Читать книгу Rumours in the Regency Ballroom - Diane Gaston - Страница 11

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.

Jewellers?

Already Samuel had begun spinning stories of why the gentleman should enter a jewellery shop, all of them involving Lady Wexin. He preferred learning the real story. True stories had a way of being more fantastic than anything he could conjure up.

Samuel wandered to the doorway of the shop and peeked in. The gentleman spoke to the shop assistant and suddenly turned around to head back out the door. Samuel ducked aside as the man brushed past him.

Samuel ran inside the shop. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Who was that gentleman?”

The shop assistant looked up. “The gentleman who was just here?”

“Yes. Yes.” Samuel glanced towards the door. He did not want to lose track of the man.

“Lord Cavanley, do you mean?”

“Cavanley!” Samuel’s voice was jubilant. “Thank you, sir.” He rushed out of the shop in time to catch a disappearing glimpse of the gentleman.

Lord Cavanley. Samuel did not know of a Lord Cavanley, but it should be an easy matter to learn about him.

Samuel hurried to catch up. He followed Cavanley to Sackville Street where he entered another jewellery shop. Puzzling. Perhaps Cavanley was searching for the perfect jewel. He did not, however, even glance at the sparkling gems displayed on black velvet beneath glass cases. He merely conversed with the older man with balding pate and spectacles. The jeweller, perhaps? In any event, the man seemed somewhat reluctant to speak to this lord.

Finally the jeweller nodded in seeming resignation and said something that apparently satisfied Cavanley. The men shook hands, the jeweller bowed, and Lord Cavanley strode out the door. Samuel turned quickly and pretended to examine something in the shop window next door.

After Cavanley passed by him, Samuel entered the shop. He smiled at the jeweller. “Good day to you, sir. I saw you with Lord Cavanley a moment ago. Did he make a purchase?”

The jeweller’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

Samuel dug into his pocket and pulled out his card. “I am a reporter for The New Observer. I am certain my readers would relish knowing what lovely object Lord Cavanley purchased.”

The man frowned and the wrinkles in his face deepened. “His lordship purchased nothing, so you may go on your way.”

“He purchased nothing?” Samuel, of course, had already surmised this. “Then what was his purpose here, I wonder?”

The jeweller peered at Samuel from over his spectacles. “Wonder all you wish. I am not about to tell you the business of a patron, am I now?”

Samuel gave the man his most congenial look. “I assure you, kind sir, our readers would relish knowing where a man with such exquisite taste in jewellery would shop. I dare say one mention of your establishment in our newspaper will bring you more customers than you can imagine.”

“Hmph.” The jeweller crossed his arms over his chest. “I am more interested in keeping the customers I have, thank you very much. Telling the world what they buy from me will not win me their loyalty.”

“Sir—”

The man held up a hand. “No. No more talking.” Another customer, more finely dressed than Samuel, entered the shop. “I must attend to this gentleman. Good day now. Run along.”

Dismissed like an errant schoolboy.

Samuel bit down on a scathing retort. He might have need of this jeweller at a later time and he’d best not antagonise him. Back out on the pavement, he scanned the street for Lord Cavanley, but too much time had passed and the man was gone.

Samuel pushed his hat more firmly upon his head and turned in the direction of The New Observer offices. He planned to learn all he could about this Lord Cavanley. He’d start with old issues of their rival newspapers saved for just such a purpose.

Adrian dashed to a line of hackney coaches. “Thomas Coutts and Company on the Strand, if you please.” He climbed in and leaned back against the leather seat.

At that last shop Mr Gray had confirmed what Adrian had suspected. Lydia had sold her jewels.

A lady did not resort to selling her jewels unless she was in desperate need of money. No matter her protestations to him, she was skimping on coal and candles, he was certain of it.

It rankled Adrian that Levenhorne and Wexin’s trustee, a banker of considerable wealth, would allow an earl’s wife to exist in such poverty. If her parents and brother were abroad and her sister forbidden to assist her, to whom could the lady turn for help?

Adrian had no connection to her, nor any obligation. It would certainly be commented upon if he stepped forwards to assist her, but assist her he would. In secret.

He smiled as the hackney coach swayed and bounced over the cobbled streets. At least he’d found something of interest to occupy his time. Solving the puzzle that was Lydia and easing her troubles seemed a better purpose than seating himself at a card table, checking out good horseflesh or, God forbid, entangling himself with Viola Denson. It mattered not one whit to Adrian that no one would know of it, least of all Lydia.

Although a part of him would not mind having Lydia look upon him with sapphire eyes filled with gratitude.

He shook that thought away. The coach passed Charing Cross as it turned into the Strand, and Adrian had a whiff of the Thames. He mulled over his plan until the hack stopped in front of Thomas Coutts and Company, a bank favoured by aristocrats and royalty. Adrian climbed down from the hack and paid its jarvey. He entered the bank.

In the marbled and pillared hall Adrian approached an attendant and identified himself. “I wish to speak with Mr Coutts. He is expecting me, I believe.”

Earlier that morning Adrian had sent a message to Mr Coutts, telling of his intention to call.

The attendant escorted him to a chair and returned shortly to lead him to Mr Coutts’s office.

AsAdrian entered the room, the old gentleman rose from his seat behind a polished mahogany desk. “Ah, Lord Cavanley.”

Adrian extended his hand. “Mr Coutts, it is a pleasure. Thank you for seeing me.”

Coutts gestured for Adrian to sit. “Your note indicated that you wished to discuss Lord Wexin’s estate?” The man looked wary.

Adrian smiled. “On behalf of a friend.”

Mr Coutts nodded. “It is a trying affair, but I suspect there is little I might do for you. Allow me to direct you to Wexin’s solicitor, who is tending to the entire matter.”

“I would be grateful.”

“Delighted,” said Mr Coutts. “And how is your father? And the Marquess of Tannerton?”

Adrian responded, accustomed to people asking him about Tanner. In fact, in this situation, he’d counted upon it. Mr Coutts scribbled the direction of Wexin’s solicitor on a sheet of paper and handed it to Adrian.

The solicitor’s office was close by and Adrian quickly found the building and entered. A moment later he had been admitted to the man’s office.

The solicitor was a younger man, near Adrian’s age, but obviously trusted with a great deal more responsibility. His desk was littered with papers that he hurriedly stacked into neat piles at Adrian’s entrance.

“I am Mr Newton, my lord,” he said.

Adrian shook his hand and explained his purpose, stressing it was at the behest of a friend that he inquired about Lady Wexin’s financial affairs.

Adrian’s intention was to imply to Mr Newton that Lydia’s benefactor was Tanner, not Adrian. It was widely known that Tanner was a generous man, the sort of man who would assist Wexin’s widow. No one would suspect the frivolous Adrian Pomroy of such a thing.

“I am certain you understand that my friend—” Adrian emphasised the word friend “—does not wish his name to be known. He fears the lady would refuse his assistance. My friend would say, however, that it is the right thing for him to do for her.”

Because Tanner had been instrumental in exposing Wexin as a murderer, it was not too much of a leap of the imagination to think that Tanner might feel an obligation to assist Wexin’s innocent widow. In fact, Tanner would be very willing to assist Lydia, if he knew she needed help. He was that kind of man.

Mr Newton blinked rapidly. “Of course, sir.”

Adrian nodded. “The mar—my friend, I mean—” he smiled “—sent me in his stead. He is anxious to discover if Lady Wexin has any financial difficulty and, if so, charges me to see it remedied.”

“I do understand.” Newton gestured to a chair and waited for Adrian to sit. “Would you care for tea?”

“No, thank you.” Adrian lowered himself into the chair. “Tell me about Wexin’s finances.”

Newton rubbed his face. “Wexin’s debts, you mean.” He peered at Adrian. “We speak in complete confidence, I presume.”

“Indeed,” Adrian agreed.

“Because even Lord Levenhorne does not know how bad it is.” Newton leaned over the desk. “There is nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Worse than nothing. The townhouse is mortgaged to the hilt. There is only the entailed property, but even that is mortgaged, and it provides nothing to Lady Wexin. There is no money for Lady Wexin’s widow’s portion. I do not know how she is getting on. I have been unable to give her any funds at all.” His hand fluttered. “She assures me she is able to manage, but I do not see how.”

Adrian’s chest constricted. “It is as I—we—feared.” He straightened in his chair. “Tell us what needs to be done.”

Newton pulled out a wooden box, opened the lid, and lifted out a handful of small pieces of paper, letting them flow through his fingers like water. “Gentlemen have sent their vowels.” He picked up a stack of papers. “Shopkeepers have delivered their bills—”

Adrian had no interest in Wexin’s debts. His purpose here was solely for Lydia. “What was the marriage settlement supposed to provide Lady Wexin?”

Newton closed the lid of the box. “In the event of Wexin’s death, she was to receive the amount of her dower and the Mayfair townhouse.”

Adrian could guess the value of the townhouse. “And the value of the dowry?”

“Nine thousand pounds.”

Adrian leaned back and drummed his fingers on the mahogany arms of the chair. He calculated the sums in his head and leaned forwards again. “This is what I will do…” Adrian glanced up at Newton. “On my friend’s behalf, I will assume the mortgage of the townhouse.” Levenhorne said the house had been a gift from Lydia’s father. Adrian would give it back to her. “And I will restore the dowry, but only under the stipulation that creditors are not to seek redress from Lady Wexin. Any debt must be attached to what was Wexin’s.”

Newton’s jaw dropped. “Your friend would pay so much?”

“He can afford the sum.” Adrian smiled inwardly.

It was a staggering amount, but one Adrian was well able to afford. For years he had kept his gambling winnings, and the investments made from them, separate from his quarterly portion. It had been a game he played with himself to see how much he could win and also how much he could afford to lose. His quarterly portion from his father was more than adequate for his other needs.

He’d done quite well at the game, quite well indeed, so well that he could restore Lydia’s widow’s portion, keep her in her London house and still have plenty of gambling money left over.

“My friend wishes the lady to have fifty pounds immediately and to have the townhouse in her name.”

Newton nodded, his eyes still wide with disbelief.

Adrian pointed to the wooden box. “How many unpaid bills pertain to the lady’s belongings or to the contents of the house?”

Newton riffled through the papers again. “I would have to do a careful calculation, but it is not as bad a debt as some of the others. Perhaps as much as two hundred pounds?”

“Those will be paid as well. I want—and my friend wants, as well—that Wexin’s debts do not cause her any more suffering.”

“I understand completely, sir.” Newton’s mouth widened into a smile.

Adrian returned the expression. “Need I add that no hint, no speculation as to the identity of her benefactor must ever be divulged to her? Or my small part in this?”

Newton gave him a level gaze. “It will be kept in complete confidence. I have been successful in keeping the extent of Wexin’s debts from becoming public knowledge, and I certainly can keep Lady Wexin’s affairs private.”

Affairs.

The word sparked the memory of Adrian’s very brief affair with Lydia, an affair she was loath to continue.

He supposed he was mad for bestowing a small fortune on a woman who wanted nothing to do with him. It was not like him to invest time or money in a lady who had no regard for him, but what would happen to Lydia if he did not assist her? He was investing in her happiness, a divergence from indulging in his own.

What’s more, it was his money to do with as he wished. And he wished to do good with it, to feel a scant bit useful in this world. Besides, it gave him a new game to play, to see how long it would take to recoup the amount of money he had invested in Lydia. How many card games and horse races and other wagering would he have to engage in before he earned back the total amount? It was a game.

Nothing more.

Adrian and Newton completed all the arrangements and shook hands. When Adrian walked back to the Strand, the sun was peeking through the clouds. He headed in the direction of waiting hackney coaches, feeling both exhilarated and deflated.

The next morning from the drawing-room window, Lydia watched Mr Newton leave her townhouse. As soon as he stepped onto The pavement, he was accosted by a throng of newspaper men. Mr Newton pushed his way through them, waving a hand and shaking his head.

She breathed a sigh of relief. Mr Newton had not stopped to talk to the newspaper men. She ought to have known. Mr Newton had not breathed a word of how distressed Wexin’s finances had been, and still were. It appeared Mr Newton would also not discuss this reversal of her misfortune, this restoring of her finances.

It was too remarkable to be true. Her widow’s portion was restored and the house was securely hers. She had income and a place to live.

Lydia hugged herself and twirled around for joy. The news was too good to keep to herself a moment longer. She dashed out of the room and hurried down the stairs.

“Dixon!” she cried. “Mary! Oh, get Cook! I have something to tell you!”

Mary leaned over the second-floor banister above her. “What is it? What has happened?”

Lydia called up to her. “Come! I will tell you all.” She flew down the stairs to the hall.

Dixon appeared from the back staircase, trailed by Cook wiping her hands on her apron and looking frightened.

Lydia ran up to the woman and gave her a squeeze. “Do not worry. It is good news.”

“Good news from Mr Newton, my lady?” Dixon looked sceptical. There had, after all, been so much bad news from him.

Lydia clasped her hands together. “Oh, it is so unbelievable. It must have been my sister—”

Who else but her sister? Lydia had no indication that her letters had reached her parents. No one else knew of her distressed finances. No one but—

Adrian.

It was unthinkable that he would pay such sums. Ridiculous, even. Her sister’s husband was extremely wealthy. Her sister must have convinced him to do this in secret.

“Tell us, m’lady,” Mary cried.

Lydia took a breath. “Mr Newton informed me that someone—it must have been my sister—has restored my widow’s portion and has signed the house and its contents over to me! Mr Newton assures me the interest on the sixper-cents will give us income enough!”

“Oh, my lady!” Mary exclaimed.

“May God be praised.” Cook fell to her knees. “We can buy food!”

Lydia grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Food and coal and whatever we need!” She turned to the butler. “Will you find our servants, Dixon? Hire those who wish to return and pay the others what we owe them?”

Dixon beamed. “It will be my pleasure.”

Still holding Cook’s hands, Lydia swung her around in a circle. “Everything shall be as it was!”

Not precisely as it was, but so much better than she thought her future ever could be when she’d risen from her bed that morning.

Lydia gave Cook another hug. “We must celebrate today! I even have money to spend! Fifty pounds! We must fill the larder and celebrate!”

“I shall make a dinner fit for King George!” Cook cried.

Lydia swept her arm to include all of them. “We must eat together, though. I insist upon it. Just this once.”

“May I suggest, my lady, that I bring up a bottle of champagne from the cellar?” Dixon asked.

“That would be splendid!” Lydia clapped her hands. “Champagne for dinner.”

Dixon lifted a finger. “I meant immediately, my lady.”

“Yes,” cried Lydia. “Mary, find four glasses, and all join me in the morning room.”

Lydia walked into the morning room, the small parlour off the hall, a room where callers were often asked to wait until they could be announced.

A sound sent her spinning towards the windows.

Outside the reporters, all abuzz, were all facing the house, craning their necks over the railings to try to see into the room.

With a cry, Lydia drew the curtains.

Her celebration did not include them.