Читать книгу The Perfect Scandal - Delilah Marvelle - Страница 11

Gossip is but a weapon that enables many in society to sustain power over those that threaten their way of thinking and their way of life. Retain your power by not giving them anything to gossip about. Life will be boring, yes, but it is far better than dealing with a fucking mess.

—How To Avoid A Scandal, Moreland’s Original Manuscript

The following day

11:45 a.m.

SO MUCH FOR TAKING A TURN about the square.

Or ever leaving the house again.

For some reason, an endless parade of calling cards had been delivered to Zosia’s door over the span of one short hour. Even more astounding than that was the incredibly long line of gentlemen, as well as servants and footmen in livery sent by their masters, all patiently waiting to deliver more cards to her door. The never-ending line of gentlemen actually rounded about the entire square!

Even long after the butler had politely stepped outside and announced to the crowd that no more cards were being accepted for the day, they all continued to incessantly linger as if expecting the butler to change his mind. Surely, such outrageous behavior, and on such a vast scale, wasn’t normal. Not even for the Brits.

Seeing as none of the footmen were able to answer any of her questions pertaining to this most bizarre situation, she knew it was time to step outside and ask some of these men a few questions of her own.

Zosia swung a slippered foot forward, propelling herself and her crutches across the foyer in the direction of the stout butler and the lanky footman. Both men strategically set themselves between her and the door like the annoying wardens they had all been tasked to be.

She sighed, pausing in the middle of the foyer. “I have a right to know why half of London is standing outside my doorstep. Do I not?”

The butler, Mr. Lawrence, offered an apologetic nod, his tonic-slathered gray hair glinting. “That you do, Countess, but there is no need for concern. We were expecting them.”

She blinked. “We were? All of them?”

“Yes. They came to deliver their cards.” He gestured toward the velvet-lined silver box filled with stacks and stacks of cards, set on the French side table beside the door. “I was instructed to cease accepting any more once the box was full. And as you can see, Countess, the box is quite full.”

Zosia eyed the box and then squinted at the man. “And why are we acquiring such a disturbing number of calling cards?”

“His Majesty intends to personally wade through them.”

“Ah. And I imagine there is a reason for it?”

“Yes, Countess. There is.”

She hesitated, waiting expectantly for said reason. When he did not provide it, despite an insinuated prompt of silence, she sighed. “And what is the reasoning, Mr. Lawrence?”

“His Majesty will decide which of these men are to be granted interviews.”

“Interviews?” she prodded.

“Yes.”

Why did the British never fully convey their thoughts? It was so annoying. She sighed again. “Interviews for what, Mr. Lawrence?”

He cleared his throat. “For your matrimonial consideration. I was notified of it last night by royal courier and thought it best not to alarm you.”

She didn’t know whether to be flattered or upset. Shifting against her crutches, she eyed her servants, trying to understand why they seemed to know far more about her own life than she did. After all, she was the one expected to take a husband. Not them. “Why would His Majesty call for my matters to be conducted so publicly? It is neither respectable or acceptable to have this many men loitering outside my home.”

Bringing his white-gloved hands together, Mr. Lawrence respectfully replied, “We are all but loyal subjects. We never question His Majesty’s intent.”

“Someone ought to.” The naughty old sovereign, though kind, was proving to be more of a nuisance than a salvation. Not even a week after her arrival in England from Warszawa, the man had demanded she grace him with an appearance in his private apartment. At night. Alone.

When he wouldn’t desist, and had even tried to pussyfoot his way into her private chamber, she’d politely informed His Majesty that she was going to require quarters outside the palace lest she set fire to the throne room. Arrangements for separate quarters were granted without resistance or delay. Only now she had this to contend with.

The bell rang yet again, annoyingly echoing throughout the vast corridor, reminding them of the crowd impatiently loitering outside. Only this time, the large knocker was being pounded against the door, causing them all to pause and glance toward the bolted entrance.

The butler turned and motioned to the footman. “‘Tis best we take precautions. Watkins? Escort the Countess to her room and ensure she remains there until royal guards arrive and disperse the remaining crowd.”

“Yes, Mr. Lawrence.” Watkins advanced, politely gesturing toward the direction she was supposed to go.

Zosia shifted against the padded crutches digging into the pits of her arms. She was not about to hide in her room merely because one of the men had decided to use the knocker. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I have no desire for this to give way to a riot. ‘Tis obvious you are in need of intelligent leadership and I intend to offer it. Mr. Lawrence, open the door and keep taking their cards until the guards arrive. Mr. Watkins, you will coordinate the line to ensure order. That should provide enough structure to keep the masses from panicking.”

The butler sniffed. “Remove her from the foyer, Watkins.”

The footman leaned toward her, gently touching her arm in an awkward form of compliance. “Countess. If you would please—”

“No. I will not please.” She shifted away and glared at them. “Need I remind you both, gentlemen, that I am not the one getting paid to serve you. You are the ones getting paid to serve me. Now, for the better good of our safety, as well as the safety of those unfortunate souls being forced to wait in that crowd outside, open the door and do as you are told. ‘Tis a simple matter of courtesy that will ensure order until the guards arrive.”

The butler set his jaw and hastened toward them. “I think it best we take away her crutches, Watkins.”

She gasped and clutched at the oak posts holding her up. “You will do no such thing!”

Watkins jerked toward the old man. “Mr. Lawrence. You don’t expect me to actually—”

“Do as you are told, boy,” the butler commanded in a harsh tone. “Or you will find yourself without a position or a reference. You know our orders. To oppose them is to oppose your own King.”

Zosia lowered her chin in disbelief as Watkins sighed, leaned toward her and tried grabbing hold of her right crutch. She jerked away, stumbling against her crutches and tightening her hold, hopped back on her one foot. “This is outrageous! How dare you—I demand to know what orders His Majesty has given and why!”

Watkins grabbed hold of her crutch again and yanked at it, each pull growing all the more firm and insistent. “I will carry you upstairs, Countess.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No one ever carries me. I carry myself. Now I am demanding you disclose your orders.”

“Those orders are confidential,” the butler supplied in a flat tone. “Now, please—”

“No! I—” She gritted her teeth and savagely held onto her crutches, despite swaying against Watkins’s each yank and tug. Since when was it acceptable for servants to assault their mistress in the name of the King, who was supposed to be her protector?

Her bare fingers slid against the smooth oak, her grip loosening bit by bit. Though she didn’t need her crutches to balance herself on one foot, her very dignity was being pried away. And while she couldn’t physically take them on, unless she planned on beating them with the crutches they were so intent on having, she supposed there was only one way to go about this. She would unleash a weapon no man expected a genteel lady to use. A weapon she hadn’t used since she was ten, and one she hoped would also draw the attention of every single man outside.

Sucking in a huge breath, Zosia released a long, piercing scream that pulsed against the respectable silence surrounding them.

Watkins jumped away, releasing his hold on both crutches. His eyes bulged as he snapped up both gloved hands. “Countess! Please. Stop! Mr. Lawrence, what—”

A rapid pounding against the door rattled the crystal chandelier above as a male voice boomed from the other side, “Open this door! Open the goddamn door! Now!”

Zosia paused, bringing an abrupt end to her charade, and regally eyed the butler, well satisfied with the result it had produced. “It appears we have our very first concerned citizen. I suggest you open the door, Mr. Lawrence, or I will continue screaming and make every man outside think I am in desperate need of assistance. Then it will be your safety at stake. Not mine.”

Mr. Lawrence’s eyes widened. He edged back, then heaved out a sigh and muttered something, his thin lips curling. Swinging his stout frame toward the door, he unbolted the latch and fanned it open just wide enough for her to peer past the opening beyond his shoulder.

Shouts echoed from the street as men frantically pushed and shoved their way up the stairs, holding out and waving their cards. Zosia sucked in an astonished breath, not only in response to the chaos, but in recognizing the man looming in the doorway just beyond the butler.

Lord Moreland.