Rumours in the Regency Ballroom
“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.