted to her house. He crossed the street.

He thought about calling upon Tanner, but what would he say? Lady Wexin is with child and, if the child is not Wexin’s, it might be mine?

Adrian wasn’t ready to burden his friend with that information, especially as Tanner had written to him that he and Lady Tannerton were expecting a baby.

Adrian walked past Lydia’s house. As he passed by, a gentleman approached it—Lord Levenhorne, holding a newspaper and wearing a determined look upon his face. He was almost immediately swarmed by reporters.

Adrian watched Levenhorne beating them off with his newspaper. Adrian decided to head to White’s. With luck, Levenhorne would stop by there, and, when he did, Adrian would be present to hear all about his call upon Lady Wexin.

A soft light diffused through the curtains of the morning room and illuminated the page of the newspaper.

Lydia stared at the words. Could she perhaps be in an interesting condition?

A wave of nausea overcame her, not morning sickness this time, but a sickness of another kind. “How could they have discovered this?”

She’d secluded herself ever since the familiar symptoms emerged several months ago—aching breasts, inability to keep food in her stomach, heavy fatigue. Mary had noticed and knew from the start that Lydia was with child. Mary also had witnessed her last miscarriage and knew this child was not Wexin’s. The maid had not asked the baby’s paternity, though, and Lydia had explained nothing.

Five months had passed and Lydia’s figure showed the telltale changes. The other servants now also knew her condition. Lydia trusted her servants had kept this secret. They had been as loyal and caring as a family, but perhaps one of them had slipped and said something to someone and someone had said something to The New Observer. Or perhaps that vile reporter, Mr Reed, had decided to make this up and accidentally hit upon the truth.

She heard the murmur of voices outside. Tiptoeing to the window, she peeked through the gap in the curtains. They were out there again, the reporters. She’d been totally free of them ever since the poor Queen had died and had hoped never to see them cluster around her door again. They were back this morning, gathering around a gentleman who flailed at them with a newspaper in one hand and his walking stick in the other.

Lord Levenhorne.

Lydia pressed a hand protectively against the rounded mound of her abdomen. She had never carried a baby inside her this long.

She ought to consider it a tragedy that she’d conceived a child from that one brief moment of making love with Adrian, but she could not. It was a miracle. A miracle. One last chance to have a baby. She did not expect to ever have another chance. She would certainly never marry again, even if some man wanted her. She would never again put her life and her future in a man’s hands. She pressed her belly again, thankful this child was not Wexin’s.

Still, she mourned the loss of his babies, the three little lives she’d been unable to hold inside her long enough. Every morning now, she woke expecting to feel that cramping, that spilling of blood, but this baby still grew within her. She could feel it flutter, blessedly alive.

She wished now she had written to her sister to give her the excellent news. Instead her sister would read it as gossip in the newspapers.

After her money had been restored to her, Lydia had sent her sister a letter of thanks. She’d heard nothing in reply, and her sister’s maid told Mary there should be no more correspondence. Lydia still felt she ought to have written to her with the news of her pregnancy.

She wondered if her sister would contact her if she heard from their parents or brother. Lydia had heard nothing, which distressed her greatly. Surely if they were safe, one of their letters would have reached her by now, even if her letters had not reached them.

Lydia heard footsteps approach. She took in a deep breath. Lord Levenhorne could not upset her. Even the vile reporters could not upset her. Not when her baby moved inside her.

“Thank you, Adrian,” she whispered to herself. “For such a gift.”

Dixon entered the room, his expression distressed.

Lydia saved him from having to inform her who had called. “I know who it is, Dixon. I saw him through the window.”

Dixon cleared his throat. “I shall tell him you are not receiving callers if you wish it.”

Lydia gave him a reassuring look. “I will see him.” She touched her abdomen. “This is no secret, is it, Dixon? He will have to know at some time.”

Dixon’s features softened. “’Tis no secret, my lady, but we cannot allow his lordship to cause you distress.”

She was touched by his concern. “Do not fear. I shall manage nicely.”

She followed Dixon out to the hall where Levenhorne paced back and forth. The moment he saw her, he started towards her. “Lady Wexin—”

She extended her hand to him. “How kind of you to call upon me, Lord Levenhorne.”

He looked taken aback by the offer of her hand. He shook it, and belatedly gave her the bow politeness required of him.

Lydia turned to Dixon. “We’ll have tea, if you please.” Levenhorne blustered, “This is not a social call—”

She swivelled back to her guest. “I would still serve you refreshment, sir. Let us go to the drawing room where we might be more private.”

She led him up the stairway into the more formal drawing room with windows so high no reporter could see into them. She settled herself on a sofa and gestured to her guest. “Do sit, sir.”

His eyes flashed with impatience, but he lowered himself into the chair opposite her.

“How is Lady Levenhorne?” Lydia made her tone polite, as if this were indeed a social call. “I have not seen her in an age. Is she in town yet?”

“She is well,” he answered curtly. “She is in town.”

Most of the ton would be in town. The London Season had commenced, as gay as always, since the Regent had ended official mourning for his mother after only six weeks.

“And the children?” Lydia asked.

Levenhorne waved a hand. “They are well. All of them.”

“I am delighted to hear it.” Lydia made herself look Levenhorne in the eye. “I confess, I had thought to see Lady Levenhorne before this. I had thought perhaps she would call on me.”

It was bad manners to point out his wife’s neglect—and his—but these people had hurt her. The Levenhornes were related to Wexin, after all. True, Lord Levenhorne had called after Wexin’s death, but, like today, only to speak of the inheritance and to ask if she were increasing. Indeed, the only person who’d reached out to her in kindness had been Lady Tannerton, but Lydia had refused to see her. How could she face the widow of the man her husband had murdered, the woman he had framed for the deed?

Lydia felt her baby flutter inside her. She’d forgotten. One other person had called upon her and had been very kind.

Adrian.

Her butler accompanied the footman who carried the tea tray and set it on the table in front of Lydia. She knew Dixon had come out of worry for her.

“Thank you so much.” She glanced at Dixon, hoping he knew she thanked him for his concern as well as the tea. “I shall let you know if I require anything else.”

Dixon left the room and Lydia looked across at Lord Levenhorne. “How do you take your tea?”

He squirmed in his chair. “With milk. One lump of sugar.”

Lydia busied herself with pouring his tea and then handed the cup to him so he was forced to take it from her. She watched him until he took a polite sip before pouring her own cup.

She was proud of herself. A few months ago she might have cowered in front of Lord Levenhorne. That had been when she’d had no money and no child to give her life purpose. He could not frighten her now.

She sipped her tea quietly, not making it easy for him to blast her with what the newspapers implied and her waistline verified.

He put down his tea cup and picked up the newspaper, now creased from having been folded in his hand. “Have you seen this?”

She blinked at him, pretending to be confused. “A newspaper?”

“Blast it,” he swore more to himself than at her. “The New Observer. Have you seen it today?”

She did not answer directly. “What does it say that distresses you so?” Let him utter the words.

He glanced down at it for a moment, then he tapped it with his finger. “It says you are in an interesting condition.”

Lydia made herself laugh. She stood so that her skirt draped against her thickening middle. “I am in an interesting condition, as you can see, sir, but I have announced the happy event to no one.”

“They know.” He tapped the paper again. “It says Lady W.”

She lowered herself back into her seat and picked up her cup of tea. “Oh, then it could not possibly be Lady Wilcox or Willingham or Warwick…”

“Come now, they must mean you.” He pushed the paper towards her as if that would prove it. “What is the idea of this?”

“Of what?” She gave him her best ingenuous expression.

“Of your—your—your—delicate condition.”

She placed a hand on her abdomen. “My baby, do you mean?”

“Of course I mean that!” he cried. “Why was I not told of it? Why must I learn of it from this scurrilous newspaper?”

Lydia took a sip of tea before answering him. “First of all, Lord Levenhorne, I am not at all certain you have learned of my condition from a newspaper. Surely your wife knows very well that I have lost other babies. If I preferred not to make any announcement until I was more certain I might carry this baby to term, I cannot see how you can fault me.”

His face turned red and he bowed his head.

She went on. “I do appreciate that you have some interest in the information, sir.” If she produced a son within ten months of Wexin’s death, that son would inherit Wexin’s title and estate instead of Lord Levenhorne. “I would have told you as soon as I believed the baby had a chance to survive.”

Which was true, but it was also true that she’d wanted to keep the precious news to herself as long as possible.

Levenhorne grimaced as he lifted his head and met her eye. “You cannot tell me this—this—child is Wexin’s.”

She kept her gaze level, but her heart beat frantically inside her chest. “If my child is not born within the ten months, you have the right to make that statement to me, sir. Not before.” She stood. “Do you have anything else you must say to me?”

He rose to his feet, still looking as if he wanted to chew her for breakfast. “You have not heard the end of this.”

He might make all the accusations he wished. No matter what she knew to be true, the law stated that this child was Wexin’s if born within ten months of his death.

It was not a huge risk she was taking. She’d conceived the baby only a month after Wexin’s death; surely the baby would be born within the ten months. Her prayer was that she could hold the baby inside her long enough for the baby to live. Nothing mattered more to her than birthing a healthy child.

Levenhorne marched out of the room, and Lydia collapsed onto the settee.

“Well, that is done,” she murmured, touching her belly where the child that was not Wexin’s kicked inside her.

The baby that was Adrian’s.

Adrian chose a table in White’s coffee room with a clear view of the doorway. Should Levenhorne appear, Adrian would be the first person he encountered. There were very few gentlemen present at this hour, men who had no better place to eat breakfast and no better place to spend their time.

Like him.

He had checked the betting book on his way in. The wagering about which Lord C had been linked with Lydia seemed to have ended with the Queen’s death and the exodus from town. His name was still not among the suggested Lord Cs.

He finished two cups of coffee and read all of the newspapers. He read a great deal more than he wished to know about the state of herring fishing as reported to the House of Commons. He read of a terrible fire in corn mills in Chester and of the trial of a former soldier who had robbed the White Horse Inn. The only paper that printed anything about Lydia’s condition had been The New Observer, and the reporter had been Samuel Reed.

Adrian lifted his head every two minutes to see if Levenhorne had arrived. Eventually he glanced up, and Levenhorne indeed strode in the room, looking like thunder.

Adrian was ready for him. “Good God, Levenhorne. Come tell me what has happened.”

The man looked no further into the room, but sat down across from Adrian, a crumpled newspaper in his hand. “Have you read this?” He waved the paper in Adrian’s face.

“I’ve read several papers this morning.” This was obvious as they sat in a pile next to his coffee cup. “Which one is that?”

“The New blasted Observer.” Levenhorne signalled the servant who quickly took his request for coffee…and brandy.

“Ah, the gossip newspaper.” Adrian responded. “Was there something of you in it?”

Levenhorne shook his head and opened the newspaper, jabbing it with his finger. “Not of me. Of Lady Wexin.”

The servant brought his coffee and brandy, and Levenhorne downed the brandy in one gulp. Adrian waited for him to continue.

He added cream and sugar to his coffee and lifted the cup for a sip. “The newspaper said she was increasing. I have just come from calling upon her and it is bloody well true.”

“Increasing.” Adrian spoke in as non-committal a voice as he could.

“Increasing,” repeated Levenhorne. “And if she produces a son within the ten-month period, the title and property go to him.”

“And not to you.” Adrian made himself take a sip of coffee.

“Not to me.”

Adrian gave him what he hoped was a puzzled look. “But I thought you lamented this inheritance, saying Wexin had riddled it with debt.”

The man grimaced. “That was before Mr Coutts persuaded me to fund some rather substantial repairs to the buildings on Wexin’s estate and to finance the spring planting.”

“Ah,” Adrian said.

“Thing is, it is a good piece of property, worthy of the investment. Prime land. Could make an excellent profit.” Levenhorne shook his head in dismay. “I had no intention of providing for Lady Wexin’s brat, however. Let her father do that. I dare say he can afford it better than I.”

“Has her father returned from his tour?” Adrian asked.

Levenhorne shook his head. “Not that I have heard. God knows what has happened to them. No one has heard from them, it is said.” He bowed his head. “I’m afraid I was unforgivably rude to Lady Wexin. Said the baby could not be Wexin’s.”

Adrian took the creased newspaper in his hand and pretended to read it for the first time. “It says nothing of that here.”

“I know.” Levenhorne tapped his fingers on his coffee cup. “Besides, who else could have fathered the child? The lady is a recluse.”

But not by her desire. Because the society whose darling she once had been had turned its back on her. And Adrian knew precisely who else could have fathered the child.

Levenhorne’s eyes widened. “I say, Cavanley. You will say nothing of this, will you? I’d prefer no one knew I spent good money on that blasted estate. I probably ought not to have spoken so plainly.”

Adrian waved a hand. “I’ll speak of it to no one, you have my word.”

Levenhorne stared into his coffee for what seemed like a long time. “The more I think of it, the more I think that baby is not Wexin’s. Too much time has passed. Conception would have to have taken place in October before Wexin travelled to Scotland. She’d be six months along and, let me tell you, at six months, my wife’s belly was always bigger than this lady’s.”

Adrian frowned. He knew nothing of such matters, but he did know that it had been almost five months to the day that he’d lain with Lydia.

Levenhorne pounded his fist on the table. “She’s pulling a fast one on me, I’d wager on it, and she has my hands tied until the ten months is over. Crafty wench. There’s not a blasted thing I can do about it.” He sighed. “Except hope the baby comes late or she pushes out a girl.”

Adrian made himself sit very still lest he launch himself over the table and put a fist into the other man’s face.

This child, girl or boy, to which Levenhorne so scathingly referred, might be Adrian’s, and Lydia did not deserve to be spoken of in such a coarse manner.

Adrian stood. “Forgive me, Levenhorne. I must be on my way.”

Levenhorne glanced up at him again. “I have your word you will tell no one of our conversation?”

“You have my word.”

Adrian walked out, collected his hat and gloves and left White’s. He headed back into Mayfair, again walking by Lydia’s house.

The reporters still clustered. He did not see Samuel Reed, the man who seemed to know more and do more damage than the others.

Adrian continued past the house. He decided he must gain entry in another way besides knocking upon her door in front of the London press. He’d return when daylight was gone, and somehow, some way, he’d speak to Lydia before the dawn of a new day.

Reed stood near Lady Wexin’s side gate. Night was falling and he waited with anticipation for Mary to appear.

Sweet Mary. He liked meeting her this way, in secret, at a time he might pull her into a dark corner and steal a few kisses. He liked it a bit too much, knowing he must eventually cut off the liaison. He just hoped he could do it without her discovering his true purpose for romancing her. Dear sweet Mary. He despised the idea of causing her that kind of hurt.

He heard the familiar creak of the gate and stepped out from the shadows. She ran towards him, propelling herself into his arms.

“Oh, Samuel, I am so glad to see you,” she cried against his chest.

She was hatless and wore only a thin knitted shawl over her dress to ward off the evening’s chill. He wrapped his arms around her tighter.

“I am glad to see you, too,” he responded truthfully. She smelled so clean. Of lavender and soap.

She clung to him. “I have had the most wretched day!”

He kissed her on top of her head, his heart beating faster. “Tell me what has happened.”

“Well, the reporters are back.” She moved out of his embrace and rearranged her shawl. “One of them wrote something in the newspaper, and now they are all back.”

“What did he write?” As if Samuel did not know.

Her hand fluttered to her forehead. “I do not know, really, but it upset m’lady.”

He reached for her again. “Is that all it is? Newspaper reporters?”

She didn’t fall back into his arms as he’d hoped. “And then his lordship came.”

“His lordship?” Samuel felt a rush of excitement.

“Lord Levenhorne. He inherits Lord Wexin’s estate.” She paused. “Unless…”

“Unless what?”

She shook her head and her curls bounced around her face. “Oh, I do not understand all this. I just know m’lady is made unhappy by it.”

He took her in his arms once again. “Do not fret, love. Is it about money? Wealthy people seem always to distress themselves about money.”

She snuggled against him. “I suspect so. It is about the inheritance at any rate.”

She felt so good next to him that he could hardly think and hardly wanted to. Mary had never actually told him Lady Wexin was going to have a child, but she’d skirted around the topic enough for him to guess.

Mary lifted her face and looked at him with her huge, trusting eyes. Samuel felt a twinge of conscience for pressing her. Enough for one night. He could concentrate on Lord Levenhorne next and just enjoy being with Mary for a while.

He dipped his head and touched his lips to hers, so soft and sweet.

Yes, he would enjoy these stolen kisses with Mary. He would enjoy them very much.

Chapter Eight

Does she hide out of shame? What would it be like, we wonder, Dear Readers, to carry the child of a murderer in one’s womb? —The New Observer, April 11, 1819

Adrian watched the maid locked in the embrace of her lover. The two stumbled into the garden, still in each other’s arms.

They had left the gate slightly open. Adrian stole over and peeked in. The lovers were headed for a far corner, away from the house.

Adrian had planned to knock at the front door, to be announced to Lydia properly even if the hour was unforgivably late, but one of the newspapers had left a young fellow watching the house, so Adrian had walked on by. He turned the corner just when the maid and her lover had wrapped their arms around each other.

It was all too easy. Adrian slipped through the gap in the gate and crept through the shadows to the back door. When he reached the door, it was unlatched.

He walked in, still intending to announce himself.

Sounds came from the kitchen, but when he peeked in, he could see no one. He continued to the stairs, climbing them as quietly as he could and opening the door a crack to see if anyone was in the hall.

Empty.

He ought to call out. Announce his presence.

Instead he climbed the marble stairs and saw a glow of light coming from the drawing room. Taking in a breath and holding it, he opened the door.

Lydia rose from a chair near the window, book in hand. An oil lamp on the table next to her gave more illumination than the waning daylight through the glass. The lamp lit her face with a soft glow, making her hair appear tinged with gold where the light touched it.

He had forgotten how lovely she was.

She gasped and dropped her book.

He stepped into the light. “Forgive me, Lydia, I know I intrude.”

“Adrian!” Her voice was breathless. She took a step forwards as if glad to see him, but she quickly shrank back. “Why didn’t Dixon announce you?”

“He does not know I am here.” He gave a rueful smile. “I fear no one knows I am here. I truly did intrude, Lydia. I entered without anyone seeing me.”

“Without anyone seeing you?” She picked up her book, closing it and placing it on the table.

“I entered through the back door.” He did not wish to get the maid into trouble. “One of your servants stepped out for a moment, and I came in unseen.” Saying it made him realise how outrageously he’d acted.

She looked rightfully indignant. “You sneaked into my house?”

“I know it sounds bad,” he said with chagrin. “But there was a fellow watching the front door. From a newspaper, I expect.” He paused, feeling as if he was not making sense. “Otherwise I would have knocked for admittance.”

She held up a hand, stopping his explanation. “Never mind. Tell me why you are here when I asked you not to call upon me again.”

“The newspaper this morning—” he began.

She swung away. “That—that—horrid paper.”

In the low light and with her loose dress, he could not perceive any telltale changes signalling her condition. If anything, her figure appeared even more voluptuous than he remembered, as if she’d had enough food to eat.

“Is it true?” he asked.

She turned her head to him. “Is what true?”

He could think of no delicate way to say it. “Are you increasing?”

She blinked rapidly. “That is a very private matter, not one to discuss with a gentleman I hardly know.”

He walked closer to her. “But it is how you know me that makes it my business. At least to ask.”

Her breathing accelerated.

“Lydia?”

“You need not concern yourself, Adrian. I am well able to handle whatever my situation might be.” She lifted her chin. “I am not as forlorn as when you first encountered me.”

And he had been the one to take away her pitiable state, even if she would never know it. “I am glad of it.”

She met his gaze steadily. “So there is no reason for you to come here.”

She looked elegant and regal, even though her dress was a simple one more suited to morning. Her hair was piled in a loose knot on top of her head, tendrils escaping to caress her forehead and cheeks. He remembered how soft her curls had felt, slipping loose and luxuriously through his fingers. Even now he itched to pull the pins from her hair so that it would fall about her shoulders and he could grab a fistful in his hand.

He forced himself to his task. “Lydia, cut line. Are you going to have a child or not?”

He walked close enough to touch her. If he could place his hand on her belly he might feel for himself if a child grew within her. That would, he supposed, be even more of an intrusion than entering her house.

She raised her eyes to his, and he felt a jolt of attraction, the same attraction he’d been unable to resist when she’d asked him to make love to her. He waited for her to speak, his heart beating so hard, he thought she must be able to hear it.

She said nothing.

He tried again. “If the child is mine, Lydia, I will do my duty.”

“Your duty?” Her voice rose. “What do you mean by your duty?”

His emotions were in a muddle about this, but he was enough of his father’s son to know what was expected of a gentleman. “Marriage, if you should wish it.”

“Marriage!” She spat out the word and quickly turned her face from him, silent for so long he had an impulse to prowl the room like a caged cat. Finally she cast her gaze upon him again. “Do you expect me to believe you would marry me?”

Why not? he wondered. “I am an honourable man, Lydia.”

She gave a scoffing laugh. “You are a libertine, Adrian. Libertines do not marry.”

Her words stung. “A libertine? And how is it you are so certain I am a libertine?”

“It is what people say of you. They call you a rake, at least, which is the same thing, is it not?”

He was not about to debate the differences between a rake and a libertine. His eyes narrowed. “You of all people should know not to give credit to gossip.”

She glanced away, two spots of colour rising to her cheeks. “It is, nonetheless, all I know of you. I have no experience to tell me otherwise.”

He waved his hand as if erasing that piece of conversation. “It matters not what you believe of me. If the child is mine, I will take responsibility, and that means marrying you, if that is what you desire.”

Lydia glanced away, her muscles taut with anxiety. The ton’s most devil-may-care bachelor said he would marry her out of duty. She almost wished to laugh. The last thing in the world she desired was another marriage. She’d married once with stars in her eyes and look what a horror that husband had turned out to be.

But Adrian was not Wexin.

She darted a glance to him, so handsome, standing so tall and still. Masculine energy emanated from him, and, God help her, attracted her.

She’d be a fool to give in to the desire that pulsated inside her, a fool to entrust her life—and her child’s—to any man.

She took in a fortifying breath. “There is no need for you to do anything, Adrian. There is no responsibility that I would hold you to.”

He stepped away and bowed his head, seemingly lost in thought.

It would be so easy to simply lie and tell him the child was Wexin’s, but she could not make herself say the words.

Think of what the newspapers would write about her if she married him and acknowledged the child as his. The world would know that she’d bedded a man before her husband was cold in his grave.

Her indiscretion had been the cause of this pregnancy. That made it her problem to handle, not Adrian’s. If her child was born within the ten months stipulated by law, the child, son or daughter, would be considered Wexin’s, but she would be in charge of her finances and her life.

She made herself look directly at Adrian again, even though looking at him made her heart leap and flutter and her body yearn for him. She could not forget how his hands had felt upon her, the softness of his lips, the firmness of his muscles. Her carnal urges flared into life and it was all she could do to keep from propositioning him again.

Dear God, she could not possibly want to couple with him again, not when she was hiding that this child was his.

“You need not have an attack of conscience or duty or whatever it is that men have,” she said to him in an angry voice, although the anger was at herself for her weakness, not at him. “It is quite all right with me if you forget this matter.”

He met her gaze and she thought she saw a wounded look in his eyes. “I have done nothing to deserve your bitter tone.”

Her cheeks flamed at the truth of his statement, but she recovered quickly. “Nothing?” She hit him with the one dishonourable thing he had done. “I asked you not to call upon me again, and you break into my home like a thief.”

“I did it to find out about the child,” he shot back, taking a step towards her, coming so close she caught the clean scent of lime soap on his skin.

She held her ground with difficulty. “Is it so hard to believe that this baby is my husband’s?”

His voice turned so low it vibrated inside her. “It is when I know there is a chance it is mine.”

“Believe me, Adrian,” she whispered, “it is not so easy for me to conceive a child that I would conceive after one time.” At least it had not been that easy with Wexin. She softened her tone. “Take your leave. You have done enough by coming here. There is nothing I need from you.”

To her surprise, he reached out to her and gently touched her arm. “Forgive me for not knowing. I have been abroad. They say you have been a recluse. Are you not going out at all? Is there no one who has renewed acquaintance with you?”

She was startled by his concern. Besides Lord Levenhorne calling today, and the occasional bank representative, no one but Adrian had called upon her. “No member of the ton wishes to see their name in the newspapers, I suspect.”

He frowned. “You must not allow the newspapers to make you a prisoner in your house. Go where you please and ignore them.”

He could say that with ease. He was not the one followed about, or stopped on the street and asked rude questions.

She glanced at his hand, still upon her arm, then back at him. “I am not certain I should heed advice from an intruder.”

He did not take the hint and release her. “Then accept the advice as from a friend,” he said. “Our connection may be brief and…unusual, but enough for me to be concerned for your welfare. I am here, if you need me. I will come, if you need me to.”

She held her breath.

His words felt like a proposition, an invitation to seduction. His touch melted her like a flame melts wax. She felt she would only have to put her arms around his neck and her lips against his and in a moment they would be making love on the settee. God help her, she did need him. She needed to feel him hold her with strong arms, needed to run her hands up his firm chest, to dig her fingers into his hair. She needed to feel him fill her again, as a man fills a woman. She trembled with need.

But she backed away. “I need nothing from you.”

He stared at her, a hint of pain in his angry eyes. Her guilt escalated. Obviously he had not shared her carnal thoughts.

He swung away and started walking towards the door. It felt the same as when he had left her before, loneliness engulfing her.

He reached the door and turned back to her. “I will trouble you no further.”

As he disappeared into the dark hallway, she collapsed in her chair and placed her hand over where his baby grew.

Adrian went straight to Madame Bisou’s, a gaming hell he knew on Bennet Street. He and Tanner had often spent a night at the tables there, and Adrian had been known to flirt with the pretty girls Madame Bisou employed.

When he walked into the gaming room looking more for a drink than a seat at a table, a voice greeted him. “Pomroy!”

A flaming red-haired young woman wearing a dress of ice blue ran over to him and grabbed his arm.

“Katy Green.” He kissed her on the cheek. “But it is not Pomroy. It is Cavanley.”

She laughed. “I forgot. Sir Reginald told me about you being called lord now.”

She released him and examined him with her elbows akimbo and a line creasing her forehead. “I declare, you look healthy enough. I thought you must be very ill. You have not been here in an age.”

He had not been to Madame Bisou’s since the previous spring, and it seemed a lot had happened since then. “I’ve been in France.” France was as good an explanation as any.

She grinned at him and winked. “Wait until Madame Bisou hears. You will make her homesick.”

The closest the madame, born Penny Jones, had come to France had been drinking a bottle of champagne and he and Katy both knew it.

Katy took his arm again and escorted him through the room where the tables were covered with green baize. Three of the walls were lined with faro and hazard tables. Against the fourth wall one of the girls served drinks.

“What are you looking to play tonight?” Katy asked him. “Faro? Hazard?”

He rolled his eyes. “Fool’s games.” Luck, not skill, made winners in hazard and faro, and luck always favoured the house. “What I really want is a brandy.”

“Brandy!” she cried. “Come with me.”

He was soon sipping the burning liquid, but it failed to ease the hard rock of emotion inside him.

He’d done his duty by offering to marry Lydia. He ought to be glad he’d escaped marriage. The parson’s mousetrap, he and Tanner used to call it, but it nagged at him that she did not think him worthy of marrying. A libertine, she had called him. And she wanted nothing to do with him.

It also nagged at him that she’d not actually denied that the child was his. He only knew she did not wish him to be her husband. Why had she not accepted his proposal? He was wealthy. He came from a good family.

Adrian finished the brandy, took another, and answered his own question. She had no wish to be married to a libertine.

He could not blame her for that opinion of him. He’d cultivated the reputation of a rake, even if it had never been entirely accurate. He did not trifle with women’s hearts. His liaisons with women involved mutual desire, and their partings were mostly amicable.

He finished the second brandy in one gulp and asked for another.

Katy’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, ho, you are thirsty tonight.”

He extended his glass again for the girl to refill. “Very thirsty. Thirsty enough to get thoroughly drunk.”

“Oooh. That must mean a problem with the ladies.”

He downed the third glass and thrust his hand out once more. “Have you not heard, Katy Green? Libertines do not have problems with ladies.”

At a proper morning hour, Samuel Reed waited in a small parlour off the hall of Lord Levenhorne’s townhouse, a place where, undoubtedly, tradesmen and other men who toiled for a living waited for his lordship. Samuel did not resent it. He was only grateful that he had not been summarily ejected.

After at least a quarter of an hour, a footman entered. “Lord Levenhorne will see you now.”

Samuel was led to the library, where Lord Levenhorne sat behind an elegant desk with thin carved legs and made of some dark wood—mahogany or oak, perhaps.

“Mr Reed, m’lord,” the footman said before bowing and leaving the room.

When Levenhorne looked up, Samuel bowed as well. “Thank you for seeing me, my lord.”

“What business do you have with me, Reed? Your card tells me you are from that New Observer paper.” Lord Levenhorne sounded none too pleased.

But he had agreed to see Samuel, so that gave him courage. “If you read my paper, sir, you will know that I am following the story of Lady Wexin—”

Levenhorne coughed. “I’ve seen what you wrote.”

Samuel nodded. “I wonder, my lord, what you can tell me about the lady. My sources inform me that she is to bear a child—”

“That, unfortunately, appears to be true—” Levenhorne seemed to catch himself. He stopped talking and peered more closely at Samuel. “These are family matters, Reed. Not the stuff for newspapers.”

Samuel took the liberty of advancing one step closer. “Ah, but I have a reporter’s sense, and I believe there is a story in Lady Wexin.” He gave Levenhorne an intent look. “If she produces a son, he will inherit Wexin’s property and title, is that not correct?”

“Such as it is,” the man murmured just loud enough for Samuel to hear him.

“And you will inherit if she produces a daughter, or if the child is not born in time.”

“That is so,” Levenhorne said in a careful voice.

“If this child is not Wexin’s, however…”

Levenhorne leaned forwards. “What do you know?”

The man was interested. Samuel had him. Levenhorne would tell him what he wanted to know. He spoke carefully. “I am speculating that Lady Wexin’s child is not Wexin’s.”

Levenhorne rubbed his chin. “She certainly did not appear to be a woman in her sixth month.”

Samuel almost smiled. He had his verification. Lady Wexin was breeding and the baby was not her husband’s.

Levenhorne waved his hand. “It is of no consequence. All she must do is give birth in time and it bloody well doesn’t matter who the father is.”

Samuel gave Levenhorne an earnest look. “But what if my newspaper can bring pressure on the lady to openly identify the father? Would not there be a chance she’d marry the fellow? If they both acknowledge the baby as that other man’s, then the inheritance goes to you.”

“Indeed,” said Levenhorne in a contemplative voice.

“I will write the story. We have four months to put pressure on her.” Four months of building sales of the newspaper. Everyone would want to see what next would happen with the scandalous Lady Wexin. “All I ask is that you support the idea that another man is the father.”

“I do support it,” said his lordship.

“I am in your debt, then, my lord.” Samuel bowed again. “If you hear anything about who the man may be, please send word to me.”

Levenhorne stood and extended his hand. “I will do so, indeed, sir.”

Chapter Nine

The question remains—who is the father of Lady W—’s child? The time advances quickly that will tell for certain if the baby is the late Lord W—’s heir or another man’s child.—The New Observer, July 21, 1819

On this warm July day, almost three and a half months after Samuel had first broken the news of Lady W’s interesting condition, a gentleman walked into The New Observer office where Samuel and his brother Phillip sat at their desks. The man’s white pantaloons were so tight his legs seemed made of wood. His blue coat fitted so well his forearms barely budged from his sides. With some difficulty he reached up to remove his high-crowned beaver hat. With this in one hand, he struggled to pull a white handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow.

Samuel cast a glance at his brother, and Phillip clamped his mouth shut, a cough covering laughter.

“I wonder if I might speak to Mr Reed,” the fashionable creature said in a voice as soft as the fabric of his pristine neckcloth.

“Which one?” Phillip asked him.

“Is there more than one? Oh, dear.” His eyelids fluttered. “I desire to speak to the Mr Reed who writes about Lady Wexin—I beg your pardon—I mean Lady W.”

“You want Samuel Reed,” Phillip said.

“Do I?” He made a slight bow. “Then perhaps you might tell me how I might get hold of him.”

Samuel stood. “I am Samuel Reed, sir, and you are?”

The man tittered. “I must beg pardon once more. I ought to have presented myself. I am Lord Chasey, at your service.” He bowed again.

“Lord Chasey,” Samuel repeated. “What do you wish to speak to me about?”

“About Lady Wexin—I mean, Lady W.” He tittered again.

“What about her?” Samuel and Phillip asked in unison.

“I am certain that I might be the father of her child.”

“You?” Samuel’s voice rose an octave. He did not believe this for an instant.

“I do think I am certain of it.” Lord Chasey repeated, all seriousness.

“Why do you come here to tell us?” Phillip asked.

From a pocket in his waistcoat Chasey pulled out a quizzing glass and peered at Phillip through it. “And who might you be?”

Phillip rose. “Phillip Reed, the editor of the newspaper.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Chasey. “You have the same surname.”

“Brothers usually do,” responded Phillip.

Chasey’s eyebrows rose. “You are brothers?”

“Yes, we are,” replied Samuel. “What is it you want of me, my lord?”

“Why, to print my name in your newspaper as being the father of the unborn child. You can call me Viscount C from Yorkshire. That should do it.”

Phillip shot Samuel another amused glance. If he was not careful, the two of them would burst out laughing.

“Let me make certain I understand you.” Samuel gave him a droll look. “You wish me to report that you take responsibility for Lady Wexin’s unborn child?”

“Responsibility?” Lord Chasey squeaked. “Dear me, no. I merely want you to imply that I could possibly be the father.”

This man wants his name in the paper. Samuel had encountered many like him before. Who knows? Perhaps Viscount C from Yorkshire thought this would raise him in the esteem of his companions, the way the latest in waistcoats might do.

Samuel rubbed his face. He might as well print the story. The more men who came forwards claiming to be the father, the more newspapers they sold. “Very well, sir.”

Chasey beamed.

Samuel could not resist adding, “But you must promise to report back to me every detail of your next meeting with her—all that a gentleman can tell, that is.”

“My next meeting—?” Lord Chasey glanced around in distress. He took several quick breaths and mopped his brow again. “I…uh…will certainly report every possible detail of any…uh…future meeting I have with the lady.”

Phillip twisted away, covering his mouth. His shoulders shook.

Samuel extended his hand to Lord Chasey. “I shall compose a mention of you for tomorrow’s paper.”

Chasey stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket and accepted Samuel’s handshake, grinning like an excited schoolboy. “Excellent! That is excellent.” He managed to put his hat back on his head. “I will take my leave of you, then.”

One more bow and Chasey was gone, the door closing behind him. Phillip let loose, laughing so hard tears came to his eyes. “I’ll wager you ten pounds that popinjay has never been within four miles of Lady Wexin.”

“No bet.” Samuel grinned. “I’ll use his name, though. We might as well share the joke with our readers.”

Samuel wanted to keep the speculation alive as to whether another man had fathered Lady Wexin’s unborn child. To own the truth, Samuel had discovered nothing to suggest that the baby was any man’s but Wexin’s, but his gut told him there was someone else. Unfortunately, his meetings with Lady Wexin’s maid, Mary, had yielded nothing.

No information, that is. Samuel’s time with Mary was the best part of his week. They met whenever she could get away, sharing ices at Gunter’s or strolling through Hyde Park. The best times were evenings when he waited near the gate for her. He’d stolen no more than kisses, but Mary’s kisses were sweeter than another woman’s favours.

Lord Levenhorne reported that August 16 was the crucial date. If Lady Wexin’s baby was not born at the stroke of midnight, separating August 15 from August 16, it would prove that the father was another man. The story would remain alive at least that long, and Samuel would have reason to keep seeing Mary. She would keep thinking he was Samuel Charles who worked for a printer, but this idyll could not last for ever.

Frowning, Samuel pulled out a sheet of paper and trimmed a quill pen before dipping it into a pot of ink. He scratched out several lines about Lord C, the Irish Viscount who claimed to be the father of Lady W’s child.

Ironic that Chasey possessed the same initial as the man Samuel had first suspected to have been Lady Wexin’s lover. Beyond the one brief encounter of which Samuel had been a part, Samuel could not discover from Mary or anyone else that Lord Cavanley had ever set foot in Lady Wexin’s house. Mary did not seem to know who Cavanley was.

Levenhorne said the betting book in White’s did not give Cavanley any odds of being the father. Odds favoured Lord Crayden, who had been known to court Lady Wexin before her betrothal to her murderous husband, but Samuel could not discover that Crayden had called upon the lady either. There were other men who had boasted of being Lady W’s secret lover, but none proved more than idle boasting.

The child’s paternity remained a mystery. Samuel did not mind using the mystery to keep speculation alive, but the newsman in him pined to beat the other papers to the real story.

He finished the short but tantalising column and poured blotting sand on it, carefully shaking the excess sand back into its container.

Chasey would have to do for the moment, one small step in Samuel’s quest to make The New Observer number one above The Morning Post, The Morning Chronicle, The Times and all the other papers vying for the position.

Adrian walked into his parents’ library. His father was seated behind the desk attending to his correspondence; his mother reclined on a chaise reading.

She closed her book. “Adrian, we were so worried about you!” Her white hair made her look every inch the countess she now was. She’d always been a beautiful woman and remained so in her maturity.

Adrian crossed the room and kissed her on the cheek. “Forgive me. I did not mean to distress you.”

His father looked at him over spectacles perched on his nose. “I wrote to you two days ago.”

Adrian had received his father’s missive, but had stuffed it in his pocket and headed off to Madame Bisou’s, where he’d engaged in a marathon of card playing and drinking, something that had become a pattern for him of late. When he’d woken up this morning at Madame Bisou’s, he’d had no clear memory of how he’d spent the entire previous day. His father’s letter and one from Tanner were still in the pocket of the coat he had slept in.

Adrian answered his father. “I came as soon as I read it.” Which was true enough. “I confess, I feared bad news, but you both look the picture of health.” Better to shift the attention to their health than to dwell on his own.

“There is nothing amiss with us,” his mother said. “Would you like a sherry, love?”

Adrian’s stomach roiled. “Later, perhaps.”

His father ceremoniously took off his spectacles and folded them, placing them on the desk. “I summoned you because of concern about you.”

“Me?” Adrian was genuinely surprised.

“This dissipated life you are leading—” his father began.

“—is not healthy for you, dear,” his mother finished.

He looked from one to the other. “Dissipated life?”

His father leaned forwards. “This drinking. Spending all your time in gaming hells. Coming home looking as if you slept in your clothes.”

Obviously someone from Adrian’s household had been reporting on his behaviour. Adrian’s bets were on Bilson, the loyal butler. Loyal to Adrian’s father, that is.

“Father, my behaviour is not much altered from what it has always been.” Except perhaps for the drinking to excess and finding himself in a bed with no memory of how he had arrived there.

“You are drinking entirely too much.” His father rose and walked from behind the desk.

His mother cupped her hand against his face. “You will lose your handsome good looks if you drink too much. You’ll get a red nose and have blotches on your cheeks.”

“Where have you heard such things about me?” Adrian gaped at them.

His father looked chagrined. “Well, people talk, you know.”

Former servants obviously did.

Adrian lifted a hand to his forehead. The headache from the previous night’s drinking lingered there, no longer a sledgehammer, but a dull thudding. He shook his head. “A few months ago when I asked for something to do, take over one of the estates, perhaps, you all but told me to go drink, gamble and otherwise cavort. Now you are outraged that I am doing what you said I should?”

“I would never have told you to get a red nose, dear,” his mother said.

His father huffed. “You wanted to take over one of the estates? How can you expect me to trust you with such a task when you are being so reckless with drink?”

What else was he supposed to do? Adrian wanted to ask.

“I think it is high time Adrian went searching for a wife.” His mother nodded decisively. “The Season is over, but he might go to Brighton. There were plenty of eligible young ladies in Brighton when we were there, were there not? It is something to consider.”

“I did not mean to put the boy in shackles, Irene,” his father retorted.

His mother stiffened. “Marriage is akin to being shackled?”

“I did not say that.” His father hastened to his wife’s side and put his arm around her. “I merely meant he ought to enjoy life while he can, without duty dictating to him.”

His mother pouted. “You implied a man cannot enjoy life if he is married.”

“I did not say that,” his father murmured.

“You did say it,” his mother persisted.

Adrian held up a hand. “Do not argue over this.”

His mother pressed her mouth closed, but his father lifted her chin and gave her a light kiss on the lips.

She reluctantly smiled.

His father kissed her again and strode over to a side cupboard, removing a decanter of sherry and three glasses. “Marriage is a great responsibility,” he said to Adrian. “I do not encourage you to marry now, while you are engaged in such dissipation. I urge you to show more restraint. Stop the drinking.” As he spoke Adrian’s father poured sherry into the glasses and handed one to his wife and one to Adrian.

Adrian almost laughed. Only his father could chastise him for drinking at the same moment as handing him a drink.

His mother took her glass. “Well, I do urge you to look about for a wife. There is no hurry for it, I agree, but you might as well discover who will be out next Season.”

Adrian set his glass down on the table.

All he could think was that had Lydia accepted his proposal all those months ago, he’d have no reason to become dissipated.

But Lydia had not accepted him.

Adrian picked up the glass of sherry and drained it of its contents.

As soon as he was able, he extricated himself from the insane asylum that was his parents’ townhouse and headed back home, vowing to be more discreet in his activities so the details did not get whispered in his father’s ear.

Adrian winced at the brightness of the day. The sky was a milky white and hurt his aching eyes if he looked up. He tilted his head just enough to keep his eyes shaded by the brim of his hat. He neared Hill Street, depressing his spirits even more. All of London was depressing him.

Perhaps he should visit Tanner after all. Tanner had written to invite him to Scotland where he and his wife were spending the summer months and awaiting the birth of their first child.

Ha! Not likely he would be welcome there. What was this with having babies? Was every woman bearing a child this summer?

Adrian vowed he would not think of that. Nor of Lydia refusing his proposal.

But Tanner had also offered Adrian another of his estates, Nickerham Priory in Sussex. Adrian had visited Nickerham with Tanner on Tanner’s tour of his properties the year before and could agree it would be an excellent place to spend a summer. High on a cliff overlooking the sea and cooled by sea breezes, there would be nothing to do but ride the South Downs or walk along the seashore.

Adrian might very possibly go insane there, left to nothing but his own company and his own thoughts.

Vowing to write Tanner a gracious return letter this very day—or tomorrow—Adrian crossed into Hill Street. He rarely walked through Mayfair without finding himself passing by Lydia’s townhouse.

He spied the reporters lounging about her door and became angry on her behalf all over again. The leeches. Why did they not leave the lady in peace? Why could they not content themselves with writing about the thousands of weavers assembling in Carlisle in protest against low wages, the trade crisis in Frankfurt, or an earthquake near Rome? Why devote so much space to speculation about Lydia? He’d read in the papers that the father of her child was anyone from the Prince Regent to a passing gypsy.

Was she in good health? he wondered. Bearing children might be the most natural thing in the world, but many women died from it. Babies died, as well. His mother had borne Adrian a brother and sister, neither of whom had lived longer than a few days.

Staying on the opposite side of the street, Adrian tried not to glance at her house. Another gentleman approached in the opposite direction.

“Good day to you, Cavanley.” The gentleman greeted him in clipped, but jovial tones.

“Crayden.” Adrian tipped his hat.

Crayden possessed thick black hair that women fancied and a face that always held a smug expression. Adrian was not among Crayden’s admirers. Crayden curried any favour that was possible to curry. He insinuated himself into investments lucrative enough to keep his debt-ridden estate from doom’s door, but he was equally as likely to drop a friendship if it failed to gain him a profit.

Lord Crayden smiled his ingratiating smile and put his hand on Adrian’s shoulder as if he was accustomed to sharing confidences with him. “I suppose I shall have to run the gauntlet, eh? I am calling upon Lady Wexin, you know.”

No, Adrian didn’t know, and he did not very much like knowing it now. What business did this ferret have with Lydia? Lydia’s fortune was modest, Adrian knew for a fact, having been the one to restore it.

“Are you?” Adrian said.

“I am indeed.” Crayden clapped Adrian on the shoulder and winked. He crossed the street and ploughed right into the nest of newspaper men, who clamoured after him, waving their hands and asking him questions.

Adrian watched as Lydia’s butler answered the door, and Crayden said with a voice loud enough to reach Adrian’s ears, “Lord Crayden to see Lady Wexin.”

The reporters all pressed forwards, yelling their questions. After Crayden gained entry and the door was closed again, the newspaper men buzzed among themselves for a moment, before turning to look towards Adrian.

Adrian hurried on his way.

Lydia walked to the window of the drawing room and peeked through a gap in the curtain. She thought she’d heard a commotion outside. The newspaper men were still there, all talking about something, but it was not their vile presence that caught her attention, but the figure of a man across the street, looking towards her house.

She’d know Adrian anywhere, even from such a distance, even with his hat shading his face. Had he decided to call upon her again? Even though she’d refused him?

No one called upon her. No one except Lord Levenhorne and he did so merely to check the size of her waistline.

She ought to feel outrage that Adrian would ignore her wishes so blatantly, but instead she felt flushed with excitement. The baby kicked inside her. The baby kicked often now and would be born soon, the physician who attended her said.

She rushed over to the mirror above the fireplace and checked her appearance. Her hair hung undressed in a plait down her back. The gown she wore was an old one Mary had let out so her now larger breasts would not spill over the bodice, and her big tummy would be shrouded by a full skirt. She contemplated changing, but feared nothing else would be ready to wear except nightdresses and robes, and she did not trust herself in such attire around Adrian.

In any event, there was no time, because Dixon entered the room. “There is a Lord Crayden to see you, my lady.”

“What?” She thought she had misheard him.

“Lord Crayden, my lady.” He held out the gentleman’s card.

She stared at it, her spirits plummeting. It was Adrian she wanted to see, wanted to be with even for a little while. She pined to see his eyes filled with concern for her, to feel less alone in his presence.

“But why would this gentleman call upon me?” She handed the card back to Dixon.

She had not even seen Lord Crayden in an age. He had once been a suitor, but never a favoured one. He had no connection to her family or to Wexin’s. He certainly was not a friend. His biggest shortcoming, however, was that he was not Adrian.

“I do not want to see him,” she said.

Dixon bowed. “Very well, my lady.” He turned to leave.

“Wait.” She stopped him. “Do you suppose he has been abroad and brings news of my parents?”

It was the only reason she could think of that the gentleman would call. One letter from her parents, dated months ago, had finally reached her from India, but, from its contents, it was apparent that none of Lydia’s letters had reached them.

“He did not say so, my lady,” Dixon replied.

“Well, send him up, I suppose.”

A few minutes later Crayden was announced.

“Lady Wexin.” He bowed.

She took a step towards him. “Lord Crayden, do you bring me news?”

“News?” He looked puzzled.

“Of my parents? My brother?” She braced herself.

He blinked. “They are abroad, are they not?”

She released a frustrated breath. “You do not bring news of my family? Why are you here?”

He smiled, showing his white, even teeth. “I call merely to inquire after your health—and to offer my condolences.”

She did not believe him. “Condolences? I’ve been a widow for three-quarters of a year.”

His expression turned sympathetic. “I thought it best not to cause comment by calling upon you sooner.”

Such as during the brief time after the Queen had died when the newspapers had left her alone? “So you choose now when I am written of daily, with one man after another connected to my name?”

He gave no indication he perceived her barb. “I thought you might need a friend at this difficult time.”

When Adrian had offered her friendship she had almost believed him. This man she believed not at all.

“Lord Crayden, I knew you only very briefly during my come-out.” And then she’d refused his suit. “It is presumptuous of you to call upon me. Indeed, it makes me very unhappy. You expose me to more gossip I do not deserve.”

A wounded look crossed his face. “My lady, my intentions are honourable, I assure you. I have always had a regard for you, as you well know—”

A regard for her dowry, he must mean.

“I have worried over your welfare and could not wait another moment to assure myself that you were in good health.”

“Be assured, then, Lord Crayden, to what is none of your concern.” Her tone was sharp.

She walked towards the door Dixon had left open. She trusted the butler was nearby.

“I am delighted to know you are well,” Crayden continued, undaunted. “I shall rest easier at night.”

“That is splendid,” she said with great sarcasm, gesturing to the door. “You can have no other business here, then.”

He bowed again. “I shall take my leave of you, my dear lady, but I fear you will not be gone from my thoughts.”

She laughed drily. “I have become quite used to people thinking of me. Good day, sir.”

As he walked past her to the door, he bowed again.

After he left, her biggest regret at his visit was that he’d not been Adrian.

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