Scandal By The Ton

by Virginia Henley

  "Good heavens, don't say anything to Claire," Lavinia said. "She'd be upset to think a Royston could be ruled by any organ south of his brain."

  Julia covered her mouth to prevent her laughter from bubbling forth. She got to her feet and quietly rolled the thick rug over the hole in the floor.

  Dottie rolled her eyes. "Talk about the pot calling the kettle black! Henrietta Bessborough has produced no less than two illegitimate children, which she successfully hid from her husband, who is rumored to be rather abusive."

  "Why on earth would she stay married to a brute?" Julia asked.

  "Because she'd never give up being a countess. To her credit, she did send her daughter Caro to live with Georgiana at Devonshire House."

  "From what I hear, Devonshire House is a gambling den of iniquity, complete with illegitimate children, and a ménage a trois."

  "And those are considered its virtues, not its vices," Dottie quipped.

  "Well, I certainly heard enough today to fill next week's Scandal by the Ton column."

  "Have you decided who will be Tart of the Week?"

  Julia laughed. "There are so many to choose from!"

  The following week, Lord Royston accompanied Claire to an entertainment at Spencer House in St. James's. Lavinia had arranged the soirée so that she could get a good look at the viscount, and watch him in action, so to speak.

  It turned out that Lavinia's husband, John Spencer, knew Nicholas Royston, and when the two males fell into a long conversation, Claire danced with Lavinia's cousin Henry, Earl of Fauconburg.

  The following afternoon, Lavinia visited Claire. "You made quite a conquest last night."

  "Yes, I'm quite encouraged by Lord Royston's attention."

  "My dear Claire, I wasn't speaking of Royston. My cousin Henry was quite enamored."

  "Fauconburg is much younger than I," Claire confided. "I didn't take him seriously."

  "An earl is a much better catch than a viscount. Take it from me, dahling."

  Julia labored over her gossip column, asking her readers if they had heard that the profligate Duke of B had installed a madame at W Abbey. Do you suppose he intends to turn the once religious bastion into a brothel? For the final item she wrote: The scantily-clad, Drury Lane actress Perdita won't be able to fit into her costumes much longer, since she is rumored to be with child. The betting book at White's speculates that Prince Silly Billy is to blame, but the odd on favorite is none other than Mick Royston.

  This week, to deliver Scandal by the Ton, Julia wore the livery of Thomas, their young footman-in-training, complete with white stockings, satin knee-breeches, and tie wig.

  She bowed formally to the editor. "From my mistress Ann, with her compliments, sir."

  The newsroom editor of the London and Country Magazine did not know the identity of Ann Onymous. Sometimes the column was delivered by the newsboy George, other times by a servant, and once in a while by an old lady who looked capable of turning her silver-headed cane into a formidable weapon that could castrate a man.

  At Curzon Street, Michael Royston noticed his brother was still in his riding clothes at five o'clock. "How goes it with the widow?"

  "Not very well, I'm afraid." Nicholas poured himself a glass of claret.

  "Don't tell me there's a female in London immune to your formidable charm?"

  "Actually, I haven't practiced it on Lady Shelborne."

  "Why ever not, Nick old man?"

  "We'd never suit. I've discovered that Claire is rather vapid and shallow, and not nearly as young as she pretends. Now I'm faced with the task of withdrawing without hurting her."

  "You're a bloody diplomat-- I'm sure you'll think of something," Mick said pointedly.

  "Touche. I'll pay her an afternoon call tomorrow and end it cleanly."

  When the London and Country Magazine was delivered the next day, Julia took it upstairs to read in Dottie's sitting-room. Every week the magazine included a fictional story and this was the first thing that Julia always read. Today's story was entitled The Heirs of Gauntry, about a Welsh family.

  "Oh, just listen to this description-- it's absolutely priceless: Mrs. Glyn Meredith was a pale, washed-out, worn-out looking creature, with kind, unmeaning eyes, like nothing but oysters, and a mouth furnished with a number of small, crushed-looking teeth, which she had a habit of half closing, and thus making her speech painfully indistinct to her acquaintances."

  "A most edifying picture," Dottie said dryly.

  "Oh, there's more: There was a pale saffron tinge in her complexion, which, united with light yellow hair and light eyelashes, made her conspicuously like some tortoiseshell cat well up in years; and when she sat slowly blinking her pale eyes, as she always did in sunlight and firelight, one could almost have fancied that one heard her purr. That is such clever writing."

  "Well, I must admit that I can see her, but I don't particularly want to. And let me give you some advice, my dear. These days people don't have time to wade through all that description. I think you've found your niche writing about the peccadilloes of the rich. The Ton always knows who did what to whom. Its second occupation is gossip, and they always get it right."

  Julia sighed. "Well, I've never experienced the heart-scalding conditions under which poor, working-class people live, so I'm not truly qualified to write about them."

  "I've experienced being poor, and let me tell you, rich is infinitely preferable."

  "You're right, as always. But perhaps that's what makes you so fascinating." Julia turned to her column and began reading it aloud to her grandmother. Suddenly, her eyes widened in shock. "Oh, bugger and balls!"

  "Don't tell me they've made a spelling error again?"

  "I think it's a type-setting mistake, but it's absolutely horrendous! The item about who got Perdita in the pudding club says the odd on favorite is none other than NICK Royston! I'm positive I wrote MICK Royston."

  "Ha! You've really stepped in the caca this time, m'dear." Dottie rubbed her hands together with glee. "Be sure to leave the paper where your mother will read it."

  Julia's hand went to her throat. "My instinct is to hide it from her."

  "That's the beauty of being anonymous. No one will ever suspect it was you who put an end to the marital ambitions of the Queen of Cradle-Snatching."

  Chapter Three

  An hour later, Julia heard a piercing scream that emanated from Claire's sitting room.

  "Thar she blows," Dottie said with a satisfied smile.

  "Mother will expect me to come running. I can't very well ignore her cry of distress."

  "What cry? I'm stone deaf."

  "A most convenient affliction," Julia teased. "I'll go down, but first let me roll back the rug so you don't miss the dénouement."

  Julia hurried down the stairs and found her mother with the weekly magazine clutched in her hands. "What's wrong, Mother. Are you ill?"

  "I've been stabbed to the heart! Get me my smelling salts."

  A wide-eyed Dora appeared in the doorway. "Whatever is amiss, Lady Shelborne?"

  Claire waved her hand. "When I want a servant, I shall ring! My daughter will attend me."

  "Yes, m'lady." Dora bobbed a curtsey and disappeared.

  Julia found the hartshorn and brought it to her mother.

  "I've had the most dreadful shock. I just read Scandal by the Ton and almost fainted dead away. Apparently, Lord Royston is carrying on with a common trull who's on the stage at Drury Lane."

  "Surely you don't believe such scurrilous gossip. No one reads that claptrap."

  "On the contrary, darling, everyone who is anyone reads it! Judas Iscariot, I shall never live it down." She dropped the paper and put her hands to her head. "My ears are burning! At this very moment my friends are laughing and ridiculing me. I've never been so humiliated in my entire life!"

  In her mind, Julia could hear her grandmother declare "All forty-years of it!"

  "What will you do?" she asked her mother.

  "Sever all
ties immediately, and turn my affection elsewhere. Royston is only a viscount, after all. As a matter of fact, I have an Earl of the Realm eager for my favors."

  If your heart was involved, you wouldn't be thinking of another man so quickly. "An earl?"

  "He's related to my dearest friend, Lavinia. I met him at Spencer House last week."

  "I'm glad you've met someone else. Nicholas Royston is far too young to be my father."

  "You are being ridiculous. Age has absolutely nothing to do with it!"

  Oh-oh, I've said the wrong thing. Let's hope the eager earl is at least old enough to shave.

  In the early afternoon, Julia glanced out the window and saw Lord Royston emerge from his carriage. Her first thought was self-preservation: He's learned my identity! Then logic prevailed. My guilty conscience is pricking me. There is no possible way that Royston can know I am Ann Onymous.

  Julia hurried to Dottie's sitting room. "Fireworks!" she predicted, and rolled back the rug.

  Nicholas Royston handed Hastings his calling card, and asked to see Lady Shelborne.

  When the butler handed Claire the card, she was both surprised and furious. She lifted her chin, and said grimly, "Show him in."

  "Good afternoon, Lady Shelborne."

  "How dare you, Sir? How dare you have the bare-faced effrontery to pay me a visit?"

  Royston's black brows drew together like raven's wings. "I beg your pardon?"

  "If you came on bended knee, I would not pardon your scandalous behavior. I have never been so humiliated in my entire life. You are no longer welcome at Berkeley Square, and be warned that if I see you in public, I shall give you the direct cut!"

  Nicholas Royston felt a wave of relief that he would not have to end the relationship, but at the same time his pride received a sharp blow that felt like a sword thrust. He was not the sort of man who'd ever tolerate dismissal. He took a step toward her. "What the devil are you accusing me of?"

  Claire thrust the London and Country Magazine at him and rang for the butler. The servant stepped into the room as if he had been on the threshold. "Kindly show Lord Royston to the door."

  "That won't be necessary, Hastings. I know my way out." He nodded curtly and departed.

  Nick Royston leaned back against the velvet squabs of his carriage and opened the London and Country. He examined each page closely, and when he came to the Scandal by the Ton column, his name jumped out at him. His dark eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched like a lump of iron when he read the scurrilous accusation. He was livid that the weekly magazine had dared to libel him. Then another thought occurred. Perhaps they have the wrong Royston!

  That evening when Michael arrived home at Curzon Street, Nicholas was waiting for him. He flourished the magazine at his brother and demanded, "Is it true that Perdita Robinson is your current mistress and is with child?"

  Mick blanched, and then nervously cleared his throat. "Well, not technically."

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "It means she's not with child."

  With his brother's dark eyes boring into his, he amended, "Perdita had a recent miscarriage."

  "You mean abortion. Were you the father?"

  Mick shrugged helplessly. "Who's to know?"

  "So there is a grain of truth to the possibility?"

  "What's the difference?"

  "The difference is that if you could deny the possibility, I would sue this bloody rag for libel, and put it out of business." He thrust the London and Country at Mick. "Tomorrow I'll go and demand they print a retraction."

  Mick read the column. "Oh, Christ, I'm sorry Nick. They've used your name instead of mine."

  "Mick or Nick is neither here nor there; it's the Royston name they've defamed and potentially damaged."

  Michael poured himself a much-needed whiskey and tried to change the subject. "Did you manage to extract yourself from the widow's clutches?"

  His brother's face darkened further. "Claire Shelborne thrust that scandal rag at me, and handed me my walking papers. The vapid creature looked down her nose at me as if I were a dog turd on the pavement. To add insult to injury she informed me she would give me the cut. The high-handed female doesn't know me very well, if she expects me to accept such shabby treatment without retaliation."

  "I almost feel sorry for her," Mick said with a grin.

  "I have another score to settle with this Ann Onymous individual. I intend to uncover their identity and make them sorry they were ever born!"

  The following morning, Royston made his way to Fleet Street and entered the building that published the London and Country Magazine. In the newsroom he confronted the editor and slapped the paper down on his desk. "I'm well aware that gossip about the nobility sells your wretched publication, but this time, my good man, you have gone too far."

  The editor often received complaints from the toffs who were exposed in Scandal by the Ton but never before had he been confronted by such a dangerous-looking devil. The coiled anger and strength in the dark-visaged, broad-shouldered noble, made the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

  "My name is Nick Royston." He presented his calling card. "Since I have never ever met this Perdita Robinson, I intend to sue for libel."

  The editor picked up the paper, and saw immediately that a typesetting error had been made. The name of the culprit should have read: Mick Royston. He looked up shame-faced. "Brothers, I presume?" He swallowed hard as he read the card and saw the outraged viscount was a member of the British diplomatic corps. He summoned bravado. "Mick's name was misspelled. A mere technicality. You can't sue for libel if it's true."

  "I demand you print a retraction in next week's column, as well as an apology." Nick leaned forward in a threatening manner. "Perhaps I'll reconsider my law suit, if you reveal the identity of this Ann Onymous who pens the slanderous Scandal by the Ton."

  "My Lord, I haven't the faintest idea who Ann Onymous is. I've never met the person."

  "An unlikely tale. How do you come by the copy?"

  "Each Monday morning it's delivered by someone different."

  Royston's eyes narrowed. "Describe them to me."

  "Sometimes it's an old woman, other times it's a young servant in livery. Mostly, it's a newsboy called George who delivers it."

  "I see." Royston's tone was grim. "Make sure next week's column prints a retraction and an apology, or I'll see the owner, Alexander Hamilton, and have you dismissed."

  An hour later, Julia, wearing the blue livery and tie wig, marched into the newsroom and confronted the editor. "Here's a note for you from Ann Onymous."

  The man took the note and read: I was under the impression that the London and Country Magazine had high standards and impeccable credentials. Some pin-brained illiterate booby misspelled a name in my column, and if such an unforgivable blunder ever happens again, I will take my column to your rival newspaper.

  "Well, young man, you can tell Ann Onymous I've just suffered through a visit from Lord Royston. He demands the next Scandal by the Ton column contains a retraction and an apology or he will sue for libel. If that happens, there won't be a column, or a magazine. His lordship looks to have the Devil's own temper, if crossed, so I suggest we bow to his demands."

  Julia was hard pressed not to give the editor a piece of her mind. With difficulty she kept her tongue between her teeth. She nodded curtly. "I'll pass along the message."

  All the way back to Berkeley Square she fumed over Royston's high-handed demands. I''ll give him a bloody apology!

  That evening, Dottie handed Julia an invitation she'd received in the morning post.

  "This is from Jane, Duchess of Gordon. How do you know the leading Tory hostess?"

  "Through your grandfather. Alex Gordon had hand weavers at the Gordon estate in Scotland, who produced the Black Watch plaid. When he decided to use it for the Gordon Highlanders, he visited our mills in Manchester, to see if it was feasible to install mechanical weaving machines. Jane and I became friends, and over the
years I've often been invited to her entertainments. Most frequently when she was looking for contributions to charity events."

  Julia laughed. "There's always an ulterior motive."

  "I like Jane Gordon. She doesn't put on airs, has a vulgar sense of humor that matches mine, and her table is the envy of every other political hostess. They serve Highland salmon from the River Spey and they import Scotch whiskey by the barrel rather than the bottle."

  "So will you accept the invitation?"

  "Only if you'll come with me, Julia. It's high time you were introduced into Society."

  "I have nothing to wear. All my dresses make me look fourteen."

  "We'll soon fix that. I shall take you shopping on Bond Street tomorrow and buy you something elegant to show off your dark curls and violet eyes. You have lovely breasts that need to be displayed. We'll make Jane Gordon's daughters gnash their teeth with envy!"

  "Mother won't be there, will she?" Julia asked, slightly apprehensive.

  "Absolutely not. Her bosom friends are Whigs. Jane Gordon is a Tory. William Pitt, the Prime Minister might be there, and you'll hear enough gossip to fill half-a-dozen columns."

  "Then I'll attend. I shall make note of a week Friday on my busy social calendar,” she teased. "Right now I have to compose a most important apology."

  Julia entered her own spacious bedchamber and sat down at her writing desk. She dipped her pen in the inkwell and lapsed into thought, searching for just the right words and the proper tone.

  Ann Onymous offers a profound apology and a retraction for an item in last week's column. The typesetter made a mistake printing the letter N in place of the letter M. Perdita Robinson is not the mistress of Nick Royston, but rather the mistress of his brother Mick. Ann Onymous is sincerely sorry that Nick Royston is not Perdita Robinson's lover, but likely not anywhere near as sorry as poor Perdita. After reading Scandal by the Ton, Lady Claire S------- handed poor Lord Royston his walking papers. Rumor has it that Lady S will replace the viscount with an earl.