Rumours in the Regency Ballroom

“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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