Rumours in the Regency Ballroom. Diane Gaston

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ