Scandalising the Ton. Diane Gaston

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 six-percents 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 pur chased 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