by Maya Rodale
The Baron of Pinner had once shocked an audience at a party by reciting limericks he’d composed as odes to certain parts of his lovely bride’s anatomy. Fortunately, his lady had a sense of humor. But that was not quite the same as Roxbury bellowing naughty ballads outside her window for the whole neighborhood to hear. It wasn’t followed by gunshots, either. And the baron and his lady were married.
Yes, the scandal would be as bad as she feared.
She prayed the scandal would fade quickly. Or perhaps the ton would take Roxbury to task, sparing her. But society was never kind to a woman of questionable morals. Her invitations were at stake—and with them, her livelihood. She needed her good reputation like she needed air or water—to survive.
“Any consolation? Any at all?” Julianna queried with desperation seeping into her voice. She could think of none herself.
“It’ll be fine! The scandal will blow over in no time,” Sophie said breezily.
“There will be no scandal at all.” Amazingly, Annabelle declared such nonsense confidently.
Eliza set down her teacup and saucer with a clatter and a roll of her eyes.
“Oh, please,” she said bluntly. “Everybody knows that Roxbury spent the better portion of the night here, and the Man About Town will write extensively upon it. There will be a scandal. The question is, Julianna, what do you intend to do about it?”
“Thank you, Eliza, for being the voice of reason,” Julianna replied, even though her stomach began to ache at her friend’s declaration.
“Well, what are you going to write in your column?” Sophie asked.
“Hopefully, I am going to cover someone else’s news, which I prefer to be a shocking elopement or high-profile society murder or something that will make my news seem completely insignificant. Because nothing really happened.”
“We could murder Roxbury,” Sophie suggested, then calmly took a sip of her tea.
“Sophie!” Annabelle gasped.
“The idea has some merit, though I’d be the primary suspect,” Julianna said.
“Julianna!” Annabelle cried out.
“I was jesting, anyway,” Sophie replied. And then to Julianna she shook her head to say no, she was not joking. Eliza caught it and smirked.
“You must write about your own scandal, Juliana,” Eliza said. “Otherwise you might risk revealing yourself as the Lady of Distinction. You cannot do that, and certainly not over this.”
“You have all the details that no one else has,” Annabelle pointed out. “Particularly you-know-who.”
Julianna nodded thoughtfully. “I think you’re both right.”
“But what are you going to do about Roxbury?” Sophie asked.
“What if he refuses to marry you?” Annabelle asked with a little line of worry above her blue eyes.
“Marry? Marry?” Julianna echoed. She would never marry again, and certainly not the likes of him. Annabelle, bless her, was far too romantic and optimistic.
“Everyone thinks he spent the night,” Sophie stated. “Everyone is expecting a proposal.”
Julianna looked around at her friends, and wondered if they were lingering over tea and biscuits so they might be present when Roxbury recovered his manners and returned to propose on bended knee.
“I’m a widow. It’s not the same as if I were a young unmarried girl,” Julianna pointed out. Hopefully, enough of the ton would see it that way as well. “I refuse to marry him. Nothing could impel me to marry him. I have my column, a livelihood, and a house of my own. I will not bind myself to another degenerate rake who will ignore my affections, trample my trust, and devastate my life.”
Sophie reached out and took Julianna’s hand. They did not speak of the late Lord Somerset. He’d been Harry to her once. Julianna had loved him, once.
Sophie had helped her elope—everything from whispered plans, to secretly packing her things and stealing off in the night. Sophie had lied to everyone about Julianna’s whereabouts (“She took ill whilst staying with me, I’m nursing her”) so Julianna and Harry could get a good start on their journey to Gretna.
As the marriage began its slow crumble, Sophie had been her confidante. Sophie, of all her friends, had to know that marriage to another great lover of women, plural, was utterly out of the question.
She could not trust that she would survive another marriage like her first.
Julianna sighed. “Well, I suppose I do have some ‘Fashionable Intelligence’ to share.”
A few hours after her fellow writing girls had departed, Julianna rang for Penny.
“The pistols again, ma’am?” Penny asked, prompting Julianna’s laughter.
“No, I have something more effective. This can be sent to Knightly.” She handed her maid a sheet that had been folded and sealed.
It was the latest edition of “Fashionable Intelligence,” short and sweet:
Given Lord R—’s recently discovered proclivities, first reported in these pages, I find it hard to believe that he spent the night at the home of a famously chaste widow, or that if he did, anything untoward occurred—other than his bellowing and warbling. Perhaps he was serenading some of her handsome footmen?
In other news . . .
“I’ll see that he gets it straightaway. And here is the post for today.” Penny handed her a slender packet consisting only of tradesmen bills and letters from the country, sent far before last night’s scandal. Usually, Julianna received at least a dozen invitations and half as many letters from her friends in London. Any good spirit she’d felt from writing her column had vanished.
“Is this all?” she asked faintly.
When Penny nodded yes, Julianna’s heart sank and her mouth went dry. Her social death was just beginning.
Chapter 26
White’s
“I heard you had quite a night earlier this week,” Brandon began the minute Roxbury took a seat next to him. They sat before a blazing fire—just the thing on a rainy day such as it was. It was not gentle late summer rain but a good, solid downpour raging outside.
For the past few days, since That Night, Simon had been laying low at his home, save for the occasional visit to Gentleman Jack’s or the club. He was not particularly welcomed at either, but that had been the case for some time now.
“Wait till I’ve had a drink,” Roxbury said, motioning to Inchbald.
“ ‘Country John’?” Brandon queried. The song that had experienced a massive resurgence in popularity since his drunken, midnight rendition. One could not walk down any street in London without hearing someone singing or whistling the tune.
Lady Stewart-Wortly, ever the killjoy, reportedly fired her footman for humming it under his breath as he went about his duties. The Baron of Pinner had composed additional verses, and those broadsides were selling like hotcakes.
Roxbury only grinned sheepishly.
“You sang “Country John”—a song about prostitutes—at the top of your lungs outside the home of a respectable woman in the middle of the night. You even mentioned said lady by name, and drunkenly kissed her,” Brandon recounted in a voice that expressed disbelief. Roxbury knew that it was outrageous and shameful. He also found it a bit humorous, but he kept that to himself.
Inchbald brought over a much-needed brandy and Roxbury thanked him for it.
Once the waiter was gone, Roxbury said in a very low voice, “She’s the one that printed the salacious rumors that have destroyed me. We both know that she deserved it.”
“I know she was not blameless, but I do know that she does not deserve the utter destruction of her reputation thanks to your serenade—if one could call it that.”
“It wasn’t utter . . .” Roxbury countered.
“The talk about the two of you is vicious. Haven’t you heard any of it?”
“No.” On his few ventures out, no one dared to speak to him. So he’d had a clue that things were bad. Very bad. But then again, he hadn’t been spoken to in some time, thanks to her.
“They
are saying that you two have had an affair gone horribly wrong, mostly thanks to talk that you left her house covered in blood. Since that is such a radical departure from the previous behavior of the lady in question, some are wondering what else she is hiding—more lovers? A few? A dozen? You can only imagine what sins they are attributing to her,” Brandon said. Then he paused to take a sip of his drink before continuing. “We all know it’s one thing for a widow to be discrete with one man, but if she is with many and publicly participating in scandalous scenes—well, that’s another thing entirely. Never mind that she is a proper lady who was seen in public, in her nightclothes, and shooting a pistol.”
Roxbury shrank down in his chair and took a sip of his drink. His friend showed no sign of stopping. Was this worse than a lecture from his father or not? Since the old man was staying in Bath, Roxbury had been spared a scathing letter—thus far. One had to account for the time it took the news to reach Bath, the old man to recover from the ensuing apoplexy, and then the letter to be delivered to London. He expected the missive any day now.
“And then given your recent rumors and factoring in your supposed tryst with Lady S, everyone is basically assuming you have an outrageous and insatiable appetite. You should see the cartoons, Roxbury. Lady Stewart-Wortly and the like are using you as an example for every ill . . . And calling for a ban on all vices—alcohol, tobacco, salacious literature—lest the next generation follow in your example and become unmarriageable drunks of questionable taste and no restraint.”
“Ghastly. I despise being used as a reason to censor anything,” Roxbury remarked insouciantly, as he casually took a sip of his drink. It was all to disguise the slow dawning horror he was experiencing.
“That’s what you think is the worst of it?” Brandon queried. “What about Lady Somerset’s reputation?”
Roxbury sipped his drink. His friend was a notoriously upstanding gentleman—the very finest and best England had to offer. Brandon wasn’t overreacting now, though.
Roxbury was deliberately being flippant because to be honest and decent about this disastrous situation was a road he was not yet prepared to travel. There was only one way to possibly salvage a scandalous situation between a man and a woman, and Roxbury dared not consider it.
Because, given the timing of things, it meant that he would do the two things he wanted least in the world—get married, and in time to satisfy his father’s ultimatum.
“You are a gentleman,” Brandon said quietly, and Roxbury felt the force of the words in his bones.
“You live by higher standards of gentlemanly behavior than any other man could fathom, let alone aspire to,” Roxbury answered tensely. Even Brandon’s one big scandalous act—marrying a Writing Girl when he’d been betrothed to a duke’s daughter—had been done with the utmost decorum and consideration for all parties involved.
“Someone has to set an example,” Brandon said.
“Don’t look at me,” Roxbury replied. Because if he were going to act remotely like the gentleman he was in title . . . He couldn’t think about that yet. Instead, he thought about her.
She was a complicated woman, that Julianna. Her beauty entranced him; her brash nature and sharp behavior drove him away. And yet he was constantly tempted to incite another battle, so that he may one day win and catch a glimpse of a vulnerable Julianna with her defenses down.
Such a sight was certain to be stunning, delightful and rare, like seeing a unicorn, or a woman in breeches.
Given his extensive experience with women, Roxbury had to wonder about her long silence and dark looks when he asked about Old Somerset. It was an unfortunate fact that there were awful brutes in the world who roamed free. Simon had known a few women who’d suffered thus; eventually they might love and trust again. But it took time. He wondered if Julianna was one of those girls.
Or perhaps she was just mean. Some people were born that way.
He sipped his brandy. Regardless of the reasons Lady Somerset was the way she was, she did not deserve the blacklisting, backstabbing, and general cruelty she was suffering at the hands of high society because of him. He knew as well as anyone that there was one—and only one—cure for such a malady: marriage.
Roxbury took another, longer sip of his brandy. In fact, he finished his glass and waved to Inchbald for more.
She would never accept his proposal, so there was really no point in asking.
Except for that damned vile ultimatum and the money he stood to keep if he were to marry within the week. His options were a very desperate Lady Somerset or Lady Hortensia Reeves. Or proud poverty. He had been so determined to refuse to comply.
Where the devil was Inchbald with the brandy?
And then there was the memory of Edward, laughing as he waved goodbye before galloping down the long drive of the family estate, never to return. Edward would have loved the scene last night, and he would have adored Lady Somerset. Which didn’t really matter.
Roxbury wanted to be his own man, not a pawn in the earl’s schemes or at the mercy of the haut ton. Would he trade his dignity for money? Just how much was it worth?
After a long silence, when he had been deep in thought, Roxbury announced, “I won’t marry her.”
“I did not suggest it,” Brandon said, not even looking up from the newspaper he’d started reading. It wasn’t The Weekly. Lady Somerset’s “Fashionable Intelligence” had glossed over the events of the other night. The Man About Town, on the other hand. . .
“Yes, you did, in so many words. ‘Ruining a lady’s reputation, being a gentleman . . .’ ” Roxbury said.
“She is a widow. It’s not quite the same,” Brandon replied, using Roxbury’s usual defense. He wanted to believe it, but he knew it was complete rubbish.
Nevertheless he replied, “Right. It’s not at all the same as if she were a young, unmarried chit.”
“It’s completely different since her late husband was an embarrassingly notorious scoundrel. She has plenty of experience with degenerate rakes disregarding her reputation. I’m sure she expects exactly this sort of behavior,” Brandon said casually as he perused the paper.
Ah, Old Somerset. Roxbury took a sip of his drink and recalled, again, her long silence and darkened expression at the mention of her dead husband. Was he like Somerset? How bad was her marriage?
“I can’t tell if you are saying I’m boring and predictable or the worst sort of scoundrel,” Roxbury replied.
“In the mind of a lady, are those things mutually exclusive?” Brandon mused.
“What’s with all the philosophizing?”
“We can talk about something else, if you’d like,” Brandon offered.
“Yes. Very much,” Roxbury said emphatically.
“How about that ultimatum? Any progress on finding a wife?” Brandon asked.
He was obviously fighting a grin.
“Your point is taken,” Roxbury said, downing the rest of his brandy.
He should marry her. He ought to. He’d get his money. She’d get her reputation. And, he thought with a derisive smirk, they’d all live happily ever after.
Chapter 27
The offices of The London Weekly
When Julianna first encountered Derek Knightly, it was after she stormed into his office, uninvited or unannounced. Once she had his attention, she told him he ought to have a gossip columnist and it ought to be her.
That brazen spirit and gumption had left her now. She paced and fretted outside of Knightly’s office door, gathering her courage to go in. But her thoughts were all jumbled and her nerves were utterly frayed.
Dear merciful Lord above, did the social downward spiral advance at a ghastly speed. There were no more invitations. She had called upon Lady Fairleigh, only to be told that the lady was not at home, even though her laugh drifted from the drawing room into the foyer. Mortified, Julianna did not attempt another social call again.
As if it could not possibly be worse, the Man About Town had published a series of h
orrendous columns exposing her and Roxbury and the scandal she was desperate to dust under the rug. Just one paragraph had her in a mood for days. Her rival had written the following:
We haven’t seen Lady S—out since Lord R— caused a commotion singing romantic yet ribald ballads outside her window . . . all night long. Perhaps she is sitting at home awaiting a proposal?
She was not waiting for a proposal. Although, it would have been nice to have one so that she could refuse it. When Somerset’s body was being lowered into the ground, she swore that she’d never suffer another husband.
But that was neither here nor there because there was no proposal, and no invitations. In a way, it didn’t matter because as Lady Somerset she really ought to lay low. But as the Lady of Distinction it was imperative that she be out and about in the social whirl.
She took a deep breath and smoothed her skirts. She wore red, for courage. It was a bold choice with her auburn hair, but that, too, was neither here nor there since a change in attire was out of the question. She’d made it to the offices and it was raining too hard to venture out of doors unless absolutely necessary.
But if she did not go out, how else was she to glean the best tidbits—who was seen waltzing too closely, or walking off with, or discovered with whom? Who was overheard saying something scathing about a rival, or how could she compose reviews of ladies’ gowns and reports of men’s wagers? Sophie did her best at finding information for her, and she had her network of spies, but Julianna was a professional. She saw it all, stored it in her memory and composed it into lovingly crafted exposés.
Her secret network and the people of London did continue to send their gossip to her at The London Weekly with the hopes that she would, as she always did, claim, “a reader from Mayfair provided the following intelligence:” whatever that may be. But they all wrote about her! And they were all false!
A reader from Bloomsbury reported that she had sobbed for two days straight. Another claimed they saw her lurking outside of Roxbury’s home.
