Rumours in the Regency Ballroom. Diane Gaston

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ