Diane Gaston - Rumours in the Regency Ballroom

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 spoke in as non-committal a voice as he could.

“Increasing,” repeated Levenhorne. “And if she produces a son within the ten-month period, the title and property go to him.”

“And not to you.” Adrian made himself take a sip of coffee.

“Not to me.”

Adrian gave him what he hoped was a puzzled look. “But I thought you lamented this inheritance, saying Wexin had riddled it with debt.”

The man grimaced. “That was before Mr Coutts persuaded me to fund some rather substantial repairs to the buildings on Wexin’s estate and to finance the spring planting.”

“Ah,” Adrian said.

“Thing is, it is a good piece of property, worthy of the investment. Prime land. Could make an excellent profit.” Levenhorne shook his head in dismay. “I had no intention of providing for Lady Wexin’s brat, however. Let her father do that. I dare say he can afford it better than I.”

“Has her father returned from his tour?” Adrian asked.

Levenhorne shook his head. “Not that I have heard. God knows what has happened to them. No one has heard from them, it is said.” He bowed his head. “I’m afraid I was unforgivably rude to Lady Wexin. Said the baby could not be Wexin’s.”

Adrian took the creased newspaper in his hand and pretended to read it for the first time. “It says nothing of that here.”

“I know.” Levenhorne tapped his fingers on his coffee cup. “Besides, who else could have fathered the child? The lady is a recluse.”

But not by her desire. Because the society whose darling she once had been had turned its back on her. And Adrian knew precisely who else could have fathered the child.

Levenhorne’s eyes widened. “I say, Cavanley. You will say nothing of this, will you? I’d prefer no one knew I spent good money on that blasted estate. I probably ought not to have spoken so plainly.”

Adrian waved a hand. “I’ll speak of it to no one, you have my word.”

Levenhorne stared into his coffee for what seemed like a long time. “The more I think of it, the more I think that baby is not Wexin’s. Too much time has passed. Conception would have to have taken place in October before Wexin travelled to Scotland. She’d be six months along and, let me tell you, at six months, my wife’s belly was always bigger than this lady’s.”

Adrian frowned. He knew nothing of such matters, but he did know that it had been almost five months to the day that he’d lain with Lydia.

Levenhorne pounded his fist on the table. “She’s pulling a fast one on me, I’d wager on it, and she has my hands tied until the ten months is over. Crafty wench. There’s not a blasted thing I can do about it.” He sighed. “Except hope the baby comes late or she pushes out a girl.”

Adrian made himself sit very still lest he launch himself over the table and put a fist into the other man’s face.

This child, girl or boy, to which Levenhorne so scathingly referred, might be Adrian’s, and Lydia did not deserve to be spoken of in such a coarse manner.

Adrian stood. “Forgive me, Levenhorne. I must be on my way.”

Levenhorne glanced up at him again. “I have your word you will tell no one of our conversation?”

“You have my word.”

Adrian walked out, collected his hat and gloves and left White’s. He headed back into Mayfair, again walking by Lydia’s house.

The reporters still clustered. He did not see Samuel Reed, the man who seemed to know more and do more damage than the others.

Adrian continued past the house. He decided he must gain entry in another way besides knocking upon her door in front of the London press. He’d return when daylight was gone, and somehow, some way, he’d speak to Lydia before the dawn of a new day.

Reed stood near Lady Wexin’s side gate. Night was falling and he waited with anticipation for Mary to appear.

Sweet Mary. He liked meeting her this way, in secret, at a time he might pull her into a dark corner and steal a few kisses. He liked it a bit too much, knowing he must eventually cut off the liaison. He just hoped he could do it without her discovering his true purpose for romancing her. Dear sweet Mary. He despised the idea of causing her that kind of hurt.

He heard the familiar creak of the gate and stepped out from the shadows. She ran towards him, propelling herself into his arms.

“Oh, Samuel, I am so glad to see you,” she cried against his chest.

She was hatless and wore only a thin knitted shawl over her dress to ward off the evening’s chill. He wrapped his arms around her tighter.

“I am glad to see you, too,” he responded truthfully. She smelled so clean. Of lavender and soap.

She clung to him. “I have had the most wretched day!”

He kissed her on top of her head, his heart beating faster. “Tell me what has happened.”

“Well, the reporters are back.” She moved out of his embrace and rearranged her shawl. “One of them wrote something in the newspaper, and now they are all back.”

“What did he write?” As if Samuel did not know.

Her hand fluttered to her forehead. “I do not know, really, but it upset m’lady.”

He reached for her again. “Is that all it is? Newspaper reporters?”

She didn’t fall back into his arms as he’d hoped. “And then his lordship came.”

“His lordship?” Samuel felt a rush of excitement.

“Lord Levenhorne. He inherits Lord Wexin’s estate.” She paused. “Unless…”

“Unless what?”

She shook her head and her curls bounced around her face. “Oh, I do not understand all this. I just know m’lady is made unhappy by it.”

He took her in his arms once again. “Do not fret, love. Is it about money? Wealthy people seem always to distress themselves about money.”

She snuggled against him. “I suspect so. It is about the inheritance at any rate.”

She felt so good next to him that he could hardly think and hardly wanted to. Mary had never actually told him Lady Wexin was going to have a child, but she’d skirted around the topic enough for him to guess.

Mary lifted her face and looked at him with her huge, trusting eyes. Samuel felt a twinge of conscience for pressing her. Enough for one night. He could concentrate on Lord Levenhorne next and just enjoy being with Mary for a while.

He dipped his head and touched his lips to hers, so soft and sweet.

Yes, he would enjoy these stolen kisses with Mary. He would enjoy them very much.

Does she hide out of shame? What would it be like, we wonder, Dear Readers, to carry the child of a murderer in one’s womb? — The New Observer , April 11, 1819