“Who are Lady J, L and V, I wonder?”
Everyone at the table turned to stare at Lady Pettigrew, whose eyebrows were furrowed as she seemed to study the article in more detail.
“Young, unmarried ladies, no doubt,” Clarinda replied with a wave of her hand. “What else did the editor write about? He can be so catty.”
“Who said it was a he?” Lady Pettigrew asked as she lifted her head, her brows still furrowed in obvious worry.
The other women dared a glance at each other in turn. “Because no self-respecting woman would write such dreck?” Patience offered with a roll of her eyes. All the ladies at the table laughed except Lady Pettigrew, who seemed intent on reading the next article.
Since Jane had watched each young unmarried lady take their turns leaving the ballroom with the handsome bastard, she said, “Lady J is Lady Jane, Lady L is Lady Lucida, and Lady V is Lady Victoria.”
There was a sharp inhalation of breath as Lady Pettigrew pinned her with a glare. “My Lady Jane?” she repeated.
Jane stilled herself, realizing the old biddy apparently knew nothing of Jane Browning’s elicit activity in the gardens behind Lord Weatherstone’s mansion. “Just a guess,” she responded quickly, not adding that there were probably no other Lady J’s in attendance of an age to be kissing Lord Devonville’s bastard son. I am certainly too old! She didn’t dare allow a thought of what it might be like to be escorted into the gardens and kissed in the presence of Cupid by that young man.
Now, if that man had been Maximilian Andrew Burroughs …
A shiver of pleasure seemed to pass through her entire body, forcing her to still herself as she regarded the old biddy who held the news sheet as if it were a piece of gold leaf.
Lady Pettigrew held up the sheet and began to recite the next paragraph just as a footman poured the first course of wine. “Meanwhile, another new man to London (Ed. or a returnee, I’ve just been informed), A. Burroughs, made his debut in the gardens, kissing a young chit senseless—or was she kissing him senseless? A banker is sworn to secrecy.”
Jane straightened suddenly, her head turning so quickly it caught the attention of Adele. “May I see that?” she asked as she reached for the news sheet.
Lady Pettigrew regarded her with an arched brow. “Do you know this … A. Burroughs? I can’t say I’ve ever heard of him, unless he’s one of Ariley’s brood.”
Jane didn’t answer as she reread the article, her heart racing at the news that Andrew Burroughs had been spied kissing a young woman in the gardens at Lord Weatherstone’s ball. There might have been another ‘A. Burroughs’ at the ball—the Burroughs family was rather large and well-established in London Society—but an A. Burroughs who was also a banker?
That was too much of a coincidence.
Which meant the man with whom she had spent the entire night in bed had also been spied kissing a much younger woman in the gardens during Lord Weatherstone’s ball.
A giant rock seemed to drop into her stomach just then, removing her appetite for luncheon as well as her appetite for life. Why, just that morning, she had awakened with a smile on her face. Her entire body had thrummed with the memory of what Andrew Burroughs had done with her, not once, not twice, but many times over the course of their night together in her bed.
“Do you know this ‘A. Burroughs’?” Lady Pettigrew asked again, a look that could be considered almost predatory gracing her face.
Jane shook her head. “I just wondered who he was seen kissing, is all,” she answered in a small voice. It was the only response she could manage at that point.
“Lady J,” Lady Pettigrew stated after she had taken back the news sheet and finished reading the rest of the short article to herself.
“Your niece?” Jane queried in confusion, her arched eyebrow daring the viscountess to deny the accusation.
At least, she hoped the older woman would do so.
The idea that Lady Jane had been spotted kissing not just one man, but two in the gardens, would lead to certain ruination for the young woman.
Lady Pettigrew turned to regard Jane with a look that could have only been anger. She obviously thought the dowager countess was inferring her niece was either fast or behaving inappropriately in the gardens. The viscountess’ expression softened after a moment, though. “Yes. Yes, Lady J is my niece, I suppose,” she murmured. “I hadn’t thought of a banker as a prospective husband, but if he is of those Burroughs, I certainly wouldn’t object to a match should he and my youngest niece decide to marry. As a banker, he is part of the ton, after all.”
For a moment, Jane thought she might faint. The idea of Lady Jane—the young, impetuous chit who had apparently had several dalliances in the gardens last night—married to Andrew Burroughs had her green with envy.
After another moment, she found herself doubting the report.
Why the hell would Andrew kiss a girl half his age?
Why, he was old enough to be Jane Browning’s father!
But what if he had?
What if Andrew really had been kissing Lady Jane Browning in the gardens, just moments before he found Jane Fitzpatrick keeping company with the potted palms and asked her to dance the waltz?
Warring emotions had Jane fearing she might cast up her accounts, although she hadn’t yet eaten anything. Aware the others at the table were glancing at each other—the discussion had obviously made them uncomfortable—she stilled herself. “I do hope they’ll be happy,” she said as brightly as she could.
At that moment, a series of footmen entered the conservatory, bowls of soup perched on silver salvers. “Ah, luncheon is served, ladies,” Adele announced, the sound of relief in her words barely masked. The announcement was meant to force Lady Pettigrew to set aside the gossip rag. Relieved when she did so, Adele gave a nod and the ladies began eating, and the topic of conversation changed to ball gowns and babies and children.
Anything but the gossip in The Tattler.
Chapter 17
A Drawing Reveals Another Identity
The moment the use of a disguise is discovered, its effectiveness is rendered moot. Remember this, dear reader, for we all wear them on occasion. ~ The editor’s final article in the May 14, 1818 issue of The Tattler.
May 7, 1818, back in Hyde Park
Emelia Comber regarded the drawing she had just completed of the despicable Mr. Pepperidge. Despite how much better looking he appeared in her drawing than he did in real life—debonaire almost, with his bulbous nose, high cheekbones, square jaw, perfect pillowed lips, piercing eyes and gold-rimmed spectacles—she couldn’t help but feel a bit of revulsion at seeing the man—with or without his mustache.
She gave a glance at the fake bit of hair that lay on the bench next to her and wondered if the man even realized he had lost it. He had left in such a hurry, she wondered what could have him taking his leave in such a rush.
She picked up the mustache in her gloved fingers and dropped it atop her drawing, arranging it so it rested above his pillowed lips. Pulling it away again, she frowned as she confirmed he was far more handsome without it. Especially given those lips!
Why would he sport such a disguise, though? Had he grown a mustache and then had it accidentally shaved off by his valet? If so, it must have only happened that morning, because he appeared clean-shaven that brief moment when he had taken his leave of her. And if that were the case, then where would he have acquired a replacement in such a short time?
Was there a shop that carried such mustaches? And was it open this early in the morning?
She supposed such a thing happened on occasion. A valet acted a bit too hastily, taking away a day’s growth of beard along with a six-month growth of mustache.
She wondered if the valet had been fired on the spot.
If she showed the drawing to her mother—Patience Comber was always asking to see her latest work of art—Emelia wondered if her mother would recognize the man. She tried to imagine how she would b
roach the subject, though.
“Mum, could you take a look at this gentleman and tell me if you recognize him? I saw him in the park this morning.”
Her query would no doubt have her mother wondering what she was doing in the park at the ungodly early hour of eight o’ clock in the morning. Well, she wouldn’t have a suitable response, even though she had needed to take a walk. She was a victim of blackmail, after all, and an occasional walk was necessary to soothe the soul.
Deciding to keep the mustache with her sketch pad, she moved it back into place beneath Mr. Pepperidge’s nose and folded the top cover of the sketch pad over the drawing.
Should Mr. Pepperidge ask as to the whereabouts of his mustache when next they met, then she would admit she was in possession of it. Otherwise, it would remain safely tucked away.
Finally rising from the bench, Emelia allowed a sigh and took her leave of the park, heading for Aimsley House at the south end of Park Lane.
Chapter 18
Aftermath of a Luncheon
Although we didn’t spend the entire ball in the gardens, we rather wish we had! Oh, there were the usual couples paying their respect to the statue of Cupid—Lord and Lady B, Lord and Lady M, Lord and Lady D—there were some newcomers to this annual sojourn. We were told one particular gentleman, the Earl of B, made an appearance no less than three times—with three different young ladies! ~ An article on the front page of the May 7, 1818 issue of The Tattler.
May 7, 1818, back at Worthington House
“As God is my witness, I am never again inviting that woman to luncheon on a Thursday,” Adele murmured when she was sure the front door was closed and Lady Pettigrew was out of earshot. She turned to find her other guests giving one another nervous glances.
“What is it about Thursdays?” Connie asked as she pulled on her pelisse with the butler’s assistance, her gaze darting nervously between the other ladies.
“The Tattler is published on Thursdays,” Clarinda replied with a roll of her eyes. “Eugenia always manages to get one of the first copies.”
“Probably because she helps write them,” Patience added with a roll of her eyes. She gave a quick glance in Connie’s direction. “She doesn’t really, but she seems to know more of the on-dit than anyone else in Mayfair.”
Jane pulled on her pelisse, her manner far more reserved than it had been when she first arrived. “Thank you for having us over today,” she managed, not making eye contact with their hostess. She was afraid if she stayed another moment, she would become a watering pot.
“Oh, Jane, I have something for you in the parlor,” Adele said suddenly. She turned to her other guests, noting that they were all ready to take their leave. “Thank you three for coming today. I’m sure I’ll see you again tomorrow. It’s your turn to host tea in the afternoon, is it not?” she asked, her attention directed to Clarinda.
The countess gave a nod. “It is. Thank you again for having us. Good day, Jane. Adele.” She gave a curtsy, as did Connie and Patience, and the two cousins-by-marriage and the other countess took their leave of Worthington House.
Adele turned to Jane and hooked an arm into hers.
“What’s in the parlor?” Jane wondered, curious as to what the countess could possibly have for her.
Lady Torrington allowed a sigh but said nothing until the two were safely ensconced in the parlor with the door shut behind them. “A shoulder to cry on,” she finally said with a sigh. “You looked as if you were going to burst into tears halfway through luncheon,” she accused. “Pray tell, what has happened? You looked positively glorious when you arrived, and now …”
Jane rolled her eyes and slumped into the upholstered chair behind her. “Oh, Adele, I can hardly believe it, but …” Despite her best efforts, a tear dripped from the corner of one eye. “I woke up this morning—several times this morning, in fact—with a man who told me he loved me,” she blurted. Tears continued to fall, which had Adele pulling a hanky from a pocket in her gown.
“Oh, my!” she replied in surprise, handing over the square of linen. Her expression changed to one of consternation. “Oh. I shouldn’t think that would cause tears, though. Unless they are tears of happiness, but … yours are most certainly not.”
Jane shook her head. “Is it true, do you suppose?”
Frowning, Adele took the chair opposite of Jane and leaned forward. “Is what true?”
Sniffling, Jane wiped her face with the hanky. “The Tattler. The mention of Andrew Burroughs kissing Lady Jane in the gardens during the ball.” She barely got the sentence out before a sob robbed her of breath.
The countess let out the breath she’d been holding. “Andrew Burroughs?” she repeated. “The banker? Why, he’s one of Grandby’s cousins,” she remarked as she settled back in her chair.
Jane nodded, tears once again pouring down her face. “Him.”
“Was he kissing you in the gardens during the ball last night?” Adele asked carefully. It stood to reason someone might refer to Lady Stoneleigh as ‘Lady J’ since her given name was Jane, but it certainly wasn’t proper form. But then, this was The Tattler they were discussing. The gossip rag wasn’t exactly known to be respectful of aristocrats and their titles.
Shaking her head, Jane said, “We weren’t kissing in the gardens because we weren’t in the gardens last night,” she whispered between sobs. She swallowed. “Just in … my bed.”
Despite her best efforts to remain serious, Adele found she couldn’t help but allow a grin. “Oh, Jane, this is such good news!” she replied happily, scooching forward so she sat on the front edge of her chair. “I’ve been so concerned you wouldn’t take a lover after Stoneleigh’s death. Goodness knows, you deserve all the attention you can get from a doting man,” she added with an arched eyebrow. “Andrew is a widower, and such a nice man,” she added with a nod.
Jane blinked. And blinked again, obviously shocked by Adele’s response. “But don’t you see? He was seen kissing someone else in the gardens last night. He’s obviously a … a rake!”
Adele sobered, suddenly understanding Jane’s point. She took a deep breath and exhaled. “Tell me everything,” she ordered, resisting the urge to ring for tea. Tea made everything better, but a servant might overhear part of their conversation whilst delivering the tea cart.
Once again rolling her eyes, Jane considered where to start. “He just appeared in front of me last night. I was standing at the back of the ballroom, keeping company with the palm trees, and he asked me to waltz. I didn’t even recognize him at first.”
“If it’s any consolation, I didn’t either,” Adele admitted. “Grandby had to tell me who he was during the supper. He hasn’t been in London for years, and he does look quite different than he did as a lad. Why, I remember when we used to call him ‘Max’.”
Jane sighed, not about to admit that she remembered his nickname all too well. “We waltzed, and he offered to take me into supper, but I said I was going home—I was just about to leave when he asked me to dance. He escorted me to the vestibule, and then to my town coach, and the next thing I knew, he was in the coach telling me he wasn’t going to leave me alone.” She paused, rather annoyed at how Adele sighed, as if her story was some sort of fairy tale with a happy ending.
“And?” Adele prompted in anticipation, still perched on the front edge of her chair.
“He kept his word,” Jane acknowledged with a nod. “Didn’t take his leave of my bed until just after dawn. Sneaked out the back door, although the scullery maid discovered him. Apparently he said something about being in the wrong house, so she merely thought he was drunk and disorientated and about to come into the house, thank goodness.”
Adele blinked, not about to ask if the scullery maid was a simpleton.
“So, your lady’s maid doesn’t know?” Adele wondered, her brows furrowed. Maids seemed to know everything about their mistresses. “What about your butler?”
Jane shook her head. “My butler spent t
he night with his wife at Norwick House. I don’t think Nicole knows anything. I certainly didn’t admit anything to her. The man had the decency to straighten the bed linens, and he left things quite neat before he kissed me, and told me he loved me, and said we would go riding in the park tomorrow when he returns from Chiswick.” Tears once again streamed down her face, the hanky barely able to keep up with the flow. “I was so … happy before … before Lady Pettigrew read that damned gossip sheet,” she wailed.
Sighing, Adele shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Jane.” She allowed another sigh. “I can have Grandby challenge him to a duel, if you’d like,” she suggested, her words more teasing than they should have been. “I suppose he could overlook the fact that Mr. Burroughs is one of his younger cousins.”
“Oh, would you?” Jane countered, her manner still rather serious. “Grandby’s not my godfather, of course, but I wouldn’t mind him adopting me for the purpose of seeing to Mr. Burroughs’ immediate demise.” After a moment, she sighed. “I had no idea he kissed Lady Jane before he asked me to dance,” she whispered between sobs. Her eyes suddenly widened. “Damnation. He’s old enough to be her father,” she added, which brought forth even more tears.
Angry tears.
Sad tears.
Adele stood up and moved to the sideboard. Pouring a generous dollop of brandy into a tumbler, she took it to Jane and held it out. “Drink it,” she ordered, her manner most sober.
Jane did as she was told, wincing as the amber liquid burned her throat. “Oh, that’s disgusting,” she complained after a couple of sputtering coughs. Indeed, it wasn’t nearly as good as the brandy in her study, the brandy that she and Andrew had shared last night. She had a brief moment of wondering if her half-empty glass was still in the study. If so, she would empty it completely when she got home. And maybe have another.
She remembered there would be a second glass in the study. The one Andrew had used. She nearly burst into tears again at the thought.
Adele took back the tumbler, frowning at the glass. “Don’t ever let Grandby hear you say that,” she warned. “That’s his very best brandy.” The countess paused a moment before sitting down again, a sigh escaping as she did so. “I cannot tell you what to do, Jane,” she finally said in a quiet voice. “But I can tell you that you have a decision to make.”
The Gossip of an Earl (The Widows of the Aristocracy Book 1) Page 13