Rumours in the Regency Ballroom. Diane Gaston

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.

      He nodded to her again. “I see you, like me, could not resist a lemon ice even on this chilly day.”

      She glanced up, a spoonful in her hand, “That is so,” she said softly. She shivered prettily as she swallowed it.

      Samuel dipped his spoon in the treat, taking a generous portion and swallowing it at once. Pain seized his entire chest.

      “Oh, that hurt,” he gasped. “Did you ever do that? Swallow something cold and have it feel as if someone had punched you in the chest?”

      She glanced at him, looking uncertain as to whether to speak to him. “You should take it a little at a time,” she finally said.

      After dipping his spoon into the ice again, he lifted it to show her the tiny portion before letting it slide slowly down his throat. He grinned at her. “That was a great deal more pleasant.”

      She glanced at him again and turned her attention back to her own lemon ice.

      He took another spoonful. “I am Mr Samuel…Charles,” he said, taking the name of the street that had been his detour in following her. “I know it is forward of me to speak to you, but I am new to London. I do think it is so much nicer to share the eating of such a treat as an ice, than to eat it alone, do you not agree?”

      She nodded ever so slightly and shifted in her seat, knocking the box of marzipan out of her basket.

      Samuel picked it up and put it back in.

      “Thank you, sir,” she said, briefly meeting his gaze.

      “Will you be eating all that marzipan alone?” he asked.

      She smiled. “Oh, no, sir. It is my treat for my lady and the others.”

      “For your lady?”

      She nodded again, but with less reserve. “I am a lady’s maid, sir.”

      “Do you always bring your lady such delicacies?” He kept his tone soft and friendly. It was not difficult to do with such a sweet and pretty girl.

      She smiled at him. “Oh, no, but it is my treat. We are celebrating today.”

      His brows rose and his heart accelerated. “Celebrating? And what do you have to celebrate? Something wonderful?”

      Her smile widened and her eyes sparkled and, for a moment, Samuel forgot everything but how charming she looked. “We are celebrating good fortune!”

      “Good fortune?” By his tone he encouraged her to go on.

      She merely nodded happily and scraped the last of her lemon ice from her dish. She picked up the basket and stood.

      He