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His father huffed. “You wanted to take over one of the estates? How can you expect me to trust you with such a task when you are being so reckless with drink?”
What else was he supposed to do? Adrian wanted to ask.
“I think it is high time Adrian went searching for a wife.” His mother nodded decisively. “The Season is over, but he might go to Brighton. There were plenty of eligible young ladies in Brighton when we were there, were there not? It is something to consider.”
“I did not mean to put the boy in shackles, Irene,” his father retorted.
His mother stiffened. “Marriage is akin to being shackled?”
“I did not say that.” His father hastened to his wife’s side and put his arm around her. “I merely meant he ought to enjoy life while he can, without duty dictating to him.”
His mother pouted. “You implied a man cannot enjoy life if he is married.”
“I did not say that,” his father murmured.
“You did say it,” his mother persisted.
Adrian held up a hand. “Do not argue over this.”
His mother pressed her mouth closed, but his father lifted her chin and gave her a light kiss on the lips.
She reluctantly smiled.
His father kissed her again and strode over to a side cupboard, removing a decanter of sherry and three glasses. “Marriage is a great responsibility,” he said to Adrian. “I do not encourage you to marry now, while you are engaged in such dissipation. I urge you to show more restraint. Stop the drinking.” As he spoke Adrian’s father poured sherry into the glasses and handed one to his wife and one to Adrian.
Adrian almost laughed. Only his father could chastise him for drinking at the same moment as handing him a drink.
His mother took her glass. “Well, I do urge you to look about for a wife. There is no hurry for it, I agree, but you might as well discover who will be out next Season.”
Adrian set his glass down on the table.
All he could think was that had Lydia accepted his proposal all those months ago, he’d have no reason to become dissipated.
But Lydia had not accepted him.
Adrian picked up the glass of sherry and drained it of its contents.
As soon as he was able, he extricated himself from the insane asylum that was his parents’ townhouse and headed back home, vowing to be more discreet in his activities so the details did not get whispered in his father’s ear.
Adrian winced at the brightness of the day. The sky was a milky white and hurt his aching eyes if he looked up. He tilted his head just enough to keep his eyes shaded by the brim of his hat. He neared Hill Street, depressing his spirits even more. All of London was depressing him.
Perhaps he should visit Tanner after all. Tanner had written to invite him to Scotland where he and his wife were spending the summer months and awaiting the birth of their first child.
Ha! Not likely he would be welcome there. What was this with having babies? Was every woman bearing a child this summer?
Adrian vowed he would not think of that. Nor of Lydia refusing his proposal.
But Tanner had also offered Adrian another of his estates, Nickerham Priory in Sussex. Adrian had visited Nickerham with Tanner on Tanner’s tour of his properties the year before and could agree it would be an excellent place to spend a summer. High on a cliff overlooking the sea and cooled by sea breezes, there would be nothing to do but ride the South Downs or walk along the seashore.
Adrian might very possibly go insane there, left to nothing but his own company and his own thoughts.
Vowing to write Tanner a gracious return letter this very day—or tomorrow—Adrian crossed into Hill Street. He rarely walked through Mayfair without finding himself passing by Lydia’s townhouse.
He spied the reporters lounging about her door and became angry on her behalf all over again. The leeches. Why did they not leave the lady in peace? Why could they not content themselves with writing about the thousands of weavers assembling in Carlisle in protest against low wages, the trade crisis in Frankfurt, or an earthquake near Rome? Why devote so much space to speculation about Lydia? He’d read in the papers that the father of her child was anyone from the Prince Regent to a passing gypsy.
Was she in good health? he wondered. Bearing children might be the most natural thing in the world, but many women died from it. Babies died, as well. His mother had borne Adrian a brother and sister, neither of whom had lived longer than a few days.
Staying on the opposite side of the street, Adrian tried not to glance at her house. Another gentleman approached in the opposite direction.
“Good day to you, Cavanley.” The gentleman greeted him in clipped, but jovial tones.
“Crayden.” Adrian tipped his hat.
Crayden possessed thick black hair that women fancied and a face that always held a smug expression. Adrian was not among Crayden’s admirers. Crayden curried any favour that was possible to curry. He insinuated himself into investments lucrative enough to keep his debt-ridden estate from doom’s door, but he was equally as likely to drop a friendship if it failed to gain him a profit.
Lord Crayden smiled his ingratiating smile and put his hand on Adrian’s shoulder as if he was accustomed to sharing confidences with him. “I suppose I shall have to run the gauntlet, eh? I am calling upon Lady Wexin, you know.”
No, Adrian didn’t know, and he did not very much like knowing it now. What business did this ferret have with Lydia? Lydia’s fortune was modest, Adrian knew for a fact, having been the one to restore it.
“Are you?” Adrian said.
“I am indeed.” Crayden clapped Adrian on the shoulder and winked. He crossed the street and ploughed right into the nest of newspaper men, who clamoured after him, waving their hands and asking him questions.
Adrian watched as Lydia’s butler answered the door, and Crayden said with a voice loud enough to reach Adrian’s ears, “Lord Crayden to see Lady Wexin.”
The reporters all pressed forwards, yelling their questions. After Crayden gained entry and the door was closed again, the newspaper men buzzed among themselves for a moment, before turning to look towards Adrian.
Adrian hurried on his way.
Lydia walked to the window of the drawing room and peeked through a gap in the curtain. She thought she’d heard a commotion outside. The newspaper men were still there, all talking about something, but it was not their vile presence that caught her attention, but the figure of a man across the street, looking towards her house.
She’d know Adrian anywhere, even from such a distance, even with his hat shading his face. Had he decided to call upon her again? Even though she’d refused him?
No one called upon her. No one except Lord Levenhorne and he did so merely to check the size of her waistline.
She ought to feel outrage that Adrian would ignore her wishes so blatantly, but instead she felt flushed with excitement. The baby kicked inside her. The baby kicked often now and would be born soon, the physician who attended her said.
She rushed over to the mirror above the fireplace and checked her appearance. Her hair hung undressed in a plait down her back. The gown she wore was an old one Mary had let out so her now larger breasts would not spill over the bodice, and her big tummy would be shrouded by a full skirt. She contemplated changing, but feared nothing else would be ready to wear except nightdresses and robes, and she did not trust herself in such attire around Adrian.
In any event, there was no time, because Dixon entered the room. “There is a Lord Crayden to see you, my lady.”
“What?” She thought she had misheard him.
“Lord Crayden, my lady.” He held out the gentleman’s card.
She stared at it, her spirits plummeting. It was Adrian she wanted to see, wanted to be with even for a little while. She pined to see his eyes filled with concern for her, to feel less alone in his presence.
“But why would this gentleman call upon me?” She handed the card back to Dixon.
She had not even seen Lord Crayden in an age. He had once been a suitor, but never a favoured one. He had no connection to her family or to Wexin’s. He certainly was not a friend. His biggest shortcoming, however, was that he was not Adrian.
“I do not want to see him,” she said.
Dixon bowed. “Very well, my lady.” He turned to leave.
“Wait.” She stopped him. “Do you suppose he has been abroad and brings news of my parents?”
It was the only reason she could think of that the gentleman would call. One letter from her parents, dated months ago, had finally reached her from India, but, from its contents, it was apparent that none of Lydia’s letters had reached them.
“He did not say so, my lady,” Dixon replied.
“Well, send him up, I suppose.”
A few minutes later Crayden was announced.
“Lady Wexin.” He bowed.
She took a step towards him. “Lord Crayden, do you bring me news?”
“News?” He looked puzzled.
“Of my parents? My brother?” She braced herself.
He blinked. “They are abroad, are they not?”
She released a frustrated breath. “You do not bring news of my family? Why are you here?”
He smiled, showing his white, even teeth. “I call merely to inquire after your health—and to offer my condolences.”
She did not believe him. “Condolences? I’ve been a widow for three-quarters of a year.”
His expression turned sympathetic. “I thought it best not to cause comment by calling upon you sooner.”
Such as during the brief time after the Queen had died when the newspapers had left her alone? “So you choose now when I am written of daily, with one man after another connected to my name?”
He gave no indication he perceived her barb. “I thought you might need a friend at this difficult time.”
When Adrian had offered her friendship she had almost believed him. This man she believed not at all.
“Lord Crayden, I knew you only very briefly during my come-out.” And then she’d refused his suit. “It is presumptuous of you to call upon me. Indeed, it makes me very unhappy. You expose me to more gossip I do not deserve.”
A wounded look crossed his face. “My lady, my intentions are honourable, I assure you. I have always had a regard for you, as you well know—”
A regard for her dowry, he must mean.
“I have worried over your welfare and could not wait another moment to assure myself that you were in good health.”
“Be assured, then, Lord Crayden, to what is none of your concern.” Her tone was sharp.
She walked towards the door Dixon had left open. She trusted the butler was nearby.
“I am delighted to know you are well,” Crayden continued, undaunted. “I shall rest easier at night.”
“That is splendid,” she said with great sarcasm, gesturing to the door. “You can have no other business here, then.”
He bowed again. “I shall take my leave of you, my dear lady, but I fear you will not be gone from my thoughts.”
She laughed drily. “I have become quite used to people thinking of me. Good day, sir.”
As he walked past her to the door, he bowed again.
After he left, her biggest regret at his visit was that he’d not been Adrian.
Chapter Ten
All London waits for news of Lady W—. Before midnight calls in the sixteenth day of August, Lady W—must give birth lest the world discover unequivocally that the child is not Lord W—’s progeny. The New Observer assures its readers it will keep a vigil up to the very stroke of midnight. In a Special Edition tomorrow morning, The New Observer will provide the answer. —The New Observer, August 15, 1819
Samuel waited outside the gate of Lady Wexin’s house. The night was warm and the haze that seemed to settle over London in the summer obscured the stars. Candlelight shone from the windows of the houses.
There were only two hours left for Lady Wexin’s chance to give birth to a legitimate, and Samuel had planned this assignation with Mary at this hour to discover whether Lady Wexin would make the time limit or not. The house had been quiet all day.
Through an open window he heard the faint chiming of a clock. Ten o’clock. He peered into the darkness to see if he could spy Mary coming. His wait was short. The gate opened and she appeared.
“Mary,” he greeted her in a low voice.
“Sam!” She hurried into his arms, warm and delightful.
“Ah, my love,” he murmured, wasting no time in bending his face to hers and tasting her eager lips.
Their encounters became more and more passionate each time they met. Their last time together had been spent walking in Hyde Park where Samuel had found a secluded bench and nearly forgot to engage Mary in conversation. Even though pursuing the story of Lady W filled his days, thoughts of Mary consumed his restless nights. He wanted her more desperately than he had ever wanted a woman. What little conscience he still possessed kept him from bedding her.
Her kisses were driving away that fragile resolve. They could so easily walk into the garden to the bench nestled among the fragrant foliage…
He reluctantly broke away from her. “Tell me of your day,” he murmured.
“We can sit in the garden,” she whispered, taking him by the hand and leading him through the gate to the bench.
He sat her on his lap, her soft derrière so very tantalising and arousing. “Now, tell me how you fare. I want to hear all about your days since I saw you last.”
Mary rested her head upon his shoulder. “I have spent the whole day fretting about my lady. She has remained in her bedchamber all day, not talking much, not eating. I know she is so worried and I am worried for her.”
“No baby, I take it.” He spoke the obvious.
“No baby.” She sighed. “She’s not even having pains.”
“She’ll not have the baby tonight, then?” He hoped she would say more.
She squirmed on top of him and he forgot that he wanted her to answer him. His hands slipped to her waist and he pressed her harder against him.
