The Gossip: New Wave Newsroom

by Jenny Holiday

  Concentrating on the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze, he strove to focus on something besides the roar of blood in his ears. He looked at the sky, having learned that anchoring himself in the physical sensations of the present was often the only way to move forward, to force himself to do what needed doing. An unbroken expanse of cloudless blue stretched as far as he could see, decorated only by the same sun that had painted the house in such a lovely light. Once he reached the crest of this last little hill, that unforgiving sun would glint off the lake, illuminating it utterly.

  A few more steps, and he reached the apex. He had to squint to allow his eyes to adjust to the brilliant expanse of water. The bucolic scene was just as he’d expected. A small lake was bordered on the far side by a stand of birch trees and dotted in the shallows with lily pads. Birds sang, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of honeysuckle.

  This is how demons work. Sometimes the hells they inhabited were dark and stormy, something out of a Gothic novel. Other times, hell was deceptively beautiful, aromatic, and bathed in sunlight.

  The sound of something breaking the water’s surface drew his attention. A head emerged. Instinct kicked in, and he hit the ground. The open meadow abutting this side of the lake offered nowhere to hide. The head moved toward the dock. Could it be? No, that was lunacy.

  Don’t be a fool. Alec is dead.

  As if to illustrate the absurdity of his thoughts, the figure hoisted itself up the ladder in one sleek, fluid motion. The swimmer was tall, lithe—and female.

  Unexpectedly, but most decidedly, female.

  She wore only a chemise that clung to her slight curves like a second skin. A pale, elegant ankle drew his attention as she shook her leg, trying to dislodge a leaf that had stuck to her skin, bold emerald in stark relief against alabaster. As she reached up to squeeze water out of hair that fell past her shoulders, the sodden linen of her chemise strained against her small breasts. She looked like she belonged in a painting, as if an Old Master had conjured her out of oil paints, but she, too vivacious to remain contained in two dimensions, had swum off the canvas and, inexplicably, into his lake.

  Ogling a local servant or the daughter of one of his tenants was unseemly. But it was good to be reminded that he was a man. He had sublimated much, sacrificed everything. The cause was his mistress. It was gratifying, if bittersweet, to remember that this was what men did. They admired the local ladies. Maybe they even wooed them. How would that happen, exactly? Picnics, he imagined. Country dances. A kiss stolen beside a lake very like this one.

  It was not a life he could have, but it was nice to pretend for a moment. He wrenched his gaze from the woman and forced himself to remember where he was. The lake.

  Yes, hell could be disguised as a sun-drenched paradise.

  And, it seemed, hell could even come complete with a golden angel.

  Chapter Two

  Emily stood by the open window in her room willing her hair to dry faster when Sarah rushed in to announce that the Earl of Blackstone had arrived a day early and that they were wanted in the drawing room.

  “Can you imagine?” exclaimed Sarah, breathless.

  Emily was unmoved. Her friend, ever susceptible to melodrama, often bubbled over with excess enthusiasm. “It is his house,” she couldn’t resist pointing out.

  “Yes, but he wasn’t expected until tomorrow.”

  Indeed. And now they would have to spend the evening making polite, mindless small talk. That was exactly why Emily avoided society. People chatting endlessly about nothing that mattered. And Sarah’s father was not even in attendance, and he was the whole reason she’d come. Without Mr. Manning, there was no reason for her to be here either. If she wanted to find Billy, Mr. Manning was the key.

  Sarah clapped her hands. “To think, our evening was going to be so dull, but now we’ll spend it with the Earl of Blackstone!” She threw open the armoire and began rummaging through Emily’s things. “He’s very mysterious, you know.”

  “So you said.” Sarah had talked of nothing but the inscrutable aristocrat since her family had received an invitation to a party on his Essex estate, a place that had taken on almost mythical status in the collective consciousness of polite society. No one had been to the estate since before the death of the current earl’s older brother nearly three years ago.

  “One sees him in London from time to time, but he’s so very…”

  “Enigmatic?” Emily supplied. “Unfathomable? Downright odd?” Sarah was a dear girl, and Emily felt the sharp tug of loyalty that only a shared childhood can inspire, but inside that pretty chestnut-tressed head was…not much. It never ceased to amaze Emily that a woman with such a limited vocabulary could be such an expert babbler.

  “Mysterious,” finished Sarah with a decisive nod. “He appears at parties and balls from time to time, but he never dances—though perhaps that’s attributable to his injury. He’s not at all interested in female company, even with the question of succession looming. He’s almost a hermit. And yet in theory, he’s one of the most eligible bachelors in the realm. It’s very…”

  “Puzzling? Vexing?”

  “Mysterious. Because why a house party all of a sudden, if not that he’s decided to turn his attention to setting up a nursery? Why in the world would someone so, so…”

  “Antisocial? Misanthropic?”

  “…mysterious as the Earl of Blackstone suddenly open his home to a crowd of people he would seem to care nothing about?”

  “Perhaps we’ll find out. Did you not say we were wanted downstairs?”

  Emily grinned as Sarah shrieked and threw a gown at her head. Her lavender muslin. A little worn, but respectable enough. “I’ll have to put my hair up damp. It will take ages to dry.”

  “I’ll send Anne in.” Sarah scowled at what was no doubt the cacophony of curls emerging as Emily’s hair dried.

  “Don’t bother.” Her friend’s maid wasn’t up to the task. It was only through years of trial and error—and of walking around looking like she had a bird’s nest on her head—that Emily had learned to wrestle her hair into a state of semi submission. “Go ahead without me and tell them I’ll be down shortly.”

  Sarah gave a little hop of excitement as she departed.

  Emily pulled on her stays—short and laced up the front so she didn’t need a maid. As the light boning compressed her upper rubs, she imagined the garment as a suit of armor. She had to believe that Mr. Manning would show up. Going home to Sally and telling her she had no new information about Billy’s whereabouts was simply not an option, so she must be bold. Brave. Real reformers did more than write, more than talk. They acted.

  But first, an evening of meaningless conversation. Sighing, she upended a small box of hairpins and prepared to do battle with her chaotic curls, girding herself to meet the mysterious Earl of Blackstone.