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What’s more, it was his money to do with as he wished. And he wished to do good with it, to feel a scant bit useful in this world. Besides, it gave him a new game to play, to see how long it would take to recoup the amount of money he had invested in Lydia. How many card games and horse races and other wagering would he have to engage in before he earned back the total amount? It was a game.
Nothing more.
Adrian and Newton completed all the arrangements and shook hands. When Adrian walked back to the Strand, the sun was peeking through the clouds. He headed in the direction of waiting hackney coaches, feeling both exhilarated and deflated.
The next morning from the drawing-room window, Lydia watched Mr Newton leave her townhouse. As soon as he stepped onto The pavement, he was accosted by a throng of newspaper men. Mr Newton pushed his way through them, waving a hand and shaking his head.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Mr Newton had not stopped to talk to the newspaper men. She ought to have known. Mr Newton had not breathed a word of how distressed Wexin’s finances had been, and still were. It appeared Mr Newton would also not discuss this reversal of her misfortune, this restoring of her finances.
It was too remarkable to be true. Her widow’s portion was restored and the house was securely hers. She had income and a place to live.
Lydia hugged herself and twirled around for joy. The news was too good to keep to herself a moment longer. She dashed out of the room and hurried down the stairs.
“Dixon!” she cried. “Mary! Oh, get Cook! I have something to tell you!”
Mary leaned over the second-floor banister above her. “What is it? What has happened?”
Lydia called up to her. “Come! I will tell you all.” She flew down the stairs to the hall.
Dixon appeared from the back staircase, trailed by Cook wiping her hands on her apron and looking frightened.
Lydia ran up to the woman and gave her a squeeze. “Do not worry. It is good news.”
“Good news from Mr Newton, my lady?” Dixon looked sceptical. There had, after all, been so much bad news from him.
Lydia clasped her hands together. “Oh, it is so unbelievable. It must have been my sister—”
Who else but her sister? Lydia had no indication that her letters had reached her parents. No one else knew of her distressed finances. No one but—
Adrian.
It was unthinkable that he would pay such sums. Ridiculous, even. Her sister’s husband was extremely wealthy. Her sister must have convinced him to do this in secret.
“Tell us, m’lady,” Mary cried.
Lydia took a breath. “Mr Newton informed me that someone—it must have been my sister—has restored my widow’s portion and has signed the house and its contents over to me! Mr Newton assures me the interest on the sixper-cents will give us income enough!”
“Oh, my lady!” Mary exclaimed.
“May God be praised.” Cook fell to her knees. “We can buy food!”
Lydia grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Food and coal and whatever we need!” She turned to the butler. “Will you find our servants, Dixon? Hire those who wish to return and pay the others what we owe them?”
Dixon beamed. “It will be my pleasure.”
Still holding Cook’s hands, Lydia swung her around in a circle. “Everything shall be as it was!”
Not precisely as it was, but so much better than she thought her future ever could be when she’d risen from her bed that morning.
Lydia gave Cook another hug. “We must celebrate today! I even have money to spend! Fifty pounds! We must fill the larder and celebrate!”
“I shall make a dinner fit for King George!” Cook cried.
Lydia swept her arm to include all of them. “We must eat together, though. I insist upon it. Just this once.”
“May I suggest, my lady, that I bring up a bottle of champagne from the cellar?” Dixon asked.
“That would be splendid!” Lydia clapped her hands. “Champagne for dinner.”
Dixon lifted a finger. “I meant immediately, my lady.”
“Yes,” cried Lydia. “Mary, find four glasses, and all join me in the morning room.”
Lydia walked into the morning room, the small parlour off the hall, a room where callers were often asked to wait until they could be announced.
A sound sent her spinning towards the windows.
Outside the reporters, all abuzz, were all facing the house, craning their necks over the railings to try to see into the room.
With a cry, Lydia drew the curtains.
Her celebration did not include them.
Chapter Five
The certain gentleman, whom we have now identified as Lord C—, and with whom Lady W—was so recently linked, has lately visited several jewellery shops. Will the notorious beauty soon receive some adornment for her widow’s attire?—The New Observer, November 17, 1818
“Oh!” Lydia threw down the paper and pounded her fist on the table. She picked up the paper again and reread the lines.
Lord C, The New Observer said, Lord C, with whom Lady W was so recently linked…
Lord Cavanley. The reporter had discovered it had been Cavanley who had rescued her.
“Ohhhhh.” She squeezed her fist tighter. What else had the man discovered?
She read the account again. No hint of Lord Cavanley calling upon her in the rain and definitely no hint of the earlier time she’d spent with him. Adrian would not have betrayed her. Or so she hoped.
She looked through the other papers that Dixon had purchased for her earlier that morning. There was no news of her in either The Morning Post or The Morning Chronicle, only the silly mention of Lord C entering jewellery shops. Likely he was shopping for one of the other women with whom his name was for ever linked.
At least the newspapers said nothing of Mr Newton’s visit.
“What is it, m’lady?” Mary bustled into the bedchamber, carrying one of Lydia’s day dresses. “I heard you cry out. Is it your ankle?”
“No, not my ankle.” Lydia spread her fingers and forced her voice to sound calm.
Mary had brought the newspapers and breakfast to Lydia in her bedchamber. In front of her on the small table were a plate of toast, a cooked egg and a pot of chocolate, the most sumptuous breakfast she’d had in weeks.
Lydia picked up a piece of toast. “I am mentioned in the newspaper again.”
“About the money coming to you?” Mary’s eyes grew wide.
“No, thank goodness.” She bit into her toast.
Mary clucked her tongue. “Mr Dixon told you the doors and the walls were too thick. Those newspaper men could not hear us cheering, I am certain of it, m’lady.”
Lydia swallowed. “So far, it appears you are right.”
Mary pursed her lips. “What did they write about you?”
Lydia cast her eyes down. “My name is linked to a man, who will buy me jewels.”
“They said such things?” Mary cried.
“One paper, that is all.”
The maid’s brows knitted. “But how can they make up such a story? It isn’t right, m’lady.”
Lydia gave her a wan smile. “I agree.” She sighed. “I sometimes think they will never leave me alone.”
Mary’s expression turned sympathetic. She lifted the dress. “I brought the pink.”
Lydia nodded. “That will do very nicely.”
Any dress would do, because Lydia did not intend to go out, nor to have callers. She could wear anything at all, anything but black. Lydia refused to wear black. She refused to mourn for Wexin, refused to even think his given name. He’d been a stranger, really, and one did not formally mourn strangers.
She took another bite of her toast. The jubilation of the previous day was dampened by reading her name in the paper once more.
And the connection to Adrian.
Lydia straightened her spine and took a fortifying sip of chocolate. She would forget all about that episode with Adrian. Soon the newspapers would find someone else with whom to attach her name.
She planned to spend the day perusing the household accounts. Now that she was in control of her money, she intended to spend wisely and never have to worry over money again. First she must learn the cost of ordinary things, such as lamp oil and beeswax and the food for their table. She must learn how to make a budget that included the servants’ salaries, taxes on her menservants and the house, and whatever amounts she would be expected to pay throughout a year. It would be like assembling a puzzle, and she enjoyed assembling puzzles.
“My lady?” Mary laid the dress on the bed. “I thought I would go to the shops this morning to purchase the items you requested.”
Lydia had asked for pins and also silk thread. She planned to embroider new seat covers for the diningroom chairs. She needed something to keep her fingers busy and to fill her time. To keep her from becoming lonely.
Mary turned to her. “Won’t you come? You’ve not been out in ever so long.”
Only a scant few days ago, Lydia thought, but Mary knew that outing had not been for pleasure.
Although Lydia had gained pleasure from it. She glanced at her bed and thought of Adrian.
Lord C in The New Observer.
“Not today, Mary.” She shook her head, more to remove his image than to refuse Mary’s invitation. “I fear I would be followed by the newspaper men.”
Mary walked over to the window and peeked through a gap in the curtains. “They are still out there.”
Lydia had already seen them loitering near her door.
“I suppose you cannot come with me, then,” Mary said.
Lydia smiled at her. “You must purchase something for yourself when you are out. A length of fabric for a new dress, perhaps. Or a pretty hat. I will give you some extra coins.”
Mary curtsied. “Thank you, my lady, but I could not—”
“I insist.” Lydia stood. “Would you help me dress?”
Samuel stood shivering on the corner of the street where he had a clear view of Lady Wexin’s side gate. He had already seen the butler hurry out. Samuel almost followed him, but made a snap decision to remain where he was. He really hoped the maid might come out next.
All the reporters knew that something had made the household jubilant two days previously, but none of them had discovered what it was. It had been noted that Mr Newton, Wexin’s solicitor, had called and shortly after whoops of joy were heard. Perhaps the widow had come into more money, but coming into money when one was wealthy was not too interesting.
He needed something more.
The hinges of the gate squeaked, and, as Samuel had hoped, the trim figure of the maid appeared.
In Samuel’s experience, maids knew everything that went on in a household and they could often be encouraged to talk about what they knew.
The maid headed towards Berkeley Square. If Samuel hurried, he could catch up with her, but he needed to detour so that neither she nor the other reporters saw him.
He walked to Charles Street and practically ran to Berkeley Square where he caught sight of her just as he’d hoped to do. Keeping a good distance between them, he followed her as she walked to the shops.
It was almost peaceful following her on her errands. Samuel watched her select threads and pins and pieces of lace. She did not hurry at her tasks, but instead examined all the wares at a leisurely pace, as if this excursion was merely for her own pleasure.
Instead of making him impatient, it seemed a treat to watch her. She had a trim little figure, a graceful way of walking, and a sweet way of smiling at the assistants in the shops. Her heart-shaped face was as pale as the finest lady’s, fringed by auburn curls that escaped from her bonnet. Her lips were so pink they might have been tinted, but what intrigued him the most were her huge blue eyes.
She filled a large basket with her purchases, adding bouquets of flowers from the flower vendors until she looked more like a girl who had come from a stroll in a lush garden than a servant about her errands.
When she headed back towards Berkeley Square, Samuel realised he’d not found an opportunity to speak to her, although it somehow had not seemed like time wasted.
When she entered Gunter’s Tea Shop, a confectionary in Berkeley Square, he saw his chance. Samuel hurried into the shop behind her.
“A lemon ice, please,” she said to the shop assistant. “And six of those.” She pointed to marzipan displayed under glass, perfect miniature pears and peaches and apples, confections made from almonds, sugar and egg whites.
He stood behind her, his heart beating a little faster. He could easily see over her head. She was no taller than the level of his chin. She turned and gave him the briefest glance with those big blue eyes. He nodded to her, and she turned away again.
The shop assistant produced the lemon ice and packed the marzipan into a box, tying it with string. The maid handed the shop assistant her coins. When she walked past Samuel he had a whiff of lemon from the lemon ice, but also a hint of lavender.
He stepped up to the counter. “A lemon ice, as well.” He wanted to ask the shop assistant to be quick about it, but held his tongue.
The maid took her time leaving the shop, admiring the delectable fare displayed under glass on both sides of the aisle. He’d nearly had a chance to speak to her and still might if the shop assistant hurried with his lemon ice.
His quarry walked out of the door.
“Your ice, sir.” The shop assistant handed over the dish.
Samuel threw down his coin and hurried out after the maid. As he’d hoped, she was seated on a bench near a tree, her basket beside her. He sauntered over.
