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

by Linda Rae Sande

  “But I wasn’t,” Jane interrupted, her head shaking from side to side, remembering that back then, she didn’t know she had signed a document to the contrary. “Or, at least, I had no idea my father had made an arrangement on my behalf until the following afternoon. I was quite surprised—disappointed, rather—I assure you.”

  “I know that now,” he acknowledged with a nod. “But I admit, I was … incensed thinking you would lead me on.” He ignored her gasp of surprise. “So, when I was approached by Lord Craven regarding his daughter, Lady Elizabeth, that very same day, I …” Here, Andrew stopped, his brows furrowing with a combination of anger and remorse.

  Jane set down her glass of brandy next to his, absently noting how his was nearly empty while hers had barely been touched. “You what?” she prompted, alarm bells going off in her head.

  Andrew sighed. “I accepted his offer of a rather generous dowry in exchange for marrying her.”

  Stilling herself, Jane waited a moment before saying, “Go on.” She could hardly fault him, she supposed. Especially if her father had made it clear she had been promised to another.

  Her guest stared at her a moment. “My eldest is not my own,” he whispered, the words coming out as if he had never put voice to them before. “I knew it before we married, of course,” he added, his eyes suddenly averted.

  Jane closed her eyes. “You married a ruined woman,” she stated quietly, the words not meant to sound like an accusation.

  Andrew nodded. “Bess had been attacked one night, shortly after leaving the theatre. Although she had an escort that evening, Lord Brougham was waiting for her in her coach. He threatened the escort, who ran off. Bess was left alone with the devil. She told no one, of course, but …”

  “She was left with child,” Jane said in a whisper, her breaths coming in short bursts as she felt a combination of remorse and anger for what had happened to one of her peers. Bess Smith-Jones had probably done nothing to encourage Lord Brougham to do what he had done. He was a known rake of the worst kind, though, a despicable man who took what he wanted and could because, as an aristocrat, he was practically above the law.

  “She had the baby?” Jane half-asked, realizing just then that Bess had delivered a healthy baby boy.

  The son that now attended Cambridge.

  “I raised him as my own,” Andrew acknowledged with a nod. “Him as well as two other children who are mine. James is at Eton, and Sophia has just enrolled at Warwick’s Grammar and Finishing School.”

  Jane held her breath, wondering what his next words might be.

  “Had I any idea marriage to Michael Fitzpatrick wasn’t your first choice, I would have stolen you away in the night and taken you to Gretna Green,” Andrew stated firmly.

  Gasping, Jane regarded him for a moment. She blinked as she considered his claim. “And I would have gone with you,” she murmured. “Willingly.”

  Andrew was out of his seat in a second, his arms out to lift her from her chair at the same time.

  His lips were on hers in an instant, the firm pillows as possessive as they had been their first night in the gardens behind Lord Weatherstone’s mansion. His arms were as unyielding, the steel bands wrapped around her waist and shoulders in an embrace that crushed the front of her body against his.

  She knew not how long he held her there, how long his lips kept her captive. She found she didn’t care. Her entire world suddenly centered around this man and everything he had meant to her eighteen years ago.

  “I will not object should you decide to spend the night in my bedchamber,” she heard herself murmuring when he finally allowed her to take a breath.

  Goodness! Had she really just invited him to spend the night?

  “And as I promised, I shall not be leaving you alone this evening,” he countered, easily lifting her into his arms and carrying her out of the study and up the stairs.

  About to protest—she could walk up the stairs on her own—Jane decided instead to simply let him have his way. When he paused at the top of the stairs, she motioned to the door of her bedchamber.

  Had Michael done this on their wedding night? At the residence in Westminster? She couldn’t remember him doing so. But then, she could hardly remember Michael at all. She couldn’t even conjure an image of him in her mind’s eye at the moment. Her entire world was just Andrew Burroughs.

  Max!

  “Then I shall not be asking you to leave,” she finally murmured when he opened her bedchamber door and crossed the threshold.

  Chapter 9

  A Ball Offers Gossip Galore

  Everyone who is anyone in the ton has received their invitation to the one ball that has everyone returning to London for the Season. Be sure to read the May 7, 1818 issue for the special coverage of the Weatherstone Ball! ~ An advertisement in London’s premiere gossip rag, The Tattler.

  May 6,1818, earlier that night at Lord Weatherstone’s annual ball

  Felix Turnbridge, Earl of Fennington, did his best not to scowl as he surveyed the assembly before him. As was the case every year, Lord Weatherstone’s spring ball was proving to be a crush. Every candle in the five crystal chandeliers was lit, and every jewel glittered, whether it be on the wrist of some aristocrat’s wife or in the pin securing a gentleman’s cravat about his wretched neck.

  And then there were the debutantes.

  He sighed as his gaze swept the white-clad young ladies. He should be dancing with them, he considered. It was past time he at least look as if he planned to take a wife, even if he didn’t plan to consider any of them. The idea of being wed to a woman almost half his age held little appeal, and even less when he heard several tittering at some comment one of them made.

  Well, except for one of them.

  He allowed his gaze to sweep the room in search of her, a sense of disappointment settling over him when he didn’t immediately spot Emelia Comber among the younger ladies present.

  Was she hiding for fear Mr. Pepperidge was present? Felix felt a bit of regret just then. With each time he collected her for their weekly rides in the park, he was more aware of her apparent hesitance at being seen with him.

  Did she think Mr. Pepperidge would up the ante on the terms of his blackmail? God, I hope not.

  At least he would see her in the morning, the thought bringing a slight grin to his otherwise grim face. See her. Spend nearly thirty minutes in her company.

  Alone.

  Thursday mornings with her had him imagining an entire lifetime of mornings with her. Waking up next to her in bed, eating with her in the breakfast parlor, walking with her on his arm in the park.

  Ah, mornings with Emelia.

  He only wished he wouldn’t have to spend the entire night at the office prior to seeing her on the morrow, though. It was doubtful he would get any sleep tonight, what with having to finish the front page of The Tattler and seeing to it the pressman completed the typesetting and printing before the news sheet was set to hit the streets at seven o’ clock.

  The rest of this week’s gossip rag would feature quite an array of stories. A more-than-usual number of subscriber-supplied on-dit had either been sent in or dropped off at the offices over the past few weeks, almost as if there was a contest to determine just who could send in the most gossip and see it in print. Letters included news of people whose names he didn’t recognize and obscure aristocrats he hadn’t yet looked up in his tattered copy of Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage.

  The most unusual news had been an ongoing exposé of the sexual exploits of some heretofore unknown Spanish lothario who was making his way through London bedchambers, leaving a number of unnamed women rather happy in his wake.

  Everyone loved reading about rakes, but this particular libertine was proving far too popular with his readers. Their interest would wane if he didn’t divulge more information about him, though. If he didn’t learn the man’s name, he wouldn’t be including further mention of him in The Tattler, no matter how many satisfied
females he apparently left in his wake. He was also beginning to wonder about the identity of Lord M. Everyone knew Lord M was the Marquess of Morganfield, but the most recent reports he was receiving had Lord M attending a number of clandestine meetings with Lady X at the same time Felix knew David Carlington, Marquess of Morganfield, was in the company of his wife or in the card room at White’s.

  So, who was this other Lord M?

  A quick glance at one of the side walls of the ballroom had him doing a double-take. A row of young ladies in the guise of wallflowers looked as if they were holding up the wall. Most kept company with the potted palms that lined the ballroom. Shy or forced to keep close to their chaperones, they appeared as miserable as he felt. Too bad they’re not being visited by a Spanish lothario, he thought. Or Lord M.

  One matron stood alone, though, her expression suggesting she was rather enjoying the entertainment as she watched the couples dance. Lady Stoneleigh, he realized, rather surprised the widow would be attending a ball so soon after her husband’s death.

  And then he realized it had already been a year since Michael Fitzpatrick had died. Whilst riding his horse at night in Kent, they said, although Felix was quite sure he had been riding something entirely different that night.

  His mistress.

  Served him right, Felix thought as he dared another glance in the direction of the dowager countess. The Earl of Stoneleigh had married one of the sweetest women in the ton and then left her in London so he could live with his mistress at his earldom’s seat in Milton. The fool.

  The story of the earl’s death had filled only one column in the paper. Not particularly salacious—everyone knew the earl lived with his mistress and even had a family with her—the news had been met with yawns by those who bothered to read that section of the paper.

  Felix sighed, half-tempted to ask the widow to dance. He wasn’t really there to dance, although he had done so with Lady Emelia just the once. He was there to gather information. To listen in on conversations. To learn the latest gossip.

  Everyone knew balls were a good source of the latest on-dit, and he needed as much as he could get. The next issue of The Tattler was due out the following day, and the front page was completely blank. He needed some gossip to go with the headline, Weatherstone’s Ball Best of the Season!

  “Have you danced even once this evening?”

  Felix nearly gave a start at hearing the sultry voice of Adeline Carlington, Marchioness of Morganfield, as she looped an arm into his. Dressed in a red satin gown and adorned with an assortment of diamonds at her ears and neck, the daughter of an Italian count looked positively regal. Her dark hair, swept up into a smooth chignon, was pinned with a comb that probably cost more than his entailed properties earned him in a year. “Why, Lady Morganfield, are you asking me to dance?” Felix countered, deciding a bit of levity was in order. If left to his thoughts a moment longer, they would turn maudlin.

  Adeline beamed. “Why, yes, I suppose I am. Shall we?” she agreed as she offered her other hand.

  Felix was quick to escort her to the edge of the dancing where couples were whirling about in the first waltz of the evening. “How is it I have the honor to dance a waltz with you this evening?” he asked, his gaze darting between her and the other couples who made up the circle.

  Well, almost a circle.

  Several couples were somewhat out of formation with the rest, which meant he would need to keep an eye out to prevent any collisions. “Isn’t Morganfield with you this evening?” he asked, quite sure he had seen the marquess about earlier in the evening.

  Adeline gave a nod toward a couple opposite them on the floor. “He’s dancing with our daughter,” she said with a proud grin.

  Glancing to his right, Felix quickly caught sight of the tall, lean marquess leading his daughter, Elizabeth, in the waltz. From his angle directly across from them, he was reminded that Elizabeth Carlington Bennett-Jones was in the later stages of breeding. “Am I correct in assuming she is about to bestow you with another grandchild?” he queried, thinking he could include a notice about the viscountess in the next issue of The Tattler. Her pregnancy wasn’t really news—her condition had been reported by several news sources—but the ton always appreciated a reminder if they missed the entertainments where they could have seen it for themselves.

  “Probably not even a month from now,” Adeline responded lightly. “George is over the moon, of course.”

  Felix had to suppress a wince. Everyone seemed to refer to George Bennett-Jones, Viscount Bostwick, by his given name, which seemed a bit too familiar for his tastes. George had inherited the Bostwick viscountcy from an uncle—a miser of an uncle—and had never been much for formality, but he was a lord now. The least everyone could do was refer to him as Bostwick, Felix thought.

  Another glance in the direction of Viscountess Bostwick, and Felix was stunned to see the Marquess of Morganfield hand off his daughter into the arms of her husband, the very man he had just been thinking about! George Bennett-Jones and his wife continued in the dance as if nothing untoward had happened. David Carlington, suddenly without a partner, simply stepped out of the circle and disappeared into the crowd that stood watching the dancers.

  Felix blinked. It was as if the father and the viscount had planned the hand-off. One minute, Elizabeth was waltzing with her father, and in the next step, she was waltzing with her husband!

  “I’ll be damned,” Felix murmured, realizing he had better pay attention to his own steps or they would collide with Lord Sinclair, who seemed intent on stepping on more toes than those belonging to his poor third-season partner.

  Felix made a mental note to determine who she was so he could mention her and whoever made her slippers. Poor dear.

  “It isn’t the first time those two have made that move,” Adeline said, realizing what had the earl cursing. “It is how my son-in-law was able to secure a dance with my daughter the very first time they danced. In this very ballroom, in fact, although it was back when Lord Weatherstone hosted the first ball of the Little Season.”

  Frowning, Felix wondered at her words. “Your husband handed her off to him like that?” he questioned, wondering if he could make mention of it in The Tattler. A story in retrospect, so to speak. How the unlikely pairing of a marquess’ daughter to a viscount got its start. If he had space to fill, he could print the story, he decided.

  Adeline rolled her eyes. “Actually, the Duke of Somerset handed her off that very first time,” she said with a rather satisfied sigh. “Morganfield just likes to reenact it on occasion.”

  Felix nodded his understanding, wondering how he was going to describe the scene in the article he would have to write about the ball.

  He was about to ask how the marquess was faring when a new couple appeared in the circle of dancers. A couple that included a chit dressed in a white gown. “What’s this now?” he murmured, not intending for the marchioness to overhear his comment.

  Everyone knew a young lady couldn’t simply dance the waltz—unless she had a voucher from one of the patronesses of Almack’s. It was far too early for a debutante to have been granted such a voucher! Why, the Wednesday night subscription dances wouldn’t start for another two weeks!

  Adeline tried to follow his line of sight, her gaze settling on a rather tall gentleman dancing with Jane Fitzpatrick, Dowager Countess of Stoneleigh. “Andrew Burroughs!” she claimed with a good deal of excitement. “You must give him some leeway, I should think,” she remarked, thinking perhaps the banker had drawn the earl’s attention because he had erred in some steps in the waltz. “He’s only just returned to London,” she explained quickly, her attention on the middle-aged gentleman who seemed to be enjoying his first ball since moving back to England.

  Following in his uncle’s footsteps, Andrew had worked for over twenty years as a banker on the Continent. His uncle, Sir William Burroughs, had finally retired from the Bank of England just the year before, and Andrew was back to fi
ll the void.

  Unaware Lady Morganfield spoke of a different man than the one he had caught dancing the waltz with a debutante, Felix made a mental note to find out more about Andrew Burroughs just as the waltz ended. “Thank you, Lady Morganfield,” Felix said as he raised her gloved hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “It’s so good of you to afford me a dance,” he added.

  Giving the marchioness a bow, he stepped back and immediately turned to search for the man Adeline had identified as Andrew Burroughs. He found him in the crowd, although the young man was rushing from the ballroom with the white-gowned debutante in tow.

  Felix couldn’t believe his lucky stars.

  The two were obviously heading out to the gardens, where Andrew Burroughs would no doubt find a hedgerow behind which he could kiss the young lady he was leading.

  Intent on paying witness so that he might identify the lady and be able report the incident as a witness rather than as overheard gossip, Felix followed at a discreet distance. Pretending to merely be taking the air, he sauntered on the flags. When he realized which set of hedgerows the banker had decided to use for cover, Felix ducked into the one just beyond, glad for his dark formal attire. The light from the paper lanterns that bobbed over part of the gardens was far too dim to give him away, though.

  Finding an opening in the shrubs that offered a clearer view of the couple, Felix watched as the young lady stood on tip-toes. She was far shorter than the rather tall—what name had Lady Morganfield said? Andrew Burroughs—and seemed to be the one who initiated a rather long and passionate kiss with the banker.

  A feeling of jealousy suddenly had Felix holding his breath. And wondering at his reaction. He didn’t even know who the man was kissing, yet he couldn’t help the odd sensation of envy he felt. That a young chit would simply encourage such a kiss was, well, it was scandalous! It was absurd. It was … well, it was rather sweet, he thought just then. The way the young lady seemed to lead on the young man. It was apparent the two had just met, and yet the banker had been able to lure the young lady into the gardens for what had to be her first kiss!