Diane Gaston - Scandalising the Ton

“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.

“Anything interesting in the out-of-town papers?” Samuel asked.

“Not much…” Phillip’s voice trailed off.

Like all the newspapers, they freely stole from others, often passing the stories off as their own. Every day Phillip perused the out-of-town papers looking for the sort of sensational and unusual stories that fitted their requirements.

The New Observer had other reporters besides Samuel to provide shocking or remarkable items from all around London, including the seediest neighbourhoods. Fascination with the most lofty and with the lowest, that was what the Reed brothers banked upon.

Samuel rose and sauntered towards the window. At least the rain had passed. The previous day had been nothing but rain, and, therefore, precious little news.

“Here’s something.” Phillip leaned forwards. “Fellow in Mile End set a spring gun to shoot at intruders. Except his own feet tripped the wire and he shot himself. Died from it.”

“That’s reasonably interesting.”

“Not to the fellow who died.” His brother laughed.

Phillip picked up another paper and read. “The spinners are still rioting in Manchester.” He rolled up the paper and tapped it on the desk. “What news of Lady Wexin?”

Lady Wexin guaranteed profit.

“Nothing from yesterday because of the rain.” Samuel examined the grey sky. “If you send someone else to watch her house today, I will set about discovering the identity of the gentleman who came to her aid.”

Phillip grinned. “The gentleman who rescued her from you, do you mean?”

Samuel returned the smile. “I mean precisely that.”

Samuel had a plan to scour St James’s Street where White’s and Brooks’s were located. Whether this fellow be Tory or Whig, he’d walk down St James’s Street to reach his club.

Phillip crossed his arms over his chest. “Her Majesty the Queen is doing poorly. We need some detail about her illness that the other papers do not know.”

Another priority of the paper was royal news, and the Reed brothers would not make the same mistake as Leigh and John Hunt, who went to prison for printing a mild criticism of the Prince Regent in the Examiner . The New Observer lavished praise on the royals.

“Do not send me to Kew Palace, I beg you.” Samuel was eager to pursue what he considered his story. Lady Wexin.

“I would not dream of it.” His brother waved his hand. “Hurry out there and find your gentleman.”

Samuel soon found himself strolling back and forth on St James’s Street, trying to look as if he had business there. He’d been strolling in the vicinity for at least an hour and was prepared to do so all day long, if necessary, until he laid eyes upon the gentleman who had come to Lady Wexin’s assistance.

Samuel had done a great deal of thinking about why the lady would have ventured out alone that day. When he had first spied her, she’d been walking from the direction of the shops, but it was quite unlikely that a lady would visit the shops in the afternoon. That was the time young bucks lounged on street corners to watch gentlemen with their less-than-ladylike companions saunter by.

It was more likely Lady Wexin had been calling upon someone, but who? Samuel had not known her to make social calls since her husband’s story became known.

Samuel’s scanty exclusive—knowledge that she’d been out and about alone and knowledge that a fine-looking gentleman had come to her aid—still gave him an edge over the other reporters who wasted their time watching her front door. All he needed was the tiniest piece of new information. Samuel was skilled at taking the tiniest bits of scandal and inflating them larger than any hot-air balloon.

Samuel reached the corner of St James’s and Piccadilly, sweeping Piccadilly Street with his gaze.

Carriages and riders crowded the thoroughfare, and the pavement abounded with men in tall beaver hats and caped topcoats. Curses to that Beau Brummell. Gentlemen dressed too much the same these days because of him. Samuel searched for a man taller than average, one who carried himself like a Corinthian.

Such a man appeared in the distance. Samuel shaded his eyes with his hand and watched him for several seconds. He decided to come closer. Samuel crossed Piccadilly and walked towards him, holding on to the brim of his hat so the man would not see his face.

Within a foot of the man, Samuel’s excitement grew. This was the one! His instincts never failed.

Samuel walked past the gentleman and doubled back as soon as he could, quickening his step. If he could follow close behind, perhaps he would hear someone greet the man by name.

To Samuel’s surprise, the gentleman turned into New Bond Street. Samuel almost lost him when several nattily attired young fellows, laughing and shoving each other, blocked his way. His view cleared in time to see the man enter the jewellers Stedman & Vardon.