The Gossip of an Earl (The Widows of the Aristocracy Book 1)

by Linda Rae Sande

  A ride in the park? Today? With Fennington?

  There was no date or day of the week in the invitation. “When did this arrive?” she asked as she held up the invitation to ride in the park.

  Patience angled her head to one side. “Sometime this morning, I suppose.”

  “Oh! What time is it?” she asked in alarm as she stood up.

  “Three o’ clock. What is it?”

  “I’ve an invitation to ride in the park. With Fennington.” Although her heart raced at the thought of spending the afternoon in the company of the earl, she also experienced a moment of hesitation. What if the editor of The Tattler saw them together? Well, her maid would be with them, of course. And Mr. Pepperidge had claimed he wouldn’t divulge the news about the kissing if she met him in the park.

  Thursday mornings at eight o’ clock.

  A brilliant smile appeared on Patience Comber’s face. “Well, this is good news, I should think,” she said, her voice quiet. After a moment, she sighed. “Well, then, I suppose you need to change clothes. He’ll no doubt be here in an hour or so if it’s to be a ride during the fashionable hour.”

  “Four o’clock, yes,” Emelia agreed as she waved the invitation in the air. She curtsied and hurried up to her bedchamber, the note clutched in one hand. The other invitations and letters, forgotten, were left behind.

  When she was sure Emelia wouldn’t be returning to the salon, Patience plucked the last letter from the collection of unfolded missives and began to read.

  Stilling herself whilst she read the odd script, Patience suddenly understood Emelia’s earlier reaction. Her series of ‘no’s’ had been because of this letter.

  Dear Lady Emelia, As the editor of The Tattler, London’s leading publication on gossip, I was most intrigued when I paid witness to your time spent with Lord Fennington in Lord Weatherstone’s gardens yesterday. Would others be as surprised as I was when you kissed the earl? And not just a quick peck on the cheek, a la the French way of greeting a friend, but rather a series of passionate kisses that took my breath away?

  Imagine the feature article I could write about such an event! Lady E Plants a Kiss on the Earl of F in Lord W’s Garden! Will Love Bloom? Or Wilt, Once the Ton Weeds Her Out of Their Garden?

  What might have me reconsidering the publication of such an article?

  You, my lady. Your presence in Hyde Park. Thursday mornings at eight o’clock for eight weeks. You bring the gossip you collect from the calls you pay on other ladies and the on-dit you hear during soirées and musicales. In return, I shall not print a word about your elicit kisses with Lord F.

  If you agree, meet me this Thursday at the park bench located as per the map below.

  Sincerely, Mr. Frederick Pepperidge, Editor

  Patience inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly as she returned the letter to the pile with the others, her fingers recoiling from the paper as if it were burning. Although she felt a great deal of anger at the editor of The Tattler—he was blackmailing her daughter!—she couldn’t help but smile at learning just why he was doing so.

  Fenn had kissed Emelia in the gardens whilst on their walk!

  As for what to do about the gossip monger, Patience would have to enlist the help of her most trusted friends. Certainly there was something they could do to undermine his plan.

  Chapter 5

  The Gossip Goddess is Born

  Unbeknownst to us at the time, a group of ladies had been called together for tea and conversation by a rather well-regarded countess. Their mission? To plot against us. We say plot, dear readers, for there can be no other word to describe the almost sinister plan they devised to undermine the mission of The Tattler—to report the gossip of the ton. ~ Part of the final article by the editor for the May 14, 1818 issue of The Tattler.

  March 15 1818, Aimsley House parlor

  “I just received your note. What is it? What’s happened?” Adele Grandby, Countess of Torrington, wondered as she and another lady behind her stepped into the parlor at Aimsley House. The countess glanced around, startled to discover Clarinda Fitzwilliam, Countess of Norwick, and Adeline Carlington, Marchioness of Morganfield, were already present. On her heels was Jane Fitzpatrick, Dowager Countess of Stoneleigh, garbed in widow’s weeds but obviously pleased at being in their company.

  Patience Comber waved Adele and Jane into the parlor and quickly shut the door behind them. “Nothing life and death, I assure you, Adele.” She turned to Jane and angled her head. “So good to see you, Jane. I feared you wouldn’t join us.”

  The widow allowed a grin. “I so appreciate the invitation. I haven’t been out of the house in an age, and I admit my curiosity is piqued.”

  A tea tray had already been delivered, and Adeline was serving. “As I said, it’s not a matter of life or death, although a certain gossip rag’s editor might have lost his head yesterday if I’d been able to remove the broadsword from above the fireplace,” Patience said as she joined Adele on the settee. Jane took a chair next to Clarinda.

  The other four women dared a glance at the fireplace, frowning when there was no evidence of a broadsword. A painting of a still life—a vase of flowers and some fruit—was the only item hung above the carved mantle.

  “In the study,” Patience added with a sigh. “The beast of a weapon is heavier than I am.” She lifted a folded missive from the low table in front of the settee. “My daughter received this letter from Mr. Pepperidge, the editor of The Tattler, yesterday.” She allowed everyone their moment of startled murmurs and gasps. “Emelia doesn’t know I have it, nor is she to know we are meeting on her behalf.” She paused again, giving everyone an opportunity to indicate their agreement.

  “Where is Lady Emelia now?” Adele asked, thinking the young lady might overhear their conversation if she were somewhere nearby.

  “She’s gone to the Temple of the Muses with Lady Sommers,” Patience replied, understanding the countess’ concern. “Said something about looking for books on historical scandals. I don’t expect her back until mid-afternoon.” After another moment, she held out the letter and began to read. When she finished, she held her breath a moment.

  The more times she read the letter, the angrier she seemed to get, and yet, her reaction the first time had been so different—she had been so pleased to learn the Earl of Fennington had kissed her daughter, she hardly gave a thought to the matter of the blackmail.

  Before the others had time to respond, Patience said, “I’ve not yet made Aimsley aware of the matter.” Truth be told, she wasn’t sure how the earl would react. Outrage? Humor? Indifference? With Mark Comber, she just never knew.

  Clarinda was the first to say anything. “The cur!”

  Adele arched an eyebrow. “Are you referring to Lord Fennington or to Mr. Pepperidge?” she queried. “It’s past time Fennington take a wife, so at least he’s on the hunt.”

  The other countess angled her head and rolled her eyes. “Why, Mr. Pepperidge, of course. He’s blackmailing Emelia!”

  The marchioness sighed. “Emelia seems like a perfect fit for Fenn,” Adeline murmured. She refilled several teacups. “As for Mr. Pepperidge, I am sure we’re not the only ones at odds with the man’s gossip rag.”

  Jane felt the color leave her face at the memory of what had been written about her when her husband had died. “I would have helped with brandishing the sword,” she offered.

  Feeling a bit of satisfaction that the women seemed to agree in their reaction—they were more appalled by the editor’s attempt at blackmail than they were by the suggestion that Fennington had kissed Emelia—Patience knew she could rally them to her cause. “I have a plan for how we might undermine Mr. Pepperidge and The Tattler.”

  “Well, I’m all ears,” the Countess of Torrington replied, taking a teacup from Adeline.

  “I propose we let Emelia meet the rogue in the park …” Patience had to stop to allow the sudden sounds of shock to dissipate. “And send her there with the most
outrageously boring gossip we can devise.”

  “What?”

  The chorus of surprise had Patience grinning. “We make up stories. We make up names.”

  “Fake aristocrats?” Adele questioned, a gleam developing in her eyes as she considered the possibilities.

  Jane giggled, the musical sound drawing the attention of the others. “And we back it up by sending it in written form as if it’s come from someone else. That way, he won’t suspect Emelia of trying to bamboozle him.”

  Patience’s eyes widened. “Oh, that’s good. That’s very good.”

  “Which one of us should do the written version?” Adele wondered.

  “We could do it anonymously,” Clarinda suggested.

  “I’ll do it,” Patience said, her attention on the Aubusson carpet, the pattern of cherubs woven into the design giving her an idea. “As The Gossip Goddess,” she murmured.

  “Oh, that’s good,” Adeline gushed. “And write it on pink paper.”

  “Perfumed paper,” Jane added with a teasing grin.

  “I’ll visit the stationer’s this afternoon,” Patience agreed, rather excited at how their plan was developing. “Now, we just have to come up with some good gossip.”

  “With believable names,” Clarinda put in.

  “Lord Beasley,” Jane offered. “That was my dog’s name when I was a child.”

  “Lady X,“ Adeline said with an arched brow. “Xenobia hasn’t been in London in an age. Is there a Lord Reardon?”

  The others shook their heads after a moment of thought.

  “What if Pepperidge decides to add on to the number of meetings?” Adele wondered suddenly. “What’s to prevent him from continuing to blackmail your poor Emelia after the eight weeks are over?”

  Patience angled her head to one side, realizing the countess had a point. What would prevent the editor of The Tattler from simply adding on to his demands?

  She suddenly gasped. I am married to an earl, for goodness sake! Surely he could be compelled to act on his own daughter’s behalf. I probably should have told him already, but then, I wouldn’t have had a reason to call this group of women together. Hell hath no fury like ladies of the ton who were out for revenge, after all. “He will not,” she stated finally. “For should Mr. Pepperidge attempt to meet with her more than the eight times he specified in his letter, I shall have my husband pay him a visit at his offices,” she stated firmly. “With the broadsword.”

  “You’re not worried that Mr. Pepperidge will tell your husband he saw Lady Emelia kiss Fennington?” Lady Torrington asked, her brows furrowed.

  The Countess of Aimsley settled deeper into the settee and allowed a shrug. “I am not, for should it become public knowledge that my daughter was seen kissing the earl, I am quite sure he will make an offer of marriage.”

  “Marriage?” Clarinda repeated in shock. “Would she be agreeable to such an arrangement?”

  Patience rolled her eyes. “Well, I should hope so,” she replied. “She kissed him in the gardens. In broad daylight.”

  The others surreptitiously glanced at one another, realizing Patience Comber was a rather pleased with the thought of Lord Fennington kissing her daughter.

  “As for these meetings in the park … do you think this is wise?” Adele wondered, concerned as to how she was going to keep the affairs of this meeting from her husband. Why, Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, would challenge Mr. Pepperidge to a duel at Wimbledon Commons if he learned any of his goddaughters had been threatened in such a manner. “She’ll have to meet with him—alone—in the park for eight weeks,” she added in alarm. “Someone might see them. And what then? She might be forced to accept an offer of marriage from the editor of The Tattler!”

  Patience shook her head. “No one will be in Hyde Park at eight o’ clock in the morning on a Thursday,” she countered. “Most of London is abed, and those who are up are not in the park.”

  “Still, Adele has a point,” Clarinda stated. “What will we do if someone should see them in the park?”

  Patience considered the query. “To whom will it matter? Mr. Pepperidge is the editor of the very gossip rag that would print the story, and he won’t print one in which he is the rake,” she reasoned. “Remember, though, not a word of this to your husbands.”

  The other women nodded in agreement.

  “Pink paper it is,” Patience said before finishing off her tea.

  “Perfumed pink paper,” Jane added with an elegantly arched brow.

  “From The Gossip Goddess,” Adeline murmured. The marchioness grinned, her expression devious. “Mr. Pepperidge will regret the day he ever paid witness to a kiss in the gardens.”

  Chapter 6

  A Bit of Gossip Proves Ridiculous

  Now, dear readers, you are probably wondering how we vet the stories we’re provided by some of our subscribers. Although most of the reports you read in The Tattler are first-hand accounts, we occasionally receive tips that send us on a quest to learn the Truth of the matter. We must, for if we printed everything we receive, you would think us more ridiculous than you already do. ~ An article in the March 26, 1818 issue of The Tattler.

  March 18, 1818

  Opening the note that had been left with his clerk, Felix’s first reaction was to lean back, as if the contents were about to jump out at him. His next was to lift the paper to his nose, for the most pleasant scent wafted across his nostrils.

  Perfumed paper!

  What glorious woman would waste her most expensive notepaper on a letter to Mr. Pepperidge?

  His gaze darted to the bottom, where the flourish of a faux signature could be found. The Gossip Goddess.

  Felix blinked. Well, this was certainly a first. Usually gossip was provided anonymously.

  He perused the letter, his brows furrowing as he read a number of short articles written in the most beautiful script. Definitely feminine, but given the signature, it was to be expected.

  Whilst attending the Theatre Royal last evening, Lord Beasley ducked into the box belonging to Lady L. He did not emerge for the rest of the evening.

  Mr. Pepperidge frowned. Beasley? Who the hell is he? And Lady L? He racked his brain in an effort to put the letter with some lady whose name started with an ‘L’ and who had her own box at the theatre, but found he could not.

  Lady X was seen leaving the bachelor quarters of Lord Tattinger at six o’ clock in the morning (yesterday).

  Tattinger? Who the hell is he? And Lady X? Wasn’t she Lord M’s courtesan? Felix shook his head and continued reading, wondering where these particular lord and ladies resided. On the other side of England?

  The oldest son of Lady O was caught in bed with the wife of Lord Reardon last Monday afternoon. Reardon is said to be considering divorce or a ménage-a-trois.

  Rather sporting of him, except … who the hell is Lord Reardon?

  Lord and Lady E have been engaged in a torrid affair with each other for nearly a year!

  At this last entry, Felix squeezed his eyes shut. A married couple having a torrid affair with one another shouldn’t be considered gossip, he thought in dismay. He rather hoped he would have a torrid affair with Lady Emelia for the rest of his life once they were wed!

  And the final line had him simply shaking his head. Should you require assistance in putting together the content of The Tattler, say at such time you decide to resign or retire from your duties, do let me know. I feel I am most qualified to fill your shoes, Mr. Pepperidge. Yours very truly, The Gossip Goddess.

  The pleasant perfume filled his nostrils as he waved the paper in front of his face, as if to fan himself. Glancing at his bookshelf, he realized he could determine the likelihood of the reports just by checking the names in his copy of Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage.

  A half-hour later, Felix shook his head and wondered just what The Gossip Goddess had in mind when writing her false reports. They had to be false, for he could find no lords with those names!

&
nbsp; What the hell?

  Taking a whiff of the paper, he was about to toss it into the waste basket next to his desk when he paused and instead considered an alternative. What if The Gossip Goddess had a column? A ridiculous list of reports about non-existent members of the ton? He would have to preface the column with a disclaimer, of course. The following reports are completely fictitious, the creation of our new contributor, The Gossip Goddess. Enjoy!

  Grinning, Felix settled into his large leather chair. If the woman calling herself The Gossip Goddess thought she would bamboozle him with false gossip, she would be most surprised to discover he was not so easily fooled.

  Chapter 7

  A Marquess Grouses About Gossip

  We admit to knowing we made enemies during these past few years. What new business does not? But offending those in power is not recommended. We found out the hard way. We recommend you do not. ~ The final editor’s article in the May 14, 1818 issue of the The Tattler.

  March 26, 1818, Carlington House

  David Carlington, Marquess of Morganfield, stared at the ceiling of his master bedchamber, silently wondering how he could personally see to the downfall of the gossip rag, The Tattler. Earlier that day, the news sheet inferred he had arranged for a townhouse, pin money, and a modiste for his latest mistress, some courtesan the rag referred to as ‘Mrs. X’. The report was entirely false, of course, for why ever would he employ a mistress when he had an Italian seductress as a wife?

  Adeline Carlington hadn’t always been a seductress, though. David had married the daughter of an Italian count whilst on his Grand Tour of Europe, mostly because he would be spared another Season of meeting insipid chits and their mothers at a series of boring balls and soirées. Had Adeline been a seductress back then, as she was now, David never would have employed a mistress who would one day ruin him by passing his pillow talk to a French army officer. When the source of the exposed secrets had come back to haunt him, David had lost nearly everything—including Adeline.