Diane Gaston - Rumours in the Regency Ballroom - Scandalising the Ton / Gallant Officer, Forbidden Lady

Levenhorne coughed. “I’ve seen what you wrote.”

Samuel nodded. “I wonder, my lord, what you can tell me about the lady. My sources inform me that she is to bear a child—”

“That, unfortunately, appears to be true—” Levenhorne seemed to catch himself. He stopped talking and peered more closely at Samuel. “These are family matters, Reed. Not the stuff for newspapers.”

Samuel took the liberty of advancing one step closer. “Ah, but I have a reporter’s sense, and I believe there is a story in Lady Wexin.” He gave Levenhorne an intent look. “If she produces a son, he will inherit Wexin’s property and title, is that not correct?”

“Such as it is,” the man murmured just loud enough for Samuel to hear him.

“And you will inherit if she produces a daughter, or if the child is not born in time.”

“That is so,” Levenhorne said in a careful voice.

“If this child is not Wexin’s, however…”

Levenhorne leaned forwards. “What do you know?”

The man was interested. Samuel had him. Levenhorne would tell him what he wanted to know. He spoke carefully. “I am speculating that Lady Wexin’s child is not Wexin’s.”

Levenhorne rubbed his chin. “She certainly did not appear to be a woman in her sixth month.”

Samuel almost smiled. He had his verification. Lady Wexin was breeding and the baby was not her husband’s.

Levenhorne waved his hand. “It is of no consequence. All she must do is give birth in time and it bloody well doesn’t matter who the father is.”

Samuel gave Levenhorne an earnest look. “But what if my newspaper can bring pressure on the lady to openly identify the father? Would not there be a chance she’d marry the fellow? If they both acknowledge the baby as that other man’s, then the inheritance goes to you.”

“Indeed,” said Levenhorne in a contemplative voice.

“I will write the story. We have four months to put pressure on her.” Four months of building sales of the newspaper. Everyone would want to see what next would happen with the scandalous Lady Wexin. “All I ask is that you support the idea that another man is the father.”

“I do support it,” said his lordship.

“I am in your debt, then, my lord.” Samuel bowed again. “If you hear anything about who the man may be, please send word to me.”

Levenhorne stood and extended his hand. “I will do so, indeed, sir.”

The question remains—who is the father of Lady W—’s child? The time advances quickly that will tell for certain if the baby is the late Lord W—’s heir or another man’s child.— The New Observer , July 21, 1819

On this warm July day, almost three and a half months after Samuel had first broken the news of Lady W’s interesting condition , a gentleman walked into The New Observer office where Samuel and his brother Phillip sat at their desks. The man’s white pantaloons were so tight his legs seemed made of wood. His blue coat fitted so well his forearms barely budged from his sides. With some difficulty he reached up to remove his high-crowned beaver hat. With this in one hand, he struggled to pull a white handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow.

Samuel cast a glance at his brother, and Phillip clamped his mouth shut, a cough covering laughter.

“I wonder if I might speak to Mr Reed,” the fashionable creature said in a voice as soft as the fabric of his pristine neckcloth.

“Which one?” Phillip asked him.

“Is there more than one? Oh, dear.” His eyelids fluttered. “I desire to speak to the Mr Reed who writes about Lady Wexin—I beg your pardon—I mean Lady W.”

“You want Samuel Reed,” Phillip said.

“Do I?” He made a slight bow. “Then perhaps you might tell me how I might get hold of him.”

Samuel stood. “I am Samuel Reed, sir, and you are?”

The man tittered. “I must beg pardon once more. I ought to have presented myself. I am Lord Chasey, at your service.” He bowed again.

“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.