Kitabı oku: «Rumours in the Regency Ballroom», sayfa 3

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.”