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

by Linda Rae Sande

  I find I would prefer the life of an independent woman, Jane added when a chorus of disbelief erupted from those around her.

  Emelia rather hoped Lady Jane hadn’t said anything to her aunt about her intentions. Word had it that Lady Pettigrew wanted to be rid of her charge as soon as possible.

  “Perhaps not her desire to remain unmarried as much as her behavior to suggest otherwise, Mr. Pepperidge,” Emelia finally said with a sigh.

  The editor straightened on the bench, rather liking how Emelia presented her information. She seemed to dole it out in little tidbits, just enough to keep him interested whilst his mind was off creating naughty thoughts. Given how the lady provided information, he was almost inclined to offer her a position at the newspaper.

  If she could write like she spoke, he thought The Tattler might gain some more subscribers.

  “And what behavior might that be, Miss Comber?” he asked carefully. Or Lady Emelia, rather. For some reason, she had insisted on introducing herself as if she were a commoner. He had gone along with the ruse in the hopes it might gain him more information he could use in the weekly rag. Never mind that he had addressed her as ‘Lady Emelia’ when he first contacted her via the written missive that had her visiting him in the park every Thursday morning these past six weeks.

  “Kissing, Mr. Pepperidge,” Emelia replied, in a rather breathy voice that had the editor wishing he could be engaging in just such an activity with the comely Miss Comber right that very moment.

  Didn’t she realize he knew exactly who she was?

  “She rather enjoys the sport,” Emelia added, turning her head so she could regard the man through her veil.

  She had to suppress the urge to blink, for she was quite sure one side of Mr. Pepperidge’s mustache had come loose from above his lip and was listing to one side.

  Could mustaches do such a thing?

  Goodness, if the man wasn’t careful, he could lose the despicable thing!

  The man shook his head in an effort to clear it of his carnal thoughts. “Enjoying the sport of kissing isn’t so unusual, Miss Comber,” he countered, suddenly aware that his fake mustache might have come loose from his lip. Surreptitiously, he moved a gloved hand to his face in attempt to straighten and reattach it, trying to make it appear as if he was merely scratching the side of his nose.

  When Emelia arched an elegant eyebrow, the editor found he rather liked the expression that came with it. He could imagine her using it on him when he suggested a more erotic position in bed. Perhaps one that had her atop him. With him at her mercy.

  He swallowed in the hopes she hadn’t overheard his strangled curse.

  “May I remind you, sir, that Lady Jane shouldn’t even be engaging in kissing at all?” she countered, sounding ever so much like a proper school teacher during the first year of finishing school classes.

  Mr. Pepperidge blinked. “Oh, of course she shouldn’t,” he replied with a shake of his head.

  What was I thinking?

  Carnal thoughts, of course, which merely reinforced his need for a mistress—or a wife. Perhaps he could offer Emelia Comber carte blanche in return for his promise of remaining mum on the subject that had her at his mercy.

  Well, he could offer, but he was quite sure the chit would punch him in the jaw and storm off and never see him again, even if he did have damning information about her. Even if that damning information was merely about a stolen kiss in Lord Weatherstone’s garden. With him.

  He had to scold himself just then. The young woman was the daughter of an earl, for goodness sake! He couldn’t be thinking about her in those terms.

  Well, he could. He just couldn’t act on them. At least, not for another two weeks. Her father, Mark Comber, Earl of Aimsley, had seen to that requirement.

  What harm was there in imagining such a scenario, though? In imagining coming home to her, kissing her …

  He blinked, realizing she was waiting for him to reply on that very topic.

  Kissing.

  “So, if she was seen kissing, she must have been kissing someone,” he prompted, his charcoal once again poised over his pad of parchment.

  Wait. Lady Jane had been kissing someone, he remembered. Andrew Burroughs. He had seen that for himself, although now that he knew just how much the man resembled the Earl of Bellingham, who bore an uncanny resemblance to his bastard brother, Stephen, he was no longer so sure about which one had actually been kissing Lady Jane.

  Well, no harm. He hadn’t used any full names in the report of the dalliance in the gardens. Just Lady J and A. Burroughs. Well, he had mentioned Mr. Burroughs’ occupation as a banker, but who cared about bankers? They were often in trouble of their own making.

  Emelia shifted her eyes to her gloved hands for a moment, realizing just then that she had no name for the man who had been kissing Lady Jane in the gardens last night. “Oh, I don’t know his name,” she hedged, her brows suddenly furrowing. “I was not introduced to the man. But he was quite handsome, and many others in attendance seemed to recognize him,” she added, turning her attention back to the editor. “I remember thinking that if Lady Jane wasn’t careful, she would be forced into a marriage with the man who had kissed her.”

  “I was told the identity of the man is Mr. Andrew Burroughs,” Mr. Pepperidge stated, thinking the name might be familiar to her.

  He blinked when he suddenly remembered something Emelia had said in Lord Weatherstone’s garden on occasion of their first meeting. “You know him …” he started to say and then stopped.

  Mr. Pepperidge wouldn’t know about that conversation in the garden. Felix Turnbridge knew.

  “Do you know him?” he quickly amended.

  Emelia’s eyes widened. “That cannot be!” she replied with a shake of her head. Why, the banker had spent most of the night in the card room and then been in the company of Lady Stoneleigh for the supper waltz. “Of course, I know Mr. Burroughs. He was my host in Geneva. And he’s old enough to be Lady Jane’s father. I assure you, he was not kissing Lady Jane last evening.”

  The editor’s eyes widened, although he quickly recovered enough to ask, “Then, if not Mr. Burroughs, who was the man kissing Lady Jane?”

  Although Emelia truly hadn’t recognized the rather handsome young man who had been engaged in the rather passionate kissing only the moment before, she could certainly understand why Lady Jane wished to be kissed by him. “I truly do not know, but I suppose Lady Jane does. She certainly seemed to enjoy his company.”

  She remembered feeling rather jealous of Lady Jane. And then feeling that same jealousy again not thirty minutes later when the man was back out in the gardens with a different young lady—Lady Lucida, in fact—bestowing a kiss on her that was also apparently her first. And then, even later in the evening, the man had been in the gardens with yet another young lady, although not one Emelia recognized.

  Emelia blinked. She needed to be careful with how much information she shared with Mr. Pepperidge. If the news about Lady Jane was enough, she could use the information about Lady Lucida in their next meeting!

  “Do I detect a hint of jealousy in your voice, Miss Comber?” Mr. Pepperidge murmured just then, his body leaning in her direction as if he meant to keep the query as quiet as possible. As he did so, he was suddenly aware of his Breguet, the timepiece reflecting a glint of the barest sunshine breaking through the fog. Damn! It’s nearly time to leave for the morning session of Parliament!

  “I was not jealous, I assure you,” Emelia insisted, rather uncomfortable with just how close the editor was leaning in her direction. So close, in fact, she caught a whiff of his cologne. Not a scent she expected of the editor—eau du spicy awful—but rather a pleasant scent of sandalwood with hints of musk and amber.

  A rather familiar scent.

  And she realized his mustache was back to its original location above his lip. The detachable mustache had reattached itself!

  She realized she had to say something or
risk looking like a ninny. “He was a bit too … large, for my tastes,” she complained, remembering the man’s arms—they were larger than my waist!—and his height. He positively towered over Lady Jane.

  “Large? As in … tall?” Mr. Pepperidge wondered, realizing she probably referred to Stephen Slater. The bastard son of Lord Devonville was back from his tour of duty to his Majesty’s Navy and was apparently on the hunt for a wife. And he had been at the ball last night.

  “Very,” Emelia agreed.

  Mr. Pepperidge swallowed, rather disturbed to hear Emelia wasn’t attracted to Stephen Slater due to his height. Indeed, she seemed rather horrified by his size. This doesn’t bode well for me given my height, he thought in despair.

  “I don’t think I could abide a man who could crush me …” Emelia paused, inhaling sharply when she realized what she was saying and to whom she was admitting it—a gossip monger!

  His brows furrowing just a fraction, Mr. Pepperidge regarded the young woman next to him for a long time before he suddenly inhaled and glanced at his chronometer. “I apologize. I must take my leave of you, my lady. Same time next week?” he asked as he suddenly stood up and leaned over to take her hand.

  Startled at how quickly he lifted her gloved hand and kissed the back of it, Emelia had to suppress a gasp. “Yes, of course,” she managed to get out as the man suddenly turned away and took his leave of her and of the park.

  What a strange man! she found herself thinking only a moment later. And not just because of his behavior. Why, it was as if he regretted having checked the time, even as he knew he had to be somewhere else!

  For just the briefest moment when he had bent to kiss her hand, she was quite sure he had done it before.

  But the only time she had ever spent with the rogue was here in the park. She was sure of it. He had never lifted her hand to his lips before. Never looked at her as if … he wanted her.

  Frowning, Emelia reached down and plucked his mustache from the crushed granite path at her feet.

  “Eeewww,” she murmured, wondering if she should keep it so that she might present it to him on their next visit. She could just imagine how to do it, too. “Is this yours, perhaps? I think you lost it last week while you were blackmailing me.” Given the man’s behavior, she rather doubted he would be the least bit embarrassed at having his missing facial hair returned to him.

  She wondered if he would show up with a different one upon their next meeting and quickly shook her head, suddenly wanting instead to remember what he had looked like without it. She had a brief but clear view of Mr. Pepperidge right before he turned away to head off down the path toward the road. A view that had her wondering why the man would even sport such a disgusting facial ornament. For Mr. Pepperidge was a much more handsome man without it.

  A rather aristocratic looking man, except for the nose. And the spectacles. And the awful brown wig.

  A familiar man, although somehow not.

  Pulling her small sketch pad from her reticule, Emelia began drawing what she could remember of Mr. Pepperidge—without the mustache, of course—and decided that, yes, he was a more handsome man without it.

  Which had her wondering why he sported one at all.

  A disguise? But why would the editor of The Tattler require the use of a disguise? she wondered.

  What is he hiding?

  Emelia straightened on the bench, suddenly determined to discover just what it was Mr. Pepperidge was hiding.

  His true identity, she thought with some excitement.

  For the first time in several weeks, Emelia left Hyde Park feeling light on her feet. Feeling a bit of hope for her future. Why, if Lord Bellingham asked her to waltz, she would agree without hesitation. Hell, if anyone invited her to waltz, she would do so, she decided, hang the need for a voucher from one of the patronesses of Almack’s.

  Well, maybe not with Mr. Pepperidge.

  Mr. Pepperidge was despicable. He was oily. He was an awful man.

  But underneath the disguise he wore, Mr. Pepperidge was a rather handsome man.

  Perhaps he was also a better man.

  Emelia rolled her eyes.

  If he were a better man, he would never have blackmailed me in the first place.

  Chapter 14

  Off to Worthington House for a Luncheon with the Ladies

  Your complete coverage of the Season’s best balls continues in next week’s issue with reports from the Weatherstone Ball. Don’t miss it! ~ An advertisement for the May 7, 1818 issue of The Tattler.

  May 7, 1818, noon in South Aubrey Street

  Jane pulled on a deep purple pelisse, rather sad the day wasn’t expected to remain sunny. With the threat of rain—storm clouds were brewing on the horizon—she would have to travel in the town coach the few blocks to the London residence of Lord and Lady Torrington in Park Lane. With her body still thrumming from the events of the night before, she would have preferred to walk.

  Worthington House, the mansion Adele Slater Worthington Grandby had inherited upon her first husband’s death, was one of the grander homes along the edge of the park. Having been married to Samuel Worthington, a wealthy man involved in the building of the early steamships, Adele had thought to simply live the rest of her life as a widow.

  Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, had other plans, however. After a Season spent squiring Adele to various ton events—balls, soirées, and garden parties as well as to the theatre—the earl had surprised her with a rather large sapphire and diamond ring and an offer of marriage. The following year, she had surprised him with a set of twins.

  Adele had prayed for a boy, intent on giving her husband the heir the earldom required for a smooth succession, while her husband told everyone he wanted a daughter.

  Both were rather pleased when they were blessed with one of each.

  Grandby (the earl preferred being called ‘Grandby’ over his title, ‘Torrington’) enjoyed entertaining his daughter, Angelica, in the second-floor nursery almost as much as he enjoyed showing off his angel to any visitors to Worthington House. Meanwhile, Adele doted on their son, George, in the hopes the boy wouldn’t feel ignored. Now that the babies were six months old and the nurses had a handle on their daily schedules, Adele had decided it was time to resume hosting events at Worthington House.

  This small luncheon party was her first in nearly a year. Mine, as well, Jane thought with a wan smile as she made her way to the town coach at the curb, her parasol overhead and Nicole trailing behind. The time spent in the coach afforded her the opportunity to remember her evening spent with Andrew Burroughs.

  How circumstances could change! Her outlook on life had been rather gloomy of late when those closest to her claimed she was finally free of a man who never loved her. She had plans to leave London. To leave the ton behind and see some other parts of the world. To live in Italy.

  “You can be a Merry Widow,” Adele had said in a whisper when they last walked in the park with Clarinda Fitzwilliam, Countess of Norwick, and Patience Comber, Countess of Aimsley. Although some might have thought that’s what Adele had done to capture the heart and hand of Milton Grandby, Adele had actually been living a rather sedate life after Worthington’s death. There were the few months when she thought she would marry, but when she discovered her fiancé was deep in debt due to gambling and needed her fortune to pay his debtors, she had broken off the engagement. Another month or so of independent life followed. She was more surprised than any of her peers when Grandby offered to escort her to an entire Season of events. A Season of merry widowhood followed.

  Jane now understood first-hand the meaning of the term. Merry, indeed. She had to suppress a huge smile as she stepped down from the coach and approached the double-doors of Worthington House, sure if anyone saw her grinning like an idiot, they would think her a candidate for Bedlam.

  One of the front doors opened before she could use the lion-head knocker. Bernard, the butler, gave her a deep bow as he waved her into the
house. Instead of following on her heels, Nicole took the walkway around the side of the house to the servants’ entrance at the back. While her lady was lunching with other aristocrats’ wives upstairs, Nicole would be having tea with some of the servants of Worthington House, exchanging gossip and news below stairs.

  Adele appeared in the great hall beyond the vestibule, angling her head to one side as the butler helped Jane remove her pelisse. “I am so happy to see you. Had you not come, I would have sent a footman to escort you,” she warned as she moved to give Jane a hug. “Mourning or not.”

  Jane couldn’t help the grin that appeared—she was happy for the first time in … she didn’t know how long. “I do believe I am done with mourning,” she replied with an arched brow, wondering if anyone would notice she had been tumbled the night before.

  And that morning.

  Adele noticed. “Why, you’re glowing as if …” She lowered her voice. “You’ve been tumbled every which way but up,” she teased in a whisper, an eyebrow arching up.

  Her own eyebrows rising in alarm, Jane replied, “Oh, my. Is it that obvious?”

  Adele blinked and then hooked her arm into Jane’s to pull her aside just as several ladies appeared in the vestibule. “I thought I was teasing, but apparently I wasn’t wrong?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

  Jane angled her head to one side, wanting desperately to confide in her friend. “When everyone has gone, and we’re in the nursery, I’ll tell you everything,” she promised.

  “I don’t know that I can wait that long,” Adele claimed as she turned her attention to her newest guests. Constance Roderick, Marquess of Reading, Clarinda and Patience stepped up to greet their hostess.

  “Lady Reading, Lady Norwick, and Lady Aimsley, so good of you to join me today,” Adele said, her voice back to normal. “Lady Reading, I’d like you to meet Jane Fitzpatrick, Countess of Stoneleigh.”

  “Dowager Countess, actually,” Jane said with a curtsy. “It’s very good to meet you, Lady Reading …”