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

by Linda Rae Sande

  Morganfield was right, of course. He did appear winded, his cheeks reddened from his race to Westminster, his spiked hair now safely ensconced in a periwig. Juno had done herself proud by simply barreling down the streets, around carts and horses and all manner of conveyances that could have hindered his on-time arrival.

  A groomsman had seen to his phaeton and to Juno the moment he stepped down and onto the pavement.

  It was then he realized he had lost his mustache.

  Damn!

  Well, he had another in his box of disguises. He rather liked the one he wore today, though. Its color suited his face perfectly, and it was trimmed so it appeared as natural as a real one. He wondered in passing where he would have lost it.

  In the park? In Piccadilly? Or was it on the seat of his phaeton?

  He could only hope it might be found there. He would search for it later. Right now, he needed to concentrate on Lord Morganfield.

  “You don’t appear as if you rushed here, but aren’t you here a bit later than normal?” Felix queried with an arched eyebrow. “Stay too late at the ball last night?” He knew the marquess was his party’s leader, both in and out of Chambers. Morganfield was usually surrounded by his political peers, reviewing what topics they should and shouldn’t agree upon when they came up for a vote.

  The marquess allowed a nod. “My wife kept me abed a bit longer than normal this morning, I’ll happily admit. She’s rather talented when it comes to the use of feathers,” he replied with a grin.

  Felix was quite sure he saw the man blush!

  Feathers?

  “Feathers?” he repeated, resisting the urge to swallow. In bed? And how? He suddenly felt his own color rising and turned away, pretending to straighten his folded topcoat on the bench where he had left it a moment ago.

  David regarded him with a grin before saying, “You’ll have to tell your mistress to give them a try. Ostrich feathers are ever so … exotic.” He turned his attention to one of the other lords who had just arrived. “I never took you for one to end up in the pages of The Tattler,” he said to the newcomer.

  William Slater, Marquess of Devonville, smiled broadly at the comment as he donned his robe. “Me neither, but apparently giving your wife a peck on the cheek at the theatre is considered scandalous. Who knew?”

  The other marquess quirked a lip. “Well, if you had pecked my wife on the cheek, you would have had a shiner to show for it,” he responded with a grin.

  Rather protective of his marchioness, David barely tolerated another man kissing the back of her hand. At least he allowed her to dance at ton balls. The daughter of an Italian count was still a stunner despite her age.

  “Och! You’re certainly no fun,” Devonfield replied with a shake of his head. “But I’m not the least bit embarrassed by the mention in that rag,” he added with a shake of his head. “I do feel for that poor chit who suffered at Lord Brougham’s attention, however. Miss Grandby doesn’t deserve such a mention.”

  David gave a nod. “And I’m sure Brougham has suffered for having bestowed Miss Grandby with any attention at all. I heard Gregory Grandby pummeled the rake at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon, and the man isn’t even a member there.”

  The other marquess straightened. “I would have paid money to see that mill,” he said with a bit of awe.

  “We all would have,” David Carlington agreed. “Perhaps a rematch can be arranged. I rather doubt Brougham will return, though. At least until his nose has had a chance to heal.”

  Felix listened intently as the two marquesses exchanged comments about last week’s issue of The Tattler. To learn that both read his publication was both a surprise and a compliment. He figured mostly women read the news sheet and then shared the information with others during their morning and afternoon teas. The articles were rarely mean-spirited, although a few members of the ton suffered more than others simply because he didn’t like them.

  Or their ways.

  Lord Brougham was one of them. The fact that the woman he had been seen fondling during Huntington’s soirée two weeks ago was now made famous by his gossip news sheet was probably a blessing as much as a curse. Most would give the chit a bit—no, make that a good deal—of leeway, for everyone knew the lecherous viscount for what he was—a rake and a libertine. He couldn’t even be expected to have to offer for her hand since he was already married.

  Thank the gods. Ariel Grandby was the apple of her father’s eye. Gregory Grandby would never insist on marriage. Especially after pummeling the man.

  Would he?

  I will simply invent a story to save her from such a travesty if it ever came to that, Felix thought quickly. The oldest daughter of Gregory Grandby deserved the very best in terms of a match, and he couldn’t imagine any rake on the planet as her husband. The chit was far too young to marry anyway. What was Ariel now? he wondered suddenly. Fourteen? Fifteen?

  Poor child.

  Even her mother, Christiana, had been at least sixteen before her brother, Thomas Wellingham, finally allowed her to wed his best friend. And Gregory Grandby was one of the wealthiest men in all of England!

  But hearing that Brougham was probably beaten to a pulp by the Earl of Torrington’s cousin had him thinking up a headline for the next issue of The Tattler.

  Incensed Father Defends His Daughter’s Honor! Rake Pummeled, Nose Broken! See page 6.

  He’d have to learn more about what happened after the Duke of Huntington’s soirée before he sat down to write the article, though. The more details he could include, the more compelling the article would be to his readers. At least he knew the man’s nose was broken. That would be a bonus in the telling. Everyone knew broken noses spewed blood all about.

  Spewing blood sold newspapers!

  And if Emelia Comber didn’t agree to be his wife, he might have to see about acquiring a mistress. Lord Morganfield obviously thought he employed one, although he hadn’t been able to afford one since he learned the earldom was so deep in debt from his father’s gambling. He remembered the thought of offering carte blanche to Emelia Comber and wondered once again what her reaction might be should he do so.

  Anger?

  Contempt?

  Interest?

  Acceptance?

  That last was rather unlikely, but he could always hope. Actually, it was far better when he thought of her as his wife. The thought of her body beneath his had his cock hardening, his heart racing, and his mind imagining all the ways he could pleasure her. All the ways he could have her saying his name as ecstasy took her and her lush body, how his own would seize up and send his mind into oblivion, into an existence so intense and pleasurable, his seed would spill into her and be on its way to create the next generation of Fenningtons.

  Felix swallowed just then.

  Mistresses couldn’t give birth to heirs. Only wives could do that.

  Emelia Comber had to agree to be his wife.

  Why think of her in any other capacity but that of his countess?

  She was the younger daughter of an earl. Not his favorite member of the ton, certainly, but Mark Comber, Earl of Aimsley, wasn’t so bad compared to some of the others. His countess, Patience Waterford Comber, was rather a good woman, a compassionate woman, a good mother, and a devoted patron to her charities. A woman who had given birth to one of the most troublesome and yet friendly of men in Adam and one of the most compelling women he had ever had the pleasure of knowing.

  He dared a glance down the front of his body.

  Thank goodness he wore a robe just then!

  The gong sounded, and those still in the robing room quickly departed for the Chamber of Lords.

  Felix followed at a discreet distance.

  Chapter 21

  A Visit to Merriweather Manor

  Rumor has it that Merriweather Manor in Chiswick is undergoing massive renovations. While we haven’t yet learned who is footing the bill, we do have to wonder—why? No one has lived there in the brick monst
rosity for over ten years! Is someone expecting? ~ A snippet of an article in the January 29, 1818 issue of The Tattler.

  Meanwhile, in Chiswick

  Seven miles west of London, Andrew Burroughs pulled back on the reins of his borrowed horse and stared in wonder at the sprawling brick manor just off the Great West Road. Although Merriweather Manor had at one time fronted twelve-thousand acres, the grounds were considerably smaller now—six-thousand acres, according to the deed. Behind the huge, multi-winged structure stood a matching brick carriage house and stables. Three gardens covered part of the grounds, and somewhere in the back—behind the kitchen gardens and the formal garden—there was a pond suitable for fishing.

  It seems smaller now because it is, he thought with a grin, rather happy to know that just selling off the back six-thousand acres to an adjacent landowner had raised enough funds to pay for nearly half the manual labor to restore the estate to its former glory.

  Sir William Burroughs III had seen to that transaction as well as hiring the workmen required for the restoration of the house and remaining grounds. Exchanging correspondence with his uncle for nearly five years had kept Andrew current on the project, and the project ensured his uncle had something to keep him busy once he retired from his position at the Bank of England. At seventy years of age, William may have complained of aches and pains, but he wasn’t a frail old man.

  Although he had spent his youth at Merriweather Manor, Andrew hadn’t been back to the house for nearly twenty years. Now that he and his uncle’s plans to revive the old estate were nearly complete, he could hardly wait to see the results.

  He allowed the trotter to set the pace as they made their way up the crushed granite drive. He half-expected a stableboy to see to the horse but had to remind himself that the household and stables staff had not yet been hired. With luck, a butler would be on site within the next few weeks as well as a housekeeper and cook. By the following month, if all followed the plan he had been considering since leaving Jane’s bed that morning, they would take up residence as husband and wife at Merriweather Manor in time for the Little Season.

  Several gardeners were raking the newly clipped lawn adjacent to the house, and a team of laborers were unloading furnishings from several dray carts.

  When one tipped his hat, Andrew headed in his direction. “Hullo. I wonder if you might know where I can find the foreman?”

  The workman jerked a thumb toward the house. “He’s with the colorman in the main floor parlor.”

  Andrew acknowledged the man with a nod and hobbled the horse near the marble fountain in the center of the drive. Although no water sprouted from the figurines, the base contained what looked like fresh rainwater. He watched to be sure the horse could help himself to a drink before heading through the double-doors and into the house.

  Stopping short, he was struck by the sense of déja vu he experienced. Although the large vestibule was newly painted, and the marble floor had been restored to a gleaming shine, it was still familiar. Some of the furnishings were missing, although he realized the workmen out front were still in the process of bringing in the household items that had been stored at a nearby estate during the renovations.

  “May I be of assistance?”

  Andrew turned at the sound of the query, removing his hat as he did so. “Yes, sir. I’m looking for Mr. Turner,” he answered.

  “Found him, you did,” the man replied as he moved in Andrew’s direction.

  “Andrew Burroughs,” he replied, holding out his hand.

  The foreman shook it and gave him a nod. “You’re the partner on this project, then,” he said, his eyes widening a bit.

  “Aye. My uncle said it’s my turn to check on your progress,” Andrew said with a grin. “I do hope the old man has been reasonable to work with.”

  Mr. Turner gave a shrug. “Haven’t seen much of him, actually.”

  Andrew furrowed his brows, wondering if someone else had been touring the house and grounds in place of his uncle and providing him with updates. “The exterior appears to be nearly complete. It looks rather fine.”

  The foreman nodded and moved farther into the house. “Should be done today, if this weather holds. Just some chinking on the back side of the main house and on the carriage house. I’m having a bit of an issue inside, however.”

  Andrew paused mid-step. “Oh?” His cautious reply had the foreman sighing.

  “Other than some minor carpentry issues in some of the bedchambers upstairs, the last room left to complete is the parlor. The men are here with the furniture, but the colorman has yet to mix the paint. He’s arguing about the color.”

  Andrew frowned, attempting to remember the color scheme he and his uncle had come up with for the ground floor parlor. “Doesn’t like green, then?” he half-asked, remembering the choice of a dark verde seemed fashionable for rooms with a few windows.

  “Says it’s poisonous. Says the ladies will be fainting whilst they have their tea,” Mr. Turner said with an arched brow, as if he didn’t know whether or not to believe the man’s claim.

  A bit alarmed by the comment, Andrew made his way to the parlor. “Poisonous?” he spoke to the only man in the room. “How so?”

  The colorman regarded him for only a moment before he gave a bow. “Aye. To achieve that deep green shade, I have to use arsenic with the copper. Makes for a nasty mix, sir, even after it dries. Don’t want to be leaving any windows closed for too long, especially in the winter.”

  Andrew nodded, realizing that if the paint included arsenic, the man spoke the truth. Not everyone knew arsenic was poisonous, of course, considering some were still using it to quell their coughs.

  But arsenic in paint?

  “No doubt. I suppose that’s what makes the color on the wallpaper then?”

  “Aye. No way around it if you’re wanting those deep green walls.”

  Truth be told, Andrew didn’t particularly care what color the parlor walls were. He had merely agreed with his uncle to use whatever was currently fashionable.

  He remembered the cream-colored walls of Jane’s bedchamber and had to suppress the sudden grin he felt touching his lips. He had spent the entire ride to Chiswick thinking of their night spent together. With any luck, there would be a lifetime of nights like that one in his immediate future.

  He absently felt for the tiny velvet-covered box in his waistcoat pocket. Although he had an early start that morning by leaving Jane’s townhouse at dawn, he had elected to walk to his uncle’s house to wash and change clothes. He then borrowed his uncle’s horse from the mews in the alley.

  Instead of making his way directly to the Bank of England as he had originally planned, he directed the horse to Ludgate Hill. The doors to Rundell, Bridge & Rundell had barely opened when he arrived in search of an appropriate bauble for Jane. He had thought to simply find a bracelet or necklace when he realized he could buy her a wedding ring. She would no doubt accept his offer of marriage whilst on their ride in the park on the morrow.

  He had declared his love for her—several times—and was sure the feeling was mutual even if she hadn’t put voice to the same sentiment. Their time together after the ball had convinced him it didn’t matter that nearly eighteen years had passed without the two seeing one another. They could simply pick up where they had left off all those years ago, before Jane’s father had informed him she was betrothed to the Earl of Stoneleigh.

  How different their lives would have been if her father hadn’t insisted on her marriage to the despicable aristocrat! Andrew might never have left the Bank of England. Might never have left London to work on the Continent.

  Would never have married Bess.

  He shook his head. He couldn’t think like that. If he hadn’t married Bess, he wouldn’t have his children. Wouldn’t have had the opportunity to amass a personal fortune that allowed him to restore Merriweather Manor to its former glory.

  It was the reminder of his bank account that had him perusing t
he trays and trays of rings the goldsmith held out for him to study.

  What would my cousin choose? he wondered, thinking of Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington. His uncle claimed the oldest Grandby cousin patronized the goldsmith on a frequent basis, his countess the beneficiary of his purchases. The bastard bought her three necklaces the night he discovered she was with child because he didn’t know what color gown she would be wearing for dinner, Sir William had said as he shook his head in disbelief.

  When Andrew put voice to the query as to which ring the earl would choose, Mr. Rundell’s eyes widened, and the trays disappeared to be replaced with another displaying rings with far larger gemstones and more decorative settings.

  And higher prices, of course.

  Ten minutes later, a sapphire-topped gold ring was stuffed into his pocket. A pair of earbobs and a necklace would be completed in a fortnight by the goldsmith, the jewelry intended as wedding gifts.

  When Andrew was just a mile short of Merriweather Manor, he noticed a collection of greenhouses off the Great West Road. Locating the proprietor had been easy. Convincing her to deliver a large bouquet of daisies to Jane’s townhouse in Mayfair had taken a bit of cajoling and an extra sovereign, but he was assured the flowers would be delivered later that day.

  Satisfied he had done what he could to ensure he stayed in Jane’s thoughts, Andrew completed his trip to Merriweather Manor.

  “What about scarlet?” he asked the colorman, his attention on the one solid wall in the parlor that didn’t include a door or a window.

  “Aye. I can do scarlet.”

  Andrew nodded. “Then do so, and I’ll let Sir William know about the change in plans.”

  “Very good, sir,” the colorman acknowledged with a nod.

  Taking his leave of the parlor, Andrew made his way up the stairs and through the long hallway to the west wing. Starting at one end, he walked into each and every room along the hall, examining the workmanship to ensure all the finishing work had been done by the carpenters.