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

by Linda Rae Sande

  “Morning, miss,” a pleasant voice sounded from somewhere to her left. “A tale to tell? I apologize, but we’re not able to accept new subscriptions today.”

  Jane regarded the young man who had just stood up from behind a rather cluttered desk. Although he wore a waistcoat, there was no topcoat in sight, nor a cravat, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up beyond his elbows as if he were a common laborer.

  “Neither, actually,” Jane replied with a shake of her head, realizing too late that she could have claimed she came with news. Perhaps her chance of speaking with the editor would be bolstered if he thought she had some gossip to share. “I’m looking for Mr. Pepperidge. I understand he’s the editor here.”

  The receptionist nodded. “I’ll see if he’s still here. Said something about having a meeting this afternoon.”

  When the man disappeared through a doorway behind his desk, Jane did a quick perusal of the tiny front office. The walls appeared recently papered, and framed covers of several issues of The Tattler hung in a symmetrical arrangement on one wall. A round table—Jane was fairly certain it was made by Chippendale—took up one corner and displayed an angled stack of the latest issue of the paper.

  Her eyes immediately moved to the article claiming A. Burroughs was seen kissing Lady J in the gardens. She frowned as she began to read some of the other articles, rather stunned to discover most weren’t salacious in nature at all, but rather factual accounts of what had taken place at Lord Weatherstone’s ball. She was in the middle of reading the third article when the young man suddenly reappeared.

  “Mr. Pepperidge will see you, miss, but he does have to leave in a few minutes for his meeting.”

  Jane acknowledged the comment with a nod, wondering if the editor always had a meeting when someone came to call on him. She followed the receptionist through the opening in the wall and past a large, black metal mechanical device—the printing press that created the despicable gossip sheet, she realized.

  A rather tall man stood in a doorway at the other end of the room, a pair of spectacles perched on the end of his nose, under which a mustache hung. His dark brown hair, pulled back into a queue, was entirely at odds with his coloring. His clothing appeared recently pressed and of good quality, and his boots displayed a glossy sheen.

  “Mr. Pepperidge, I presume?” Jane spoke before she was even halfway through the paper-littered press room.

  The man, who appeared to be in his mid-thirties, gave a short bow. “I am,” he admitted, reaching out with his right hand to shake hers. “Miss?”

  “Vandermeer,” she said, managing to provide her maiden name without blinking. She hadn’t used it once since the day she married Michael Fitzpatrick, so it was a bit of a surprise when it tripped so easily off her tongue.

  She dipped a quick curtsy even as her hand went to his for the handshake. Although she had the impression she had met the man before, she couldn’t immediately place where it might have been. He no doubt attended events, or at least managed to get as close as he could in order to write about them, so it made sense she had seen him in passing.

  “What is it I can do for you?” the editor wondered as he waved her into his office, glancing back toward the entry to the press room as if he expected her to have someone else with her.

  “Something rather simple,” she replied as she stepped into the office. Jane wasn’t sure what she expected to find, but it most certainly wasn’t the beautiful oak desk and needlepoint-covered chairs in front of it, nor the Axminster carpet beneath it all. Although this desk was a bit cluttered, it was certainly in better shape than the one in the lobby. Behind Mr. Pepperidge, a framed painting of a landscape hung in the center of the wall while bookshelves stuffed with bound books—Jane was sure she spotted a Debrett’s Peerage and Barontage amid books about the European monarchies—stood floor to ceiling and filled the back wall. Despite the lack of windows on the front of the building, there was a single window in the wall adjacent to the door. “I wish to request that you print a retraction to one of your stories about Lord Weatherstone’s ball,” she stated as she took one of the needlepoint covered chairs.

  Mr. Pepperidge angled his head to one side before seating himself in the leather-covered chair behind his desk. “My, I can’t say as I’ve had such a request before,” he responded, managing to keep the sarcasm from his voice. Upon seeing his visitor up close, he suddenly realized her identity. “Lady Stoneleigh,” he added with a nod. She looked so much prettier dressed in blue than she did when wearing widow’s weeds. Younger, too.

  Jane schooled her features to remain as impassive as possible, thinking the editor must have had plenty of requests to retract stories in the past. Why, over the course of the past couple of months, the gossip rag had become well-known for printing fabricated tales. At least, that’s what she’d heard from others when she paid calls. “Then I suppose this will be the first,” she said with a straight face, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

  Mr. Pepperidge pulled a pad of paper to the middle of his desk and dipped his quill into an open ink pot. “What story is it you think needs a retraction, my lady?”

  Straightening on the chair, Jane stated, “A. Burroughs was not kissing Lady J in the gardens during Lord Weatherstone’s ball,” she stated emphatically.

  Resisting the urge to blink at Lady Stoneleigh’s insistent words—he had been sure she was going to object to the mention of her being in attendance at the ball—he instead stared at her for a moment. “And you know this because …”

  “She was kissing someone else at the time, but that’s neither here nor there,” Jane replied with a shake of her head. “Mr. Burroughs was never in the gardens during the ball.”

  This time, Mr. Pepperidge blinked. “If she wasn’t kissing Mr. Burroughs, then who was she kissing?”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “As I said, it’s neither here nor there whom she was kissing as she has no intention of marrying anyone,” she stated, the words out of her mouth before she could censor them. Although, what harm could there be in admitting Jane Browning wanted to be an independent woman?

  Mr. Pepperidge straightened in his chair, barely aware that the drop of ink on the tip of his quill had just plopped onto the paper below. Why, just yesterday, Lady Emelia had said something along the same lines. Lady Jane Browning didn’t wish to marry because she wanted to be an independent woman.

  At the time, he hadn’t given much credence to Lady Emelia’s claim, thinking she had simply made the statement as a lame attempt to fulfill that week’s requirement for gossip. He knew she knew more, and it seemed as if she were almost about to provide more when he’d had to take his leave. Emelia’s inability to share gossip prevented her from doing so, even under duress.

  The young woman has my heart, he thought with a wan smile. He needed her in his life. He needed someone who wasn’t about to regale him with every sordid tale told in a Mayfair parlor. He needed to be able to go home from the office and know that their dinners would be spent in quiet conversation about topics that truly mattered. Newsworthy topics, such as the latest inventions or the machinations of politics on the Continent, or the latest news from the United States. Or perhaps tales of what their children had done during the day.

  Mr. Pepperidge had to tamp down the urge to simply get up and take his leave of the office right then and there and make his way to Aimsley House.

  As soon as I can leave here, I’ll pay a call on Lady Emelia and take her for a ride in the park, he decided. He didn’t really have Lord Aimsley’s permission to marry the chit, though. The earl seemed reluctant to give it that day he had admitted to kissing Emelia in Lord Weatherstone’s garden.

  When the editor didn’t provide a reply right away—indeed, Mr. Pepperidge appeared to be deep in thought—Jane finally allowed a sigh. “Why do you do it?”

  The question brought the editor out of his reverie. “Whatever do you mean?” he countered, not ever having heard the question before. />
  “This …” Jane waved a hand at his desk and then toward the wall behind her in an effort to indicate the press. “Gossip mongering?” she clarified. “’Tis very hurtful, you must know.”

  Mr. Pepperidge frowned and then gave his head a shake. He was halfway tempted to give her the same reasons he gave everyone else who asked the question.

  If I didn’t do it, someone else would.

  And they might not do it as well, or they might be more mean-spirited in their approach, out to ruin perfectly good people. “Truth be told, I do it because it keeps me out of debt,” he finally replied.

  Jane blinked, rather stunned by the simple response. “And providing news that is true would not?” she countered.

  The editor gave his head a shake. “True? What is the truth? Who makes that decision? How can we ever know what is true and what is false when we rarely hear both sides of the same story?”

  Jane leaned back in her chair, needing its solidity to support her just then. No one had ever put forth those questions before, at least, not in Mayfair parlors.

  “There are already newspapers that report on the news, my lady,” Mr. Pepperidge continued. “I know I cannot begin to compete with them, nor would I wish to,” he explained as he spread his hands along the edge of his desk closest to him. “However, if someone else besides me did this, you must know they might not be as light-handed with the gossip as I am.”

  “Light-handed?” Jane repeated, her voice a bit louder than she intended. “You print lies about people …”

  “I print what I see. What I overhear. What is reported to me by those who were there when it happened or when it was said. It is never my intention to print something that is false.”

  Jane’s breath left her body all at once. The man truly believed what he was saying, and yet … “And yet you reported that Andrew Burroughs was kissing Lady Jane in the gardens,” she accused. “As if you paid witness to it.”

  It was at that moment that Mr. Pepperidge realized Lady Stoneleigh’s objection to the article wasn’t due to Lady Jane and her reputation but rather Andrew Burroughs’ reputation.

  But why would a widow care about Andrew Burroughs reputation? And why did I think Andrew Burroughs was kissing Lady Jane?

  Mr. Pepperidge blinked. And blinked again when he realized just why it was that he thought the man kissing Lady Jane was Andrew Burroughs.

  Lady Morganfield had pointed to him when he had asked as to the identity of the man dancing opposite them during the waltz. He was sure Adele Carlington knew who he meant. The man dancing with Lady Jane, a chit who couldn’t possibly have a voucher to dance the waltz.

  But what if she did not mean him? What if she thought he meant someone else?

  “Does Mr. Burroughs bear a remarkable resemblance to the Earl of Bellingham, by any chance?” he asked suddenly, his eyebrows arched in a manner suggesting he had just figured out a rather difficult equation.

  Jane’s eyes widened. Although she hadn’t seen Will Slater since his return to England—apparently, only a few in London had had that honor—she knew from talk in Lady Torrington’s conservatory that the two brothers shared an uncanny resemblance to one another.

  But Stephen Slater and Andrew Burroughs looked nothing alike.

  “Not a bit,” she replied with a shake of her head. “Although they are of a similar height, I suppose,” she added as she angled her head. “Why do you ask, pray tell?”

  Mr. Pepperidge tipped his head back for a moment and realized his confusion. Andrew Burroughs wasn’t the man kissing Lady Jane in the gardens, which meant she was kissing the man who looked exactly like Will Slater, Earl of Bellingham.

  Stephen Slater, the bastard brother.

  Well, this would be an even better story if Lady Jane cared one whit about marrying, he thought with a bit of disappointment. Otherwise, Stephen Slater might be the one forced to marry the chit.

  Mr. Pepperidge suddenly straightened in his chair, pinning his visitor with a glare at the same time his mustache decided to let go of its hold just below his nose. “Your concern isn’t for Lady Jane’s reputation but rather for Andrew Burroughs’ reputation,” he accused, about to demand further information as to why she would even care about the banker.

  Was the widow involved with Mr. Burroughs?

  He had half the article written in his head before he realized Jane was staring at him.

  Jane blinked at the sight of Mr. Pepperidge’s falling mustache. Blinked again when she took in the sight of the man without his mustache, imagining what he might look like without the ridiculous spectacles. Without the hideous dark brown wig pulled into a queue.

  His features were suddenly far more familiar. Indeed, his identity was quite apparent. “Fennington?” she whispered in surprise. Fighting off the sense of vertigo that threatened to send her sideways and onto the floor beneath her chair, Jane stared at the editor. “Whatever are you doing?” she asked in alarm.

  Felix Turnbridge, Earl of Fennington, stared at Lady Stoneleigh for a good ten seconds before one of his hands reached up to where his mustache should have been. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, my lady,” he responded with a shake of his head, his eyes catching sight of his fake mustache lying on the desk blotter. To an untrained eye, it might have been mistaken for a furry caterpillar. He quickly snagged the mustache between his thumb and forefinger and brought it back up to his lip. “My valet was a bit aggressive during my shave this morning,” he said in his defense, reapplying the hair to his upper lip and holding it there with one finger.

  Jane angled her head to one side as she regarded the earl with an arched eyebrow. “Is the Fennington earldom really in such dire straights that you have to engage in trade? In the trade of gossip, no less?” she wondered, quickly assessing how she might use her new-found knowledge to get what she wanted—what she needed—from the editor.

  Felix Turnbridge sighed. “It was,” he acknowledged finally, realizing he could no longer hide his true identity from the widow. He sighed again. “I needed another source of funds, you see, and gossip seems to pay rather well.”

  The widow gave a sideways glance at what she could see of the office, just then realizing why the man had such costly accoutrements. Such a beautiful desk. Such beautiful carpeting. Such a well-stocked library. “Just how long have you been doing this, Lord Fennington?” she asked, ignoring his excuse.

  “A few years,” he acknowledged with a nod, realizing there was no fooling the widow. “I thought to sell the business once I had the debts paid and found a suitable wife,” he added, realizing that when Lady Emelia accepted his offer of marriage, he really would need to put The Tattler on the market. He could probably earn enough from the sale so he and Emelia would live comfortably. He could even leave his heir with a solvent earldom. As for whom might be interested in buying the paper, though, he had no idea.

  “It’s about time you did,” Jane murmured, one eyebrow arched up. “You’re not getting any younger.”

  Felix felt the stab of her words but nodded. “As for secrets …”

  “Yours will never get past my lips if you print that retraction,” she interrupted.

  His eyes widening in surprise, Felix regarded Jane for several seconds. “Why?”

  The widow bit her lower lip, feeling ever so relieved to learn Andrew hadn’t been kissing Lady Jane in the gardens—or anywhere else, for that matter. “I have the opportunity for a second chance in life,” she responded, lifting her chin a bit. “And I should like to enter into it without the hint of scandal hovering over the man who might be the center of that new life.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” Felix replied, a forefinger waving in the air. He quickly took the quill in hand and dipped it into the ink. He wrote in a furious hand, her words appearing as if by magic on the parchment in front of him before Jane quite knew what he was doing.

  “What are you writing?” she demanded to know, alarm sounding in her voice.

  “Yo
ur eloquent words, my lady. For the article I’m going to publish once you and Mr. Burroughs marry,” he claimed without looking up from the parchment.

  Jane’s eyes widened. “But, I don’t know that we’re to be married,” she countered, alarm still evident in her voice. “He hasn’t proposed.”

  The editor lifted his head and regarded her a moment, his brows furrowing. “But of course you are,” he argued. “You obviously love the man, or you wouldn’t be so concerned about his reputation,” he countered before returning his attention to writing out her words.

  Jane gasped. Love the man?

  Do I? she wondered then. She had been so angry and hurt when she had read the article, she hadn’t had a chance to remember just how wonderful she had felt the prior morning, how positively euphoric she had felt when Andrew claimed he loved her.

  She also remembered the doubt she had felt, too, but it had been doubt about herself. She believed Andrew’s claim if only because he seemed so certain he loved her, despite the eighteen years that had passed since they had briefly courted. “But that doesn’t mean he feels enough affection for me to ask for my hand,” she argued, not exactly sure she would even marry the man if he asked her.

  After Lady Jane Browning’s comments about choosing the lifestyle of an independent woman—a life she was quite prepared to adopt before Andrew had reappeared the night before last—she had nearly convinced herself to make the necessary reservations for a ship to take her to the Continent. Make the arrangements necessary to live in Italy. She had practically been living the life of an independent woman all the years she was married to Michael Fitzpatrick, after all.

  Felix frowned, his disappointment evident. “True,” he finally acknowledged, his initial excitement fading a bit as he set aside the quill. “But should he do so, I want the exclusive,” he stated suddenly.