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

by Linda Rae Sande

  His wife took to immersing herself in her charitable endeavors, spending time in the parlors of every woman of substance with whom she was acquainted, and taking frequent holidays to Bath and Brighton, separating herself from David in every way but divorce.

  But with a bit of assistance from an unlikely source—the sister of the very mistress who had cost him so much—Morganfield had repaired his political ties and regained his status as one of the most powerful lords in Parliament. That same woman, Josephine Wentworth Theisen, had been responsible for teaching his wife a thing or two about the bedroom arts.

  He would never forget the night Adeline had come to his bedchamber wearing a rather scandalous red gown, one that would have been considered inappropriate at any dinner or ball in that it was nearly translucent.

  Dismissing his valet with a simple point of her finger toward the door, and without another word, she had slowly undressed David. She removed each piece of clothing with deliberate care, folding it and setting it aside so as not to upset his valet.

  By the time he was completely naked, her torturous strokes and occasional feather kisses had him thoroughly aroused. She led him to the bed, pushed him onto it and crawled atop him, spreading open the lower half of the diaphanous gown to reveal her own nakedness. Impaling herself on his rigid manhood, David thought he would never forget the sight of her atop him, the gown’s bodice still covering her generous breasts, their erect nipples leaving their silhouettes in the filmy fabric, her head thrown back so her entire torso was bowed back.

  And then she had begun to move.

  Sweet Jesus! He had made short work of the gown’s bodice, popping the single fastening with his teeth and using the palms of his hands to push the offending garment off her breasts and shoulders, essentially trapping her arms at her sides. His mouth had claimed one of her breasts in the process, his tongue laving across her nipple until he had her murmuring in Italian. He made short work of the other breast before flipping her onto her back and finishing what she had started, his release so powerful, his euphoria left him unable to move for the rest of the night.

  Adeline had been forced to sleep in his bed that night, a practice she had since adopted for several nights every week.

  The nights he wasn’t in her bed.

  His thoughts suddenly back to the present, David stopped short of remembering that Josephine was also his current son-in-law’s former mistress—a woman responsible for seeing to it Elizabeth and George ended up married to one another.

  Now married to a respectable man engaged in trade, Josephine was still providing him with important information he could use in Parliament.

  Better to remember her as my savior in more ways than one.

  So, how could he take down a gossip rag like The Tattler?

  David considered the two women he knew who had some influence on the legitimate presses in London. His own wife, Adeline, had some pull when it came to what was printed—and what wasn’t. How else could he explain why it was that the most scandalous events at his own soirées and musicales were never mentioned in The Times or The Morning Chronicle? He certainly wasn’t lunching with the editor the following day to discover what might or might not be printed.

  The other woman just happened to be Josephine Theisen, the most politically astute woman in all of London. Hell, she was probably more politically astute than most of the Lords in Parliament. She was also rather influential when she plied her craft with the editors of the most popular newspapers in London. David wondered if she could be compelled to discover how—and why—damaging information about him would appear in The Tattler.

  Who was the editor? ‘Mr. Pepperidge’ had to be a pen name.

  A quiet knock sounded at his door. “Come,” he called out, not sure if he welcomed the respite from his murderous thoughts. At the sound of silence once the door clicked shut, David dared a glance in that direction. He immediately got to his feet at the sight of his wife regarding him with her head angled to one side.

  “May I ask as to why you’re hiding in your bedchamber when your daughter and her husband are in our parlor?” Adeline asked, finally moving to join him next to the bed.

  David lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed the back of it, never once taking his eyes off of hers. “I’m afraid I would not be good company at the moment, as I am contemplating how to remove a certain gossip rag from the face of the earth,” he murmured. “I cannot abide their lies,” he added with a shake of his head.

  Adeline’s eyes widened a bit before she suddenly allowed a shake of her head. “Oh. The Tattler,” she said, sounding a bit relieved. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe a word they print,” she claimed as she wrapped an arm around his neck. “Especially the past couple of weeks.” Her lips captured his in a quick kiss. “Unless you think I should,” she whispered when she pulled away and gave him an arched eyebrow.

  Truth be told, she had read the short article about Lord M, grinning at the description of David with his new courtesan because she had been the one to provide the on-dit to Patience Comber, who then included it in her Gossip Goddess letter she mailed to the publisher. At the time and date of the supposed sighting, David had been with her at the theatre and then later in her bed, quite exhausted and partially covered with her diaphanous blue French negligée.

  She couldn’t recall where their giant ostrich feather had ended up in the fray. Or the tray of mint candies. Or the bucket of ice.

  Anyone who had been at the theatre that night knew David wasn’t with a mistress, which made it look as if The Tattler was printing a false report.

  Breathless, David stared at his seductress of a wife. He shook his head and then considered what he had read. “You can believe the rumors of my sexual prowess, that my appetites are insatiable, and that I am quite the lover when given the chance to prove myself. But only as it applies to you,” he responded, his expression daring her to counter his words.

  Adeline regarded him with an arched brow. “I expect you to prove that again, my darling, but later this evening. In the meantime, I think it’s time you came downstairs.”

  David allowed a sigh. “Am I suitably dressed?” he asked, not having checked his image in the cheval mirror.

  His wife stepped back and gave him a quick glance. “Of course. You always look rather dashing,” she said with a wink.

  The marquess allowed a wan smile and pulled his wife into his arms. “Have I told you how much I adore you?” he whispered, placing a kiss on the side of her head and moving his lips so he could nibble on her ear.

  “Why, yes, just this morning, in fact. And I would allow you to prove it to me again right this very minute, except that if we leave our daughter alone with George in the parlor for one minute more, they’ll be doing the very same thing down there that we are doing up here.” She gave David a peck. “If they aren’t already,” she added with an arched brow.

  “Point taken,” the marquess replied as he suddenly pulled away and offered his arm.

  Giving him an arched eyebrow, Adeline placed her arm on his. “And hopefully redirected later this evening,” she murmured suggestively. “Afterwards, we can devise a whole new salacious story to send to The Tattler.”

  David swallowed before allowing a nod. “Of course, my lady.” His eyes suddenly widened. “Wait! That story wasn’t about my mistress. It was about you!” he accused as he just then realized he had been with Adeline the night of the supposed meeting with a mistress. “Lady X, I presume?”

  At least Adeline had the decency to blush. “Indeed. And I am not the only one providing fiction to Mr. Pepperidge,” she said as she took his arm and led him down the stairs.

  “Oh?”

  “The editor has earned the wrath of a certain countess—one who is seeing to his eventual downfall over a matter of blackmail.”

  “Blackmail?” he repeated. “Christ, Adeline, the man needs to be arrested and transported!”

  “No, no, no. At least, no
t yet. We’re all having far too much fun making up stories with fictional characters.”

  David considered her words as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “We?”

  Adeline gave one shoulder a slight shrug. “Yes, darling. There are … a few of us,” she hedged. “Better you not know the particulars.”

  The marquess couldn’t help the bit of amusement he felt at learning some ladies of the ton were involved in bamboozling the editor of The Tattler. That is, until they reached the parlor. “I am not a fictional character,” he stated suddenly.

  His marchioness allowed a teasing grin and leaned over to whisper in his ear, “No, but who would ever believe the things we do really happen?”

  David held his breath a moment before frowning. “I see your point, my sweeting. Carry on.”

  The two entered the parlor and greeted their guests, interrupting Elizabeth and George’s rather scandalous kiss. “I don’t suppose you’re including articles about them?” he asked under his breath.

  Adeline shook her head. “With those two, it would only be gossip if they weren’t always doing something scandalous,” she replied with a sigh.

  Chapter 8

  A Widow at a Ball

  Now, I know what you must be thinking, dear readers, when you see the date of this entry. What happened during the intervening seven weeks? Well, we met with Lady E every Thursday morning in the park as per the plan. We just didn’t realize our plan had been discovered. ~ The final article in the May 14, 1818 issue of The Tattler.

  May 6, 1818, Lord Weatherstone’s ballroom

  Although the heat in the ballroom was almost oppressive, Jane Fitzpatrick found she didn’t mind in the least. Twelve months of mourning her late husband, a man she could consider no more than an acquaintance, was over, and she was finally able to attend a ton event again. Her gown, a confection of unadorned lavender watered silk, was more sedate than any other gown in the room, but given her situation, she felt it was a safe choice for Lord Weatherstone’s ball. By the time the Little Season events started in the fall, she would feel comfortable wearing her favorite royal blue gowns.

  If she was still living in London.

  She had a luncheon to attend at Worthington House on the morrow. If she determined she no longer had a place in Society, she thought to simply take her leave of London and start over somewhere else. Months of time to consider her options had her thinking Italy the most likely destination.

  Away from Society too long to expect an offer of a dance, Jane experienced a pleasant surprise when David Carlington, Marquess of Morganfield, saw to it she had a partner for the cotillion. Breathless at the finish, she thanked him as she curtsied. A passing footman offered champagne, and she took the flute and nearly drained the contents in a single gulp.

  When the supper dance, a waltz, was just about to begin, and she thought to make a quiet exit from the festivities. Only a few other women her age seemed to recognize her, although she had been a frequent visitor in their parlors back in the day. Back in the day when she was the Countess of Stoneleigh, and not a dowager countess as she was now known. Back in the day when her husband, Michael Fitzpatrick, Earl of Stoneleigh, was a proud member of Parliament and an even prouder property owner.

  Jane couldn’t fault him for his diligence. He merely insisted his earldom in Kent be run as efficiently as possible, which meant he spent a great deal of time in Milton. She was quite sure he didn’t spend the time there alone, of course, since Stoneleigh had made it clear early in their arranged marriage that he had a mistress. A mistress whose company he apparently preferred over her own, for Jane was never invited to spend time with the earl in Milton.

  Blinking back the tears that pricked the corners of her eyes, tears of regret more than of mourning, Jane decided it really was time to take her leave of the Weatherstone mansion. From whence had the maudlin thoughts come? she wondered. She was enjoying the ball enormously, enjoying the swirl of glittering, bejeweled ladies and the elegantly garbed gentlemen, the music of the quintet that played in a raised box at one end of the ballroom, and the bits of conversation she overheard as she made her way around the potted palms lining the walls.

  She was especially enjoying the spectacle of one particular gentleman as he escorted a series of young ladies into the gardens, only to have each one return without their escort, their bee-stung lips betraying the kisses they had no doubt enjoyed behind a hedgerow.

  The young man had obviously been left to wait a few more minutes in the garden. Unless she had missed him during the cotillion, he was still out there!

  Had she been twenty years younger, that same young man might have asked her to join him in the gardens. Had she become a widow a few years ago, the Earl of Torrington might have chosen to escort her to all the events of the Season. But, alas, he had finally married a different widow, Lady Adele Slater Worthington, and was now the father of twins.

  The opportunity to have an attentive man in her life had long since passed, she decided. It was time to turn her attention to a life away from London, away from paying calls on other ladies of the ton or to spending her afternoons window shopping or in the stacks at the lending library. Time to move to the Continent, perhaps. She had heard marvelous reports from Italy, although everyone complained of the heat in the summer. How could it be any worse than London, though?

  Italy it is, she thought with a bit of excitement, deciding right then and there she would return to her townhouse in South Audley Street and see to the arrangements.

  So it was a bit of a surprise when a rather tall gentleman suddenly stepped in front of her and gave a bow. “May I have this waltz, my lady?” he asked as he held out his hand.

  Jane blinked, for she was quite sure she didn’t know the identity of the man who stood before her. Had the marquess sent him to provide a poor widow with one last dance before she took her leave? Or had Lady Weatherstone taken it upon herself to see to a dance partner for her last-minute guest? How considerate of the woman to send an invitation the day before, claiming she had just learned that Jane had completed her twelve months of mourning, and would she be amenable to a night out?

  Jane could have declined the invitation, of course, just as she could decline the offer of a dance, but the thought of a ball had her once again looking forward to life in the ton, and the thought of a waltz had her allowing a brilliant smile. “I would like that very much,” she said as she gave a curtsy and offered the rather tall man her silk-gloved hand.

  “Andrew Burroughs, at your service,” he said before lowering his lips to her glove. One of his eyebrows had arched as if he half-expected her to recognize him.

  “Jane Fitzpatrick,” she replied, not bothering to add her new title.

  Dowager Countess of Stoneleigh.

  She couldn’t even claim her son had inherited the earldom, since she had never given birth to one. In fact, she hadn’t given birth to any of Michael’s children. His mistress had had that privilege, even though none of the three bastard sons could inherit. The Stoneleigh earldom was now in her brother-in-law’s control, and his newly minted countess was half the age of Jane. “It’s very good to meet you, Mr. Burroughs,” she replied as she gave him a curtsy.

  With the barest hint of a grin, the man led her to the edge of the dance floor and gave her a nod before sweeping her into the circle of couples who performed the elegant dance.

  “I cannot begin to tell you just how good it is to see you tonight. I feared you would not come,” Andrew said in a voice just loud enough for her to hear.

  Jane blinked. His comment implied they knew one another, yet she couldn’t place where she might have met the man before. He seemed familiar, though, now that they were under the hundreds of candles mounted in the chandeliers hanging from the ballroom ceiling. “I apologize, but I don’t recognize you,” she said with a shake of her head. “And yet, I am sure we have met before.” His voice was familiar, certainly. Burroughs? Why, there were dozens of them in th
e ton.

  Rolling his eyes in a manner suggesting he didn’t find her words a surprise, Andrew managed a shrug despite the moves of the dance. “I cannot blame you,” he replied. “It has been a long time. Too long, in fact.”

  The way in which he said the words had Jane furrowing her brows.

  Too long?

  So, they had met before. But when? She struggled to remember how he had introduced himself.

  Andrew Burroughs.

  Burroughs? Why, the Ariley ducal line was made up of Burroughs. He was far too young to be the fifth duke, but he could be his son, or the son of William Burroughs, the former banker. Goodness, Sir William must be in his seventies by now, she considered as she thought of the man who was her father’s banker. And would still be her own banker if the man hadn’t retired the year before.

  Or perhaps Andrew wasn’t a member of that particular Burroughs family at all. She was about to consider other possibilities when Andrew suddenly leaned over and whispered in her ear, “You knew me as Max,” he said, his lips so close Jane was sure they touched her ear. A shiver passed through her entire body, leaving behind a sensation of excitement.

  How long had it been since a man whispered in her ear?

  Too long.

  When Andrew pulled away, there was a gleam in his eye.

  Jane nearly lost her place in the steps of the waltz, relieved when Andrew’s strong lead and firm hold on her waist kept her moving in the right direction.

  Max?

  “Oh, faith!” she breathed. Of course it was him! The last man to have whispered in her ear!

  The planes of his face were a bit thinner, his nose a bit longer, his hair a bit gray at the temples, but his green eyes were still those of the young man who had taken her for several rides in Hyde Park. The man who had kissed her so tentatively in the gardens behind the very ballroom in which they now danced. The man who had pledged his heart but warned her that he couldn’t make an offer that night. I must speak with your father, he had said in a hoarse whisper, his lips brushing the whorls of her ear as he made the comment.