“Oh, call me Connie, please,” the marchioness insisted with a shake of her head. “This is all so very new to me,” she added. “I’ve just yesterday returned from the wedding trip, and I’m apparently about to be swept off to Reading for another.”
So, this is the Rake of Reading’s wife, Jane thought with a mix of happiness and concern. Happiness, for the woman was a bit older than a typical bride and seemed rather satisfied with married life. Her concern had to do with the groom. Certainly the woman already knew of the marquess’ reputation as a rake.
Before she could ask as to how the two had met, Clarinda said, “Connie is my husband’s cousin. She and Reading share a love of race horses.”
“Any kind of horses, actually,” Connie interjected. “I’ve been living in a Norwick property in Sussex almost my entire life, raising and training horses.” She didn’t add that the property adjoined that of George Bennett-Jones, Viscount Bostwick. It was one of the viscount’s horses that had sired a race horse that would be making its debut in this year’s races.
“She is the only one who could tame Lord Reading,” Patience said with an arched brow, her comment obviously meant for Jane.
Clarinda chimed in. “He is a new man since meeting Connie. I do not believe I have seen such devotion in any other man before.”
Jane was sure she saw a flush of pink color Connie’s face, as if the woman knew full well of her husband’s reputation. An entire issue of The Tattler had been dedicated to the many dalliances of the marquess, the gossip rag deeming him The Rake of Reading. The moniker stuck, which may have served the marquess well during his days as a rake, but which proved a difficult reputation to overcome when, at the age of five-and-thirty, he was finally on the hunt for a wife. He had pursued Constance relentlessly, insisting she was the woman for him. After a time, Connie found she couldn’t say ‘no’ to the man.
She had fallen in love with him.
And his horses.
“Except in your own husband,” Adele put in, an arched eyebrow aimed in Clarinda’s direction.
It was the other countess’ turn to blush. “True. But Daniel has loved me since well before his twin brother married me,” Clarinda claimed with a shake of her head, a reference to her late husband, David, and the father of their twin girls. Any mention of the man had Clarinda glancing about, as if she expected the man’s ghost to appear.
At the sound of a new arrival, the five turned toward the vestibule. Lady Eugenia Pettigrew appeared in the archway before the butler had chance to take her parasol and the pelisse. “I’ve got it!” she claimed happily, waving something from one hand. “The first copy off the presses!” the older woman cried out.
Stunned at Lady Pettigrew’s claim, Jane’s eyes widened.
Whatever was the woman crowing about?
Then her gaze moved to take in the object of the viscountess’ claim.
In her gloved hand, the widow held up the newest edition of The Tattler.
Chapter 15
Pondering a Woman
Dear Reader, please believe us when we say it was never our intention to cause undo hardship or to incite a member of the peerage into retribution. We were simply doing our job as reporters. ~ The editor’s final article in the May 14, 1818 issue of The Tattler.
May 7, 1818 in Hyde Park
Felix Turnbridge, Earl of Fennington, silently cursed himself as he quickly made his way to his phaeton. How could he have bungled the news about Lady Jane’s kiss so badly? He was sure Adeline Carlington had been pointing to the man who eventually kissed Lady Jane in the gardens when he asked as to his identity. She had said he was Andrew Burroughs, but clearly, Mr. Burroughs was too old to be the man kissing Lady Jane.
So Lady Jane had to have been kissing the Earl of Bellingham’s look-a-like bastard brother. That could be the only explanation.
Well, that week’s issue of The Tattler was printed and already on its way to being distributed all over London. He might have to include an updated article in the next issue to clarify the news. Mr. Burroughs was probably too new to London to even know anything about his publication, so he rather doubted any harm would come out of the mistaken report.
He tossed a coin to the young boy who stood holding the reins of his gray mare. Juno could be quite high-strung if she thought she was being ignored or taken for granted. At the moment, she seemed rather content as the boy fed her a carrot.
“Did she give you any trouble?” Felix asked as he made sure to give the spoiled horse a slight bow. Although she tossed her head just a bit, her attention was back on the boy, as if she thought he might have another treat for her.
“Not a bit, guv’nor. Think she’s lonely, though, if you take my meaning.”
Felix blinked as he regarded the boy, at first thinking him a bit cheeky. “And if I do not?” he countered, deciding he wanted to hear the boy’s opinion.
“Time to have her bred, guv’nor. She’s in season,” the boy claimed with an arched eyebrow.
Jesus. The signs had been there all morning. Thank goodness he had come straight to the park from the mews behind his townhouse in Bruton Street. There hadn’t been many horses in the streets that led to Rotten Row, but some of those that were around them made more noise than usual, and Juno seemed, well, more high-strung than usual.
“I suppose you have a stud in mind?” Felix wondered as he took the seat on the high perch phaeton. Bright red but otherwise devoid of any crests that might identify him as the Earl of Fennington, the phaeton suited his needs for quick transportation about London. And right now, he needed to get to Westminster.
“You’ll want to ask for Mr. Comber at Harrington House in Park Lane,” the boy said with a nod, removing his cap as he did so. “He’ll know what she needs, milord.”
Grinning, Felix gave the boy a nod and tossed him another pence. Mr. Comber? The boy was no doubt referring to Emelia’s brother, Alistair. The former Army officer had been allowed to marry Julia Harrington on the condition he remain in charge of the Harrington House stables. He was also responsible for beginning a breeding program to see to it the Earl of Aimsley had a race horse for every season.
Felix hadn’t given any consideration to having his prized Percheron bred, but he supposed it would be one way of assuring he had a horse to replace her when it was time for her to be put out to pasture. In the meantime, he could imagine her and her colt pulling a barouche, or perhaps a small town coach. Not that he had any need of such equipage now, but at some point he would have to think about life with a wife. Siring an heir. Perhaps a spare.
A high-perch phaeton would hardly be suitable for transport about London when he had a wife. He could imagine Lady Emelia attempting to hold on as he negotiated the streets of London as they made their way to …
Felix furrowed his brows. To … where?
His office?
He certainly wouldn’t be taking his wife to the publishing house, nor would she go with him to Parliament.
When he suddenly realized why he would require a larger carriage, he nearly slapped himself upside the head.
Shopping, he realized as he passed under the gate post of Hyde Park. The theatre. Balls. Soirées. They couldn’t be expected to ride in a phaeton or a hackney when it was raining or cold, which meant they wouldn’t be going out very often.
Cursing the traffic and the attention Juno seemed to be garnering from even the oldest horses along Victoria Street, Felix realized he had better ensure the stable hands knew to keep her sequestered from her barn mates in the mews.
When he finally pulled up to the curb in front of Parliament—a quick glance at his Breguet assured him he had a few moments—he spotted a groom heading in his direction.
“I say, can you keep her away from trouble? I’m afraid I didn’t realize she was in heat,” he said when the groom took Juno’s reins.
“Of course, my lord,” the man said with a bow. “I’ll put her with the others.”
Felix was about to
hurry off—he needed to change into his robes—when he suddenly stopped and regarded the groom with an arched brow. “Others?” he repeated in alarm.
The groom paused a moment. “The other mares, my lord. There are a number in season this week.” He gave a short bow and hurried off.
Felix sighed, wondering if he was the last to know.
How had he missed the signs?
Well, he had been a bit preoccupied with his own sexual discomfort. Preoccupied with the thought of seeing Lady Emelia. Despite the ridiculous hat with the veil that did little to hide her rather pretty face, Emelia appeared luminescent in the early morning light.
He was about to resume imagining what she would look like if she were his wife, if he returned home to find her waiting for him, but found he had to squelch the thought.
He needed to remove his spectacles, peel off his fake nose, and get out of the ridiculous wig he wore, and into his robes and periwig and the Chamber of Lords.
Duty called.
Chapter 16
A Gossip Rag Leaves Little to the Imagination
Complete coverage of the Weatherstone Ball is here! We were in attendance and can honestly report we were not disappointed in the least. Although the lobster patties and champagne were divine (Ed. They really were! Lady Weatherstone’s cook knows how to make these much maligned finger foods), we know you’re far more interested in what happened in the gardens behind the ballroom. Or in the library. Or on the dance floor. Here, dear reader, is a recap of the evening’s events. What we don’t have space to include here will appear in the May 14, 1818 issue. Be sure to pick up yours at your favorite newsstand! ~ The lead article in the May 7, 1818 issue of The Tattler.
May 7, 1818, Worthington House
Adele stiffened at the viscountess’ appearance. Although she had invited Lady Pettigrew, she had rather hoped the woman might have another engagement to attend. If the viscountess discovered Adele had hosted a luncheon and not included her on the guest list, Adele would suffer the woman’s wrath in the form of pointed jabs during other ton events. And Eugenia Pettigrew was a gossip of the worst kind. There were some who secretly thought she was the editor and head writer for The Tattler.
“Lady Pettigrew, so good of you to join us,” Adele offered as she moved to take one of the woman’s gloved hands in her own. The other held the gossip rag, the main headline including the words ‘Weatherstone Ball’. “I would have thought you exhausted after last night’s ball, given you had to chaperone your niece,” she added as she turned to indicate her other guests. “You know Lady Norwick, Lady Aimsley, and Lady Stoneleigh, of course,” she said, waving a hand in the direction of the three countesses. “But I don’t know if you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Lady Reading.” She pulled Lady Pettigrew closer to the marchioness—Connie actually outranked all the ladies in attendance—and said, “Lady Reading, may I introduce you to Lady Pettigrew?”
Connie waited for the viscountess to curtsy and then gave one of her own. “It’s very good to meet you. I do hope you enjoyed last night’s ball as much as I did.” The newly minted marchioness—she had only just married Randall Roderick, Marquess of Reading, last September—hadn’t been back in London for a fortnight given the length of her wedding trip.
The viscountess straightened before angling her head. “I would have enjoyed it far more if my niece had secured an offer of marriage,” she replied with an arched brow, the comment not including any hint of humor. “And you?”
Connie was left a bit dumbstruck by the odd comment, but finally allowed a nod. “I did, indeed. I can certainly understand why the Weatherstone ball is so well attended.” Why, she’d had no idea how many of the ton lived in London!
“Come, let’s move to the conservatory and be seated,” Adele offered as she led the ladies down the wide hall to the last room at the back of the house. Although the conservatory was warm, the air was filled with the heady scents of flowers and tropical plants. One of the walls was made up entirely of glass windows, allowing that day’s sunshine to light the room. In the middle, a table set for six was the current favorite place for a white flutterby that seemed to be doing an intricate dance with a yellow one. The place settings—china decorated with floral motifs and crystal goblets from Waterford’s studio—gave the tableau a formal feel despite the informal surroundings.
“It’s beautiful,” Connie breathed as she entered the conservatory. “I’ve been told there’s one at Reading’s summer house …”
“Oh, there is, and it’s beautiful,” Adele offered. “Far larger than this one, of course.”
The comment had Connie’s jaw dropping. “Larger?”
The other ladies tittered, the sound sending the flutterbies off into the tropical plants. “I was only there because the marquess invited Grandby to his stables. You’ll see when you finally get there this summer.”
Several footmen stepped up to pull out the chairs. Place cards in the shape of flutterby wings indicated where each guest would sit. Jane felt a combination of relief and terror at being seated between Adele and Lady Pettigrew. She moved to her spot and allowed the footman to push in her chair once she was sure Connie was seated across from her. The others took their seats and seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time placing their napkins on their laps before Jane finally turned to Lady Pettigrew.
“Have you had a chance to read The Tattler? I couldn’t help but notice the headline,” she added, deciding the level of stress in the room was because everyone else feared being mentioned in the gossip rag. Thank goodness she had spent the entire night playing a wallflower. That is, until Andrew Burroughs had stepped up and insisted she dance the waltz with him.
Had anyone seen them leave, though? They had done so together.
The thought had her heart racing again.
The viscountess beamed at being asked about the news sheet. “I have not. I discovered the majority of it was finished and printed so the editor had only the front page to finish in the middle of the night. Otherwise it would be next week before we would have the news of last night’s ball,” she claimed in a voice that suggested another week waiting for the news sheet would be intolerable. “I thought I would share a few tidbits before luncheon was served,” Lady Pettigrew said hopefully.
“Goodness, I do hope they didn’t pay witness to Grandby taking me behind a potted palm,” Adele teased with an arched brow.
Clarinda tried but failed to stifle a giggle. “Or Norwick and me as we introduced ourselves to the statue of Cupid.”
“Or Aimsley and me as we slipped into the library to read one of Homer’s epics,” Patience chimed in with a huge grin.
Jane allowed a tentative grin, delighting in how these ladies of the ton seemed to discount the validity of the news presented in The Tattler. “So, what is the featured story from the ball?” she wondered, thinking perhaps it had something to do with the young man who had nearly every chit swooning for him. Why, she had watched the handsome man escort three young women through the doors at the back of the ballroom and onto the flags leading to the gardens, each one different in hair coloring, complexion and height. Apparently he hadn’t yet decided what type of woman he was attracted to, or else he merely favored them all.
Ah, young men, she thought wistfully, a fleeting image of Maximilian Andrew Burroughs coming to mind. She was sure a flush of color stained her cheeks just then.
Lady Pettigrew beamed as she opened the news sheet and quickly read the lead story. “Mayfair was awash in color and glitter and gold as Lord and Lady Weatherstone hosted their annual spring ball,” she read aloud, lowering her spectacles to the end of her nose as she did so. “This year’s feast for chits’ eyes had to be the son of Lord D. The marquess’ progeny not only danced with several young ladies in the ballroom, he also did so in the gardens. We either paid witness to or were informed of liaisons with Lady J, Lady L and Lady V as they were each showered with kisses under the paper lanterns that barely lit the scene. Cupid, of course
, paid witness as well. As to which one he shot, we don’t yet know.” She looked up suddenly and frowned briefly before turning her attention back on the news sheet. “Why, Adele, I wasn’t aware your nephew was back in London,” she commented lightly, concluding ‘Lord D’ referred to William Slater, Marquess of Devonville.
The Countess of Torrington angled her head, rather surprised the gossip rag would report Will Slater’s presence at the ball when he was no where near London. Only a few days ago, the naval commander had returned to English shores after resigning his commission. His intention was to marry the earl’s daughter he had fallen in love with prior to his service. “Oh, he was back in London for only two nights, but he has already gone off to Oxfordshire,” Adele replied with a shrug. “He actually left London yesterday morning. I’m sure he’s anxious to see his sister, Hannah, and to meet his brother-in-law, the Earl of Gisborn,” she added, realizing Connie would be unfamiliar with her niece and nephew.
Lord D is the Marquess of Devonville, then, Jane surmised, realizing the young man she had spied with three different chits was supposed to be his son. But wasn’t, apparently. At least, not the son who had already taken his leave of London to find his long-lost love.
The color seemed to drain from Lady Pettigrew’s face as she quickly reread the article to herself. “Well, if not Commander Slater, then who was the young man at the ball last night? The one who apparently looks exactly like him? Exactly like the Earl of Bellingham?”
A couple of the women shifted uncomfortably, as if they knew the answer but didn’t wish to share the information. Speaking of bastard sons, or in this case, a bastard nephew, wasn’t something any of them thought appropriate just then.
“The writer is no doubt referring to Stephen Slater, the younger son of Lord Devonville,” Patience explained lightly. “He was quite popular, and quite handsome,” she added in a tone that suggested she could have been his mother. “Why, he looks exactly like his brother, Will.”
The Gossip of an Earl (The Widows of the Aristocracy Book 1) Page 12